Emma

20 Mother to a golden retriever

[sipofchai]

scrambled (nsft ryland grace/reader, wc 16k)

part one of how do you like your eggs in the morning? | part 2 | interlude | part 3 | ao3

Summary: You fell head over heels for Ryland Grace when you were twelve and he was thirteen. You let him break your heart when you were eighteen and he was nineteen (and an asshole). Now you're thirty-four. Now you're single, and determined to stay that way. Now you know better than to expect anything more from him than friendship, and advice, and maybe some sperm while you're at it?

(or: the one where you are done with dating, and want to have a kid, and ask your best and oldest friend if he'd be willing to contribute. With or without a turkey baster.)

Tags: childhood friends to lovers, pining, breeding, oral sex (f!receiving), fingering, piv sex, multiple rounds, multiple orgasms, breeding, reader has a vagina, bff!olesya ilyukhina, background ilyukhina/stratt, background colt seavers/ryland grace twin propaganda

A/N: 18+ only! this is part 1 of a 3 part series. it can be read as a standalone, but if you want a happy ending you'll have to wait. that said, it's very much romcom vibes - not at ALL like my other Ryland piece - and they WILL kiss eventually. Special s/o to @collarado for letting me holler in their dms and also suggesting moments like 'considerate ryland offering to finger you' and 'ryland eats it from the back' (everyone cheers)

Taglist: @evastrattapologist67 @shittyprofilebutfuckit @mensbestfriend @keigohawks

“I’m having a baby," you say without preamble, dropping your purse on the table at the same time you drop into your chair.

Olesya looks up from her menu like you’ve just announced you bought a one-way ticket to Mars.

"Not with Mark," she says. "No, no, you cannot be having a baby with Mark. I leave you alone for a week and you decide to have baby with—”

"No.” You shake your head emphatically, as though this will somehow erase the way you conducted yourself over the course of your most recent breakup (during which Olya was on the receiving end of many a late-night drunken wallowing session), and try to free yourself from the six inches of cushion you’ve sunken into. It’s at least better than the reclaimed-driftwood-hightop-stools at the last trendy brunch popup she chose. “Not Mark. Not anyone. I’m done with men."

"Thank God. You have terrible taste. Better to give up entirely." You let this slide, though it feels a bit rich coming from someone who has been going steady with her direct supervisor for the past six months (after six months of a generationally messy on-again-off-again thing). “If you schedule appointment for Tuesday or Friday, I can drive.”

“Appointment?”

“Yeah, appointment. Baby appointment. This week, next week. Unless you just want to try DIY first?” She holds up her mimosa flute, hands it to you, pours a little, takes it back, takes a sip, considers. “Mm. Not so strong.” She hands it back to you and fills it so much that a little hill of liquid rises above the lip. “Double dose. For safety."

You bring your mouth to the glass and de-meniscus the mimosa—which, for the record, is very strong—and shake your head. “I’m not pregnant right now,” you clarify. “I’ve decided I’m going to get pregnant. On purpose.”

She squints at you. “Why would you do that.”

“I want a baby.” You hate adages about biological clocks. That said, yours is currently ticking like a bomb. “And I think I’ve reached the age where all of the men available in the dating pool are…” You shudder.

You have dated and dated and dated, and at thirty-four you’re pretty certain you’ve seen all the kinds of men the Bay Area has to offer. Divorced men. Unemployed men. Silicon Valley wunderkinds who look at you and your non-STEM degree (and your very successful private law practice, thank you very much) with poorly veiled disdain. Tall, plain men with an abundance of options and a deficit of personality; short, beautiful men who compensate for the personality with a lack of empathy that borders on psychopathy. You have dated nice men and cruel men and boring men and self-interested men, and, at the end of the day, not one none of them ever had enough redeeming qualities to make you want to stay.

“I just can’t do it anymore,” you settle for saying. “There’s only so many times I can get ready for a first date, redoing my lipstick a dozen times, listening to the same Olivia Dean song on loop, trying to talk myself out of flaking last-minute because I know the sex is going to be bad. I’m too much of an adult to be acting like that.”

“No.” She shakes her head emphatically, pouring you both more booze. You have yet to even look at a menu, and somehow the pitcher is half empty. “You go about this all wrong. You go on dates from internet, from apps. App is for fling, fun, hookups. You refuse to try and date friend, date coworker, date neighbor—“

You shake your head. You have tried dating all of the above. You have weathered several rock bottoms in the aftermath. “I’m not trying to blow up my life, thanks. I like my life as is.”

“Yes, I know,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You like your life, you love your life. This is why you want to add a tiny person with no sleep schedule who spends all your money.”

“I already have you for that.” She blows you a kiss, unrepentant. “But yes, a baby would be nice, too. I’ve thought about it. I’ve saved up. I bought, like, three bottles of prenatal gummies. Now I just need to, you know. Get some sperm.”

“Easy. Sperm is cheap.” She claps. “Tonight! I set you up with someone at trivia. Bang, boom, baby in nine months.”

“No, no, because we’ve been over this: trivia is a social circle I am a part of. Half the people at trivia are people I knew in high school, and the other half are people I’ve worked with—” You hold up a hand before she can protest. “—and I know, you are a beautiful anomaly, you and Eva, but most people aren’t so lucky. You know the rules.”

She tips her head back and groans. “You and your rules.” When she brings her head back up, it’s with a pout. “You ignore so many of my perfect, beautiful matches for your stupid rules.”

“My rules exist for a reason.”

“Yes, to keep you unhappy.” She shakes her head, waving a hand. “Fine, whatever—I match you with someone from my work.”

“I’ve worked with people from your work,” you remind her. The entire reason you met was because her engineering firm (because Eva specifically) hired you during a patent dispute. They ask you back from time to time.

“Someone new! Maybe he stays in town, maybe not. Low risk!”

“Too much risk.”

She scowls. “All risk is too much for you. Life is all risk. Baby is all risk. Anya is risking her life every five seconds.” She looks off in the distance—thinking about her niece, presumably, who is two years old and getting cuter by the day. She shrugs. “You know, maybe baby will be good for you.”

“Thanks.”

“You’ll come to trivia. New guy will be there, I will be there—“

“Great. Want to give me some sperm?”

“Ha. Eva will be there. Grace will be there.”

Something in your head pauses. “Ryland's back?"

She points at you. “Ah!”

“What? No.” Your attempt at a casual laugh sounds unconvincing even to your ears. “No, that’s not what I meant. I just thought he wasn’t—Olya, that’s not what I meant, I thought he was still in L.A.—”

“He is back and he will be there and he will make puppy dog eyes at you like always, and you will ignore him because you are cruel.”

“I'm not—he won't—” You let out an exhale. Then you begin to tick off items on your fingers. “One, Ryland has a very nice girlfriend. And two, he does not make puppy dog eyes at me. That’s just how he looks.”

“Yes, how he looks at you.”

“Because he’s never stopped seeing me as his best friend’s annoying little sister,” you correct her. “It’s nostalgia. I told you, he took me to prom and he—I mean. You know, nothing happened.”

“Because he was stupid teenager. Now he is a stupid man, and you are a stupid woman—perfect. I’m a genius.”

“Did you miss the part where he has a girlfriend? I thought you liked Linda.”

“Eva likes Linda, and this is only because they know the same boring history facts.”

You snort in spite of yourself. “That’s terrible.”

“It’s true! And besides, you are just asking for sperm for baby, yes? Such an old friend, such a tiny favor, Linda can’t be mad about—”

“Olesya.” You give her a stern look. She looks back with the practiced innocence of a cat who’s already swallowed the canary and hasn't yet noticed the feathers stuck in its teeth. “No.”

“No trivia or no baby?”

“Yes trivia, no to whatever you're plotting.”

She sighs. “Fine, no to Grace. He can make puppy dog eyes at you across the bar while you talk to new work friend—”

“No setting me up with anyone.” You snap your menu shut, and flag a waiter. You can't continue this conversation—or, ideally, escape this conversation—without copious amounts of French toast. “It’s the twenty-first century, you know? They have websites now. Catalogs. Safe, discreet, easy. Like you said, sperm is cheap.”

-

As it turns out, sperm is really fucking expensive.

You scowl at the laptop, willing it to give you a different answer, but the calculations come out the same the fiftieth time as they did the fifth. A couple thousand dollars, minimum, and that’s if you use an anonymous donor. For someone vetted—God forbid, someone you might get to talk to—it can go up into five figures.

You put down your notebook and plant your head in your hands. 

You are, by many metrics, a successful woman. You live in a one-bedroom apartment, in San Francisco, alone. Many of your clients see you over video, so you can more or less set your day. You have no student loans, and enough savings set aside to pay for childcare, doctor’s visits, diapers, a nice stroller.

You do not have enough to cover all of that and a round of in vitro fertilization that might not even work.

You lift your head up. You’ve been buried in your laptop for so long, the sun has set, leaving the apartment almost entirely dark, save for your screen and for the kitchen clock blaring bright green above the stove. It’s seven forty-five.

Trivia starts at eight.

You sigh. You stand up and grab your keys.

-

Trivia night is the same as always, which is to say it’s at the same dingy bar, with the same sticky black floors and pockmarked dart boards and outdated drink menu as always. You’re pretty sure the bartenders have worked here since you were too young to set foot inside.

“You came!” Olya crows, slinging an arm around your neck as soon as the door shuts behind you. “Here. Two for one.”

You gently bat away the bottle she waves in your face. "I drove.”

“Fine.” She winds her arm through yours, walking you across the bar. “I’m setting up carpool home. You and Eva can be boring designated drivers together.”

“Ha, ha.” Your eyes scan the room. You tell yourself this isn’t on purpose, which is probably true, it’s normal to take stock of a room—but you’ve taken stock of this particular room almost weekly for the past year and a half, which means there really isn’t anything in it you haven’t seen, until your eyes reach a table in the back and see Eva Stratt talking to—

“See?" Olesya pinches your waist. You jump. "I told you he is back."

“Ow."

“Come talk. We’re running late, nothing to do but drink and talk, and you don’t even drink tonight.” She bumps her hip into yours. “Maybe not for nine months, if everything goes good, eh?”

You hip check her back. “Yeah. Maybe. It’s not looking too—"

You hear your name, and you look up.

The voice is familiar. The face is familiar, if slightly more tanned from a few weeks out of the San Francisco fog; the hair a little longer. The lopsided glasses, though—and the bright blue eyes behind them, and the mouth and the smile and the dimples that go with it—are the same as they were twenty years ago. 

“Ryland.” Your face is warm, which is definitely because you just walked through a crowded bar, and for no other reason. “Hi.”

“Hey.” He stands up, so quickly he almost knocks over his bottle on the table, and catches you in a warm, friendly hug that you survive mainly on autopilot.

“Hi. Hi.” The hug ends, and you wave at Eva, who waves back, and then look back up at him. “Hi. I, um, I thought you were still in L.A.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Colt got a last-minute gig this weekend, so. I came back a week early. But it was good. He’s good. Said to send you his best.”

Colt has always been sweet. Of the two, you’d have thought he’d be the one to ask you on a family-friend-pity-date to prom. Ryland was always stuck in his books, his scholarships, too convinced of his own genius to see you as anything but silly and young, and the arrogance only got worse with each subsequent visit home from college. It was almost jarring to meet him again, two years ago, when he moved back home to teach. Somehow the intervening decade had rendered him easygoing, and softer-spoken, and humble.

Mostly humble. Trivia night almost invariably makes teenage Ryland rear his ugly head.

“That’s good," you say. "I remember the accident was…you know. Good to hear he’s getting back into things.”

“Yeah.” His eyes dart from you, to Olya and Eva behind you, to the bar, then back to you. “Do you want a drink? I’m going for a refill.”

“Oh, I’m not—”

“Virgin drink for her,” Olesya shouts from where she is now seated, which is more on Eva’s lap than in the booth. You force your face to remain neutral, as opposed to the expression it wants to arrange itself into at hearing the word virgin used in reference to you around the man who notably did not take your actual virginity at your high school prom. “Real drink for me. Double vodka Redbull. And espresso for Eva.”

“Right. Just espresso, no martini,” he says, with an automaticness that suggests he’s had the same thing repeated at him ad nauseam for the better part of an hour. “Okay. You?”

You blink up at him. Then at Olya. She mouths GO at you, accompanied with some rather violent hand gestures, and just as Ryland is about to turn and see this you grab his arm and tug. “I’ll come with you!”

When you get to the bar, you glance back to furrow your brows at Olesya, who has switched to double thumbs up and a shit-eating grin.

You roll your eyes at her, then turn to Ryland, who’s somehow managed to flag down the bartender and order three drinks in the span of fifteen seconds. “I ordered for you.”

“Thanks.” You get comfortable on a barstool, and look up at him. “So. You’ve been back—”

“A few hours.”

“A few hours? And you still rallied for Saturday night dive bar trivia? We should be honored.”

“Couldn't miss it. Everyone in L.A. kept trying to talk to me about crystals and vibes and, like artisan surfboards. I need this.”

You widen your eyes. “Oh, you didn’t hear? It’s artisan surfboard night."

He plays along. "Really?" He gets an elbow up on the bar, resting his cheek on one hand.

"Wood grain patterns, wave height stats, foam density.”

“That is…even better. I’m well-versed now.”

“An expert, I’m sure.” Your eyes map out the geography of his face. You have seen dozens and dozens of versions of this face over the past thirty years or so. This version has a few new freckles, dusted across his nose. You know, from long summers spent hiking and cycling and calling first dibs on the rec center diving board, that those freckles sometimes reach down to his shoulders, his arms, his back. "Was the sun gorgeous?"

“Maybe." His eyes don't leave yours. You wonder if he's running the same mental math, the same diagrams, the same map. It's a rare thing, to know someone your whole life. "You know I’m a sucker for the fog.”

“Ugh. L.A. is wasted on you." Once you're finished scrunching up your nose in disapproval, you sigh. "I bet it was gorgeous. I should move there.”

“You shouldn't.”

“Why? Because I’m the last person in San Francisco who remembers your landline number by heart?" Drinks arrive, and he slides one over to you. It’s red, and fizzy, and has not one but two maraschino cherries. You point at it. “Is this a fucking Shirley Temple?”

“Hey," he says, sounding unbelievably sincere in his disappointment for a man who, between the ages of eight and eighteen, taught you every four-letter word you know. "Language.”

“I’m not one of your students, and did you order me a fucking Shirley Temple?”

He shrugs, and takes a sip of his beer. “It’s the most virgin drink there is.”

You squint at him. Then you reach forward and press a palm to his cheek—not slapping him, just smushing his face away from you (and probably smudging his glasses in the process). “I should throw this at you.”

“Hey, hey!” He catches your wrist. Your pulse does something funny. Your breath is not where its supposed to be. He doesn’t notice. “That's the thanks I get? You used to love those.”

“When I was twelve," you say, tugging your wrist away, "at my mom’s third wedding.” You don't remember a lot from middle school, but you remember that wedding.

He danced with you at that wedding.

The Cotton-Eye Joe, or something stupid like that—but then also a slow dance. Half of one. He’d seen you and Colt dancing and felt left out. You’d let him lead you across the floor, in your sparkly teal junior bridesmaid dress and patent leather shoes, and that might be the first time you remember having that twinkle in your chest, that glow. 

Thinking, so this is what a crush feels like.

He clinks his bottle against your glass, shaking you out of the memory. “Good news, I’m pretty sure they haven’t changed the recipe since then.” He lifts his bottle. "To things that last."

Something tugs at your chest. “To things that last.”

You put the drink down once you’re positive that your face isn’t doing anything unhinged, which is to say after you’ve downed at least a quarter of it. When you look up again, you find he’s already looking at you, with an expression you are momentarily unable to place. It's not expectant, really. Not teasing. Just warm. Watching.

If he were aiming it at anyone else, you might even label it puppy dog eyes.

But it's Ryland, and you know Ryland. You know old Ryland, and you know this Ryland, and you know that this particular look on both of them is one of the kindest possible condescension. It means I met this girl when she was seven and I was eight, and I will see her that way forever. It means friendly, and nostalgic. It means nothing at all like what you wish it did.

You clear your throat and raise your glass. "Looks like twelve-year-old me had good taste after all.”

-

Trivia night ends the same as always, which is to say that Olya gets drunk enough to start heckling the opposition, Ryland nearly knocks over several chairs in his fervor to win, and Eva quietly leads the team to a sweeping victory. By the end of the night, the chaos has settled into a quiet hum, the room buzzing and buzzed off success and adrenaline and cheap beer.

You have not had anything to drink at all, and even you feel a little bit dizzy with the night. This could plausibly be explained by the rush of winning forty consecutive weeks in a row. It could be plausibly explained by any number of things aside from the actual cause.

You are trying very hard not to name the actual cause.

You do allow yourself to name several things around it, like: a high-five that turned into a hand squeeze that you felt long after he’d let your hand go; a smile, long and lopsided and devastating, every time a category came up he knew you’d be good at; a second Shirley Temple, ordered for you and handed to you seconds before he stood up to answer a question (at Trivia Night. Where all the questions are written down on paper. He is hopeless, and you are worse for liking it).

You are mid-naming-things-around-it, and midway to the door, when Olesya calls your name. You turn with a sigh. “Yes,” you say, with no small amount of reluctance, “I can help carpool.”

“Perfect. Every other car, full, you just need to take one person.” She calls back over her shoulder. “Grace!” She regards to you with a twinkle in her eye that you are all too familiar with. 

Your eyes widen. “Olya,” you hiss. “Olya, no—”

“All the other cars are full,” she says, pouting. “And he is on the way to your house.”

“That’s fine, I have no actual objections to that, I’m just objecting to the implication.”

“What implication?” she asks, and you don’t have time to answer because he is here and he has on a yellow raincoat and a beanie, and you hate how hard you are smiling.

“Hey,” he says. His cheeks are still a little pink from the thrill of beating another team at Who Knows The Most Useless Niche Fun Facts. His hair is a disaster. He looks between you and Olesya. “Everything’s good?”

“I found you a ride!” Olesya beams.

“Oh, I can bike home.”

“You biked?” you ask.

“It’s raining,” she points out.

“I have a raincoat.”

“He has a raincoat,” you say to Olya.

“I’m too drunk for this,” she says, before kissing you on the cheek and absconding with Eva.

You look at Ryland. He looks at you. “I really can bike home.”

The thunder is so sudden and so loud, you practically jump into him. When it’s passed, your shoulder is against his chest, and his arm is around your waist, and you blink and you breathe and then you, both of you, take a step back.

You clear your throat and pull your car keys out of your pocket. “Same address?”

-

You shouldn’t have been worried. Driving with Ryland is never bad, even if you haven’t done it in a few months. You amicably bicker about the music for a bit, and then talk about Colt (healed from his accident, back out on his first stunt gig since, apparently plotting to win back The One Who Got Away), and about your brother (teaching law on the East Coast), and your mother (flirting with golf caddies in Orlando), and about Los Angeles. You talk about your job, and his. Students. Books. Friends. The weather. And when the conversation fizzles out, it’s into a comfortable silence. 

The comfortable silence lasts approximately a minute and a half before he says, “I have to confess something.”

Your brows lift. “Oh?”

“This isn’t just a carpool. It’s a carpool with ulterior motives.”

“Thrilling start. Go on.”

"Olesya asked me to talk you out of having a baby?”

You slam on the break. You’re at a stop sign, but still. “Oh my God.”

He has his hand up on the ceiling, looking at you with—alarm, maybe? It’s difficult to tell, because the car is dark, and also because you’re trying very hard only to look at him through your peripheral vision. On account of the fact that you’re driving. Obviously. “She was pretty drunk, so, uh, maybe I misheard?” He pauses. You say nothing. He rushes to continue, “I said it was an overstep."

"Yeah."

"But she insisted."

"Okay."

"So if she asks, can you please tell her I tried? Before she sics her scary girlfriend on me?”

You snort out a laugh at that. “Yep,” you say. Then, quietly, through your teeth, “I will definitely tell her.”

Two more stop signs pass in silence before he speaks again. “Congratulations, by the way." You look over just long enough to make eye contact, or at least make contact with the glimmer of streetlight against his glasses. His face is unreadable behind them. "About the baby. Or condolences if it’s, uh, if it’s complicated.”

You hum. “It's complicated.”

“Ah.”

You realize how that sounds, and rush to continue, “Not complicated like that. There’s no father.” Does that sound worse? You think that sounds worse. “I’m not currently pregnant. Actually, I’ve sworn off men.”

He laughs. It’s brief. “Entirely?”

“Yes. Thank God.”

“Oh.”

“Except it turns out I do need one last thing from them in order to even do the single mom thing.” You roll to a stop in front of a red light, and lift one hand off the wheel to run back through your hair. “Who knew sperm could be so expensive?”

"Makes sense. They pay a lot."

You give him a look, half-delighted, half-inquisitive, and he sighs. "Ryland,” you say.

“I thought about it.”

“Ryland.”

In grad school. For the money."

"Ryland Grace."

"I didn't go through with it!” he protests. “I chickened out. I didn't like the idea of having a kid out there somewhere that I didn't know anything about. No way of knowing the parents, if they were any good or not."

"I get that." You purse your lips. "I also don't really love the idea of combining my DNA with a stranger's. I think if I was adopting it would be different, because that's a whole, real person who exists already. But that's expensive. And then sperm is also expensive, and IVF, and just, you know. Everything. I'm starting to think it'd be easier to just walk up to someone in real life and ask if they'd be willing to contribute."

“Contribute?” He snickers. “What, with a turkey baster?"

"At this point? Sure.” You flip the blinker, check your blind spot. “It's either that or the old fashioned way. You know, traditional."

He chokes.

You sightlessly grab your water bottle out of the cup holder, and pass it to him. He takes a long, long swig. The next time you pass by a street lamp, his face reappears redder than usual. "Right,” he says, then clears his throat. “Right, no, yeah, turkey baster's so—impersonal. Traditional's probably better. I'm a big fan of tradition."

“Would you have gone through with it, do you think? In grad school. If it was more like that."

"Maybe?” He considers it. “I don't know. I don't know if I was ready conceptually back then, for the idea of a kid. Too immature."

"Yeah," you agree. "You were kind of a dick."

"Hey." You give him just enough eye contact for him to think it over. "Yeah," he admits with a chuckle. "Yeah, I was."

"What about now? At the very mature, entirely un-dick-ish age you are now?”

A pause. “It would depend on who was asking."

Your eyebrows lift. “Really?” You keep your eyes very much on the road. “And how does Linda feel about that?"

“We broke up."

"Oh. I'm sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

You let the sound of the blinker fill the car for a few seconds before you speak again. “If you ever need to talk about it…"

"Not much to talk about,” he says. “She said she felt like I was only ever half-in the relationship. Like I was, uh, 'always looking for something better.'"

"Were you?"

"Yeah. I think so."

You whistle. “Ouch."

"It's fine. It was right after I went to L.A., so it gave me some distance. Time to process, figure out what matters to me."

“Figure out what ‘better’ you were looking for?”

He smiles at the next streetlight. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Exactly.”

Right after he went to L.A. One month, then, give or take—right after you ended things with Mark—which means they were together for three. You dislike that the calculation comes so easily. You dislike having to acknowledge, even to yourself, that this is something you have tracked.

"Gotcha." You try to keep your tone light. "I get it. I had a similar…I, uh, went through a breakup around then, too."

"I know.”

It’s the last thing either of you says for a bit.

Before you know it, you’re pulling in front of his house—his childhood house, the one he and Colt inherited. The one he lives in alone, now, since Colt settled in L.A.. It looks the same as it did when you were a kid. Same driveway, same bushes. Same bike out front. Same blue paint (peeling in the back, you assume, because they’d run out of sealant three-quarters of the way through and never got around to visiting Home Depot for more).

“Well,” he says, “this is me.” He turns, and you’re expecting a goodbye, maybe an awkward cross-cupholder-hug, but instead he just says, “You know, the landline number is actually the same.”

“555-7827.” You tip your head forward, resting it on the wheel. “God, there’s so much important shit I could be using that brain space for.”

“You can always call. If you ever need.” He gestures vaguely. “Anything."

"Anything?” You tilt your head. “Dangerous offer."

"Yeah, well. It's you.” With that, he unbuckles, and opens the door. “Goodnight.”

“I—goodnight,” you say, a little flummoxed, and a little flummoxed as to why you feel flummoxed.

He shuts the door. You watch him walk, to be polite, because you watch all of your friends to make sure they get into the door safely—but then he pauses halfway up and shouts something. Your name. You lower the window.

“Anything at all,” he calls. “You just. You just have to ask."

“Great!” You give him a thumbs up. “Thanks! Goodnight!”

He waves, and reaches the door, and he’s gone. You sit and look at the house. Then you sit and look at your hands. Then you shake your head at yourself, and you put the car back into drive, and you pull away.

-

It isn’t until several minutes into the drive home that you understand the implication.

This inspires a thorough self-inventory that probably would be better off done in the quiet of your home, rather than half-assed while driving; but alas, you are single-minded. And impatient.

There's the part of you that thinks this man is tall, and brilliant, and funny, and sweet, and has a great head of hair, and all of those sound like pretty good odds to gamble with on your future child.

There's the part of you that has wanted him, for years, for reasons that have nothing to do with wanting a kid.

Finally—and, though you hate to admit it to yourself, maybe most importantly—there's the part of you that hopes that maybe, if you were to sleep with him, just once, the wanting would leave and burn up and be gone, and you'd finally, finally be able to get Ryland Grace out of your system once and for all, the way you've been able to get every other man out of your system. Also, the excuse of the pregnancy might make it so that you could do this without entirely blowing up your friendship, the way you've done so many times before.

You go through this cycle of thoughts several times. You go through it on the drive; as you park; up the stairs, up the elevator, through fumbling with your keys and shutting the door behind you.

Ultimately, you decide to sleep on it. This isn’t the kind of thing you rush into. You could be misreading his offer. You could be misreading your own emotional capacity for doing this. You could wake up tomorrow and stumble upon the one sperm donation catalog in the history of humankind that would cost you less than two thousand dollars. You are very sensible and very logical about all of these possibilities, and several others, as you cross your apartment and sit down on the couch and pull your phone out of your bag and dial. 

He picks up after two rings.

"It's me,” you say, before he even greets you. “I'm asking.”

"You're asking me to—"

"Help me have a baby. With or without a turkey baster.”

He pauses for five seconds.

Your brain stretches this out to five years, give or take. Long enough that you barrel forward with the rest of the points you’ve come up with in response to any questions he might have.

“I know it's a big ask. You can totally say no. But you should know that I would never ask for money or anything, I can draw up a contract, it really is just a question of sperm. I mean, you wouldn't have to be involved at all post, um, post-conception. Unless you wanted to be an uncle, or a godparent—if you wanted to be a godparent, I guess you could duke it out with Olya—or, well, you can have multiple godparents, right? But also you wouldn't even have to see the baby if you didn't want to, and we wouldn't have to tell anyone, and—”

"I'll do it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah." He says it so casually. Like it's easy. No big deal, just a little sperm between friends. "Just letting you know, though, I have a very strict BYOB policy."

You puzzle over that for a half-second before your face splits in a grin. “Bring your own baster.”

"Bring your own baster,” he repeats, sounding like he’s smiling just as wide.

"Okay. I'll add it to my records.”

“Records?”

"Yeah, I have all kinds of lists and—less for you. More for me. You don't really have to do anything, except. Um. Donate.”

“Donate.”

“That. Oh, and get tested. I did last week, it’s easy—”

“Okay."

"It's not that I don't trust you, or anything, it's just, like, protocol—"

"That makes sense. I can do that tomorrow.”

“I can pay for it.”

“Don’t worry about it. I was due for a test, anyway. Good to go regularly, it’s been—um. Anyway. It’ll come back clean.”

“Great. Well. If you go tomorrow, that should be back in a few days, and then. Are you free Friday?”

“Friday…” There’s a pause, and some frantic shuffling. Pages being flipped through. “Friday I'm on detention duty, so I get off around four. Three forty five.” Another rustle of paper. “And then parent teacher conferences at eight. But I have to stop home in between anyway, so. I’ll be around.”

"Could I come meet you at four? Four thirty? At your house? I'll be s—”

"Yes,” he says, quickly. “Yes, I can do four thirty. Yes."

You pause. “Great. Okay, uh, pencil me in for four thirty to four forty-five.”

“Fifteen minutes?”

“I mean, really, it doesn't even have to be that long,” you joke. “If you get yourself close enough, by the time I get there, you can basically come in me and then I'll just be on my way."

There’s a long, long silence. Finally, he says, “If that's how you want to do it, yeah. Great."

"Great."

"Great."

“Great.” You swallow. “So. I’ll see you Friday. At four thirty.”

“Four thirty,” he says. “I’ll be ready.”

-

You pull up on his street at four twenty.

You park down the block. You sit there for exactly five minutes, in spite of the fact that you see a light in the windows, his bike sitting out front. You feel like a stalker.

At four twenty-five, you pull down the sun visor and stare at yourself. You put on a fresh coat of lipstick, which then immediately makes you feel very silly, so you wipe it all off. Then you dab it back on. You pinch at your cheeks. You look down at the dress you decided to wear. It was an entirely work-from-home day, mostly paperwork, so you wore a blazer over a dress and now you’re just wearing the dress, and it’s really the kind of dress you’d wear to, like, a date, which means it is lower cut up top and shorter at the hem than most dresses you’d be wearing on a work day. It’s more of a sun dress, really. So a picnic date dress. You feel both over and underdressed. 

And also you’re wet. On purpose. As much as anyone can be wet on purpose—you’d gotten a package from Olya yesterday, with the note attached, in lieu of sperm, and opened it to find some kind of fertility-promoting lube. Which, sure, it was a joke. And yeah, sure, you used some before you left home. 

You think about what you’d said on the phone. If you get yourself close enough, by the time I get there, you can basically come in me and then I'll just be on my way. You’d meant it only half as a joke. You’ve dated enough men to keep your expectations low. You’re not going to assume he’d waste a ton of time on foreplay. He’s doing you a favor, and he has work tonight, and if he’s in a rush then at least you’ll be more ready than with just a little spit and some half-hearted fingering.

You’re wearing stockings, too, nude pantyhose which seems…you don’t, know, silly? Try-hard? One layer too many? You glance at the clock—four twenty-seven—and look out both windows, reach under your skirt, and begin pulling them off, kicking off your shoes with a muffled curse under your breath. Your underwear starts coming off with them, which you fight and then go along with and then decide to commit to. Your skirt is long enough. You’d promised him this would be quick and easy, right?

You regret it immediately. But it’s four twenty-eight on the dot, and you are allergic to being late, so you shove tights and underwear alike into your glove compartment and drive the twenty feet to his house and pull over and get out.

Up the sidewalk. Up to the porch. You knock.

You wait.

It's colder than it was when you left work. You're really feeling the absence of your stockings right about now, not to mention your underwear, and you're approximately two seconds away from going back to the car to get both when the door swings open. 

"Hey.” 

"Hi," you say.

"Hi."

He's still in his work clothes. You’ve never seen him in his work clothes, actually, and it’s doing wild things to the this man is gainfully employed and good with kids, must procreate part of your brain. It doesn’t help that he looks significantly more disheveled than you would expect after a day of teaching sound waves. He’s breathing faster than usual, chest rising and falling against the blue linen shirt, which is only half-tucked at the bottom, at which point your gaze reaches his pants and you suddenly understand all of the above.

“Hi.” You nod in his general direction. "You, um. You got ready."

“I.” His face is flushed behind his glasses, which are maybe the most properly horizontal you’ve ever seen them. You expect that to last all of five minutes. “You…sorry.” He shakes his head suddenly, as if trying to shake something loose, and the things he shakes loose are his glasses. Five seconds, then. “Come in.” You follow him through the door, shutting it quietly behind you, your focus split fifty-fifty between trying not to imagine him getting himself ready and trying to keep yourself from leaking. You are failing miserably at both.

He’s ahead of you, back turned to you, re-rolling up his sleeves. They were already unbuttoned, but shoved up rather than rolled, messy, like he’d gotten home later than planned and immediately got to work doing—whatever it is he did that you are strictly forbidding yourself from imagining.

“Chinese,” he says, nodding at a bag on the kitchen counter. His hands move over his sleeves, four neat folds on each side, and his forearms are flexing and he’s still visibly straining against the zipper of his pants. “I ordered extra. In case you didn't get a chance to eat. And then the contract you sent over, and the test results, too. I printed them out, in case you want a copy. For your records. I went to the library, though, so it switches from colored ink to black and white halfway through. Didn’t seem like the kind of thing I should be printing out at school, ha.”

Two things hit you at once: the first, that you are not going to get him out of your system with one fuck. If anything, one fuck might make things worse. The second is that you absolutely cannot, under any circumstances, kiss him, because if you kiss him you’ll almost certainly fall in love with him and if you fall in love with him your life will be ruined.

"Right. Thank you. Right.” You are looking all around the living room—there’s the couch you used to build pillow forts next to, there’s the carpet the two of you melted crayons into, there’s the dining room, opening into the kitchen, where you helped his mom bake cookies, inevitably ending up with more flour on your head than in the bowl—in a bid to avoid looking at him, because you have a hunch that if you look at him and/or stop talking he is going to try to kiss you (because that would be the normal way to start this interaction, versus the objectively insane way you've decided to go about it) and if he doesn't kiss you you suspect one look at the bemused brows-above-the-glasses expression on his face will make you kiss him, which you are not allowed to do.

“So how was—”

“I left my underwear in the car. Long story.” The story being that you decided on a whim to leave your underwear in the car and now are regretting it immensely. “And I already got myself ready, and I don't want anything to—so we should probably just, um, take care of business first, if you're all good to go—is here okay?”

Here being his dining room table, which you approach and then smooth your hands across and then bend over, pressing your cheek to the wood in order to have a more concrete reason not to be able to look at him.

He laughs. “You don’t want the bed?”

“Nope, this works.”

“Oh.” He pauses a second, like he’s waiting for you to move. When you keep your face resolutely smushed against the table, he seems to get the memo. “I—alright.”

You feel, more than hear, his footsteps, soft across the floor.

“You said you’re—that you got yourself ready,” he finally says. He sounds close enough to touch. You don’t move a muscle. “How ready?”

“Ready enough.” You twitch a finger, gesturing. “I, um, I used this thing Olya gave me, this pre-seed thing.”

“Pre-seed.”

“It’s just fancy lube, I think.” You bite your bottom lip to try and stop rambling. You cannot stop rambling. “But it's supposed to be good for, like, sperm motility, or something, and I figured if I inserted it ahead of time then you wouldn’t be late for your next thing. Four thirty to four forty-five, remember.”

It’s a weak attempt at a joke. You’re not sure it lands. “I’m not in a rush," he says.

“Your Chinese food will get cold.”

He pauses. “I might be in a little bit of a rush.” You laugh, surprised. His voice is warm when he continues, “Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m not worrying about you. I’m worrying about your food.”

“You don’t have to worry about me or the food. I can worry enough for the both of us. Okay?”

You inhale, you count to four, you exhale. “Okay.”

“Okay.” He claps. It’s not a very loud clap, but it still takes you by surprise. “So, um, on that note—not that it’s a worry, it’s not a worry, not worried at all, just noting—if that’s all you. If you just used the lube and didn’t.” The pause that follows lasts about twelve seconds, which you know because you’re still box breathing in order to not hyperventilate. “You might need to, um, warm up. A little. For it to be comfortable.”

"Oh. Cool.” You think about ring fingers, and shoes, and height, and all kinds of things that don’t actually have any proven causative correlation with dick size, and then you think about the tent in his pants when he was half-hard just inside the door, and you conclude that of course, of course this is the way this is shaking out, because you have the worst good luck of anyone on the planet. “Cool, cool, cool. That’s fine. I can warm myself up more. Let me just.”

“I could. I could do that for you.”

You freeze. You open your mouth, then close it. You open it again. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” he says. “Can I anyway?”

“Sure.” Your brain is producing approximately three thousand thoughts per second, none of them cohesive. “If that’s okay with you. If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind. Here?”

You nod. The table is cool and smooth beneath your cheek.

There is stillness and stillness and stillness and then, there—his fingers, gentle, just the tips on the back of your thigh. He starts halfway up, just kissing the hem of your dress, and then his fingers travel up and under, and they trace over where your underwear would be, and you know when he reaches the slickness that’s reached your inner thighs because he pauses.

One agonizing moment passes before his fingers continue their upward path, dipping slightly in at your entrance. You make a concentrated effort to exhale silently. You’d estimate that you succeed about sixty percent.

“You’re so…” He takes a deep breath. When he speaks again, it’s very carefully casual. “You’re wet already. That’s good. That’s great.”

You blink. “Did you just.”

“What?”

“You just used the encouraging-middle-school-teacher voice. To tell me good job for being wet. During a sexual encounter."

“Sexual encounter? I thought this was strictly business.” That gets a laugh out of you. A quiet one. You can hear him smiling, not unkindly, when he continues, “You seemed like you could use the encouragement. You’re a little nervous."

"I'm very nervous."

"I know. That’s okay.” He finds your clit. You lose the battle to keep silent. Your face flushes immediately, which he can't see, but maybe he can sense it somehow, because he murmurs, “I’ve got you." 

That just makes things worse, actually, because you feel his voice, low and sincere, run down your spine like a hand. And then he actually does stroke a hand down your back, and you wonder if maybe this is some great cosmic punishment for a past life. He’s not even doing it to turn you on, you don’t think, just to comfort you—but when his hand brushes your neck it does something to you that isn't comfort, and you clench down and whimper for lack of anything to clench down onto. “Sorry,” you mumble into the table.

“Sorry for what?”

“I don’t know. This is just—I’m being so embarrassing.”

 “It’s just me,” he says (which is, of course, part of the problem). “I’ve seen you embarrass yourself plenty of times.”

You snicker. “Hey.”

“Besides. Uh.” He swallows. “Trust me. If you could see yourself from here, you wouldn’t, you wouldn’t be embarrassed.”

Before you have a chance to process that, his hand slides back to where you’re wettest.

“I’m going to—” He runs one finger over your entrance, then pauses. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” 

It’s more breath than sound. But he hears it, and, sure enough, he slips one finger into you. It’s an easy slide, wet as you are, but he’s still careful about it. Slow. 

“You’re—” His voice is different. Strained. “I think you can take two. If that’s—”

“Yes. Yeah, that’s—ah.” Two fingers fit, but it’s—a lot. Snug. 

“Relax for me?” He angles his wrist to get a thumb back on your clit, and you flutter around him before relaxing enough for him to let him work the two fingers in and out of you. “There you go. Good job.”

“You’re—”

“That wasn’t the teacher voice, that was the I-have-two-fingers-inside-you-and-you-feel—you feel—” He breathes out, and it sounds unsteady as you feel. “That was, that’s what that voice was. Can I—” He curls his fingers inside you, and you let out a broken moan. “God. Can I. Can I use my mouth.”

You’ve never wanted anything more in your life. “You don’t have to.”

“You keep saying that. Can I please, can I please use my mouth.”

“Yes,” you say, and he gets on his knees so quickly you’re shocked he doesn’t bruise them in the process.

The hand on your lower back runs down, crossing the border from skirt to skin, smoothing up the fabric to reveal you more fully. He keeps his fingers in you for a few seconds more, slow, lazy, dragging them in and out, in and out. Like he’s watching them. He curls them again, deliberately, and when he pulls them back out fully you barely hold back a sob.

There’s a long moment of stillness.

His one hand is still on your ass. His other hand is nowhere at all, and he’s gone silent, which is terrifying.

You use a finger to brush a strand of hair out of your eyes. “Everything good back there?”

“Mmph.” It sounds like his mouth is full, and then, with a quiet pop, not, and your brain shorts out because you realize that’s the sound of him sucking you off his fingers. “Yeah. Yeah. I just.” He presses a kiss to the back of your leg, to the crease where your ass meets your thigh, then pulls back again, and he’s gotten both hands on you, now, and he does what you can only describe as spreading you. 

Another silence. If it were anyone else, you would feel more exposed than you’ve ever been in your life. It’s him, though, which simultaneously makes it better and much, much worse. 

“You,” he finally says, which sounds like the beginning of a sentence until it becomes clear there’s nothing to follow. He kisses your other thigh, open-mouthed, slow, then rests his forehead against it, and breathes. “Fuck.” He says it quietly. Soft. Like it’s just for him.

“Language,” you say.

You mean it as a joke. You mean it as a reference. You mean it in a way that’s meant to break some of the tension and elicit a snarky response, so you are definitely not expecting the next thing he does with his mouth to be pressing his tongue flat against you.

He licks you from your clit to your entrance. The unexpectedness of it, the warmth and wetness and the intensity of it, has your knees buckling so much that you grab the table. You make some kind of sound that you cannot allow yourself to reflect too much upon without feeling intense embarrassment. You make an even more embarrassing sound when he does it again. 

He pulls back, and you put a lot of effort into not protesting. The effort is in vain.

“What was that?” You can hear the unbearably smug grin. “I thought you were telling me to watch my tongue.”

“I wasn’t. I.” You breathe slowly, trying to collect your thoughts.

You get about fifteen percent of the way there before he tightens his grip on your hips, pulling you back to meet his mouth so that he can rub his tongue back and forth against you. You let him press you up onto your toes. Your hips tilt further, allowing him closer, and you can feel the tip of his nose nudge against your entrance at the same time his mouth properly closes around your clit.

You have multiple degrees. You pay taxes, you run a business, you live alone in a one-bedroom in San Fran-fucking-cisco, and you have enough in savings that you can decide to get pregnant, on purpose, without considering yourself financially irresponsible. You are a very respectable person. None of that is reflected in the wail you let out as he sucks harder.

His hands are tight around your legs. His face is so firmly pressed into you, you would wonder if he needs to breathe, if you had any fireable neurons left to spend wondering things like that. You are beginning to have trouble breathing. The air keeps catching in your chest, in a building rhythm, and your knuckles are beginning to go white from how tightly you are gripping the table. 

“Ry—” You can’t even get out his full name.

He doesn’t stop. He doubles down.

You don’t know how long you spend there, bent over, unable to do anything but tremble as he sucks at your clit. Just as you’re close, he pulls away—but before you can say anything about it, his tongue is inside you, and he’s reached a hand around your thighs to get at your clit from the other side, and you think you might be making sounds in tandem with the thrust of his tongue, but your blood is rushing in your ears a bit, and your toes are curling against the floor, and everything narrows and narrows and narrows until—

He says something, you think. Tries to, but you can’t understand it, because his tongue is inside you and also because you’re coming so hard that you’re probably going to get a cramp in your right foot.

He doesn’t give you any relief. He lets you clench around his tongue, for a while, then pulls out while you’re still going to get his mouth on your clit again, relentless, arms wrapping around you tight to keep you from squirming away, as though you have anywhere to go, as though you aren’t trapped, totally and entirely, between the table and him. 

You come back to yourself in pieces.

You’re aware of your breath, audible, ragged; your hands, tingling; your right foot, uncurling just in time to avoid a cramp. You’re aware of his arms, steady; his mouth, gentling on you, pulling away entirely. You make a broken sound into the table. 

Something nudges at your entrance, and it’s his fingers, three of them, and they slide into you like its nothing, setting off another wave of aftershocks, and he’s slower than ever as he fucks you open on them. “Look at that,” he says, satisfied. 

Your face is warm. The mahogany is cool against it as you press your forehead back into the table. “You’re evil.”

“You’re perfect,” he replies, and you have absolutely nothing to say to that.

He pulls his fingers out as the aftershocks ebb. You don’t have any time to respond in any direction before he replaces them again with his tongue. 

Your hips buck against the table. Your knees genuinely threaten to give out; you’re not entirely sure they don’t, you can’t tell, because his hands are back on your legs more firmly than ever.

“Ryland,” you choke out.

“Mmph.”

“Ryland,” you repeat, more desperately, reaching back with one hand to push against the top of his head. “I’m good. I’m—I’m ready, I’m ready.”

He shakes his head, pulling back only to kiss your leg again. “Just a little longer.” He’s scattering kisses up and down your thighs, now, across the crease, fingers coming back to press against your clit. “Just a little longer, you taste so good, a little more—I bet I could make you come again like this—”

“Are you going to put a baby in me or not?” You’re still a little breathless, but you get enough of a challenge into it that he pauses. “I thought this was strictly business.”

He huffs out a laugh against you. “Right.” Because he’s the worst, he licks you again, circles at your clit, laughs at the way your hips jerk from the overstimulation, before grabbing the edge of the table and pulling himself up to standing.

You hear a buckle, a belt, a zipper. A pause.

You think about how long it’s been since you met him at the door. How everything that’s happened so far has been pretty much exclusively for you. “Is there anything I can do to help?” you ask, lowering your voice.

You know what his answer will be. You’ve never once had a man turn down a blowjob, which is fine, because you don’t really mind blowjobs, most of the time, and for some reason there is a part of you that’s actually incredibly eager to get this specific man’s cock in your mouth, all of which is why you are entirely unprepared to hear him say, “No.”

You pause. “Oh?”

“I’m good.” He steps forward, the length of him brushing against your ass, and you understand just how good.

“Just from—”

“Yeah.” He uses his hand to line himself up, and you feel him at your entrance, the promise of him. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” You press your face more firmly into the table, arch your back slightly. You breathe. “Ready.”

He presses in.

You are not ready.

You are ready in that you are wet; in that it fits; in that it feels good, properly good, good enough that you let out a long, quiet moan at the same time he does. But it’s still a lot. It’s still a slight stretch, even after three fingers, even after coming on his tongue. 

It’s still him.

There’s no helping it. All of the preparation in the world could not have kept you from feeling slightly overwhelmed by the heat and the weight and the understanding that Ryland Grace is inside you. It’s making you do stupid things, like get a little choked up. You bite back a sound that you fear might come out less sexy than emotional, but you don’t bite it back entirely, and he stops, still inside you. “Too much?”

Yes. “No,” you say, and swallow, because what do you possibly have to cry about? “I’m good. It’s good, you feel—good.”

“Good.” He pulls out, then pushes back in, slowly, and the sound he makes is—God. This was the worst idea you’ve ever had. This was the best idea you’ve ever had. “You too. I’m going to—” His hands press into your waist through the fabric of your dress. “Is this okay?”

“Mmhm.” You're both still basically fully clothed, which means you're barely touching, which just narrows your focus to the one specific place where you are touching, and its making the whole thing feel dirtier than if you'd just been naked. 

You clench around him, and he makes another sound and begins fucking you in earnest.

He’s still slow. He’s being careful, you suspect, which you appreciate because he is thick and he is long and your legs are barely functional as is. But the rhythm is steady. He drives into you with slow, deep thrusts, and already you are struggling not to make a whole host of embarrassing noises. You suspect he is also struggling with this because he is losing, badly—maybe he’s stifling them from his normal volume (whatever that may be), but he is close enough that you feel his breath on the back of your neck, and every single choked-off moan and whimper and grunt might as well be piped directly into your brainstem. When you give up on trying to mute yourself, and let out a quiet, “You can—harder,” he groans, long and low, and obliges, picking up the pace enough that you can hear the slap of his hips against yours.

You reach back, at one point. You’re not exactly sure why. To grab at him, maybe—to pull at his hips, urge him deeper, faster—but he catches your hand in his, threading his fingers through yours.

“You’re so.” He manages to get his other hand under your waist, arm across, lifting, helping you stand up a little so that his chest is pressed against your back, his voice in your ear. “I knew you’d feel good, but I didn’t—you’re so—”

“I know,” you say, without really knowing what you’re saying. “Me too.”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, where the neckline of your dress ends, and then further in, further up. You squeeze his hand. He squeezes back, thumb running back and forth across the edge of yours. When he kisses the top of your neck, wet and hot and open-mouthed just below your ear, you let out a desperate sound, not quiet at all, and you clench around him and you feel him smile and you want to strangle him almost as much as you want to kiss him. You want so badly to kiss him. You almost try to crane your head around to allow for it, except you remember dimly that you’re not supposed to, and you can’t for the life of you remember why.

When he slows down, you whine. It’s entirely undignified. You don’t really have it in you to care. “What are you doing?”

“I just. I just.” He rests his forehead against the back of your head, and through the fog you swear you feel him press his lips to your hair. “I need a second.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He swallows, and turns his head to press his cheek to your hair instead. “I don’t want to finish too fast,” he admits. You know what that voice looks like on him—it looks like beet red and mortified. “And I will. If we keep going. Right now.”

You burst out laughing. You can’t help it. “What?” You let your head hang, still shaking with laughter you don’t really have the breath to afford. “Ryland. That’s, like. The opposite of a problem. That’s the whole point.”

“That’s not the whole point.” He sounds insulted, which for some reason is even funnier, and makes you laugh even harder. He makes a vaguely pained sound, and you realize retroactively that laughing makes you squeeze which makes you squeeze around him. “You—stop doing that.”

“Then stop being funny!” You wipe a tear away, and turn just enough to make a sliver of eye contact. “You know, I would have planned a lot differently if I knew I had to factor in time to explain how babies are made.”

“I—” He goes through amused and annoyed and endeared in a comically short amount of time (and you manage to contain your reaction to light smirking, this time, because you are nothing if not good at taking feedback), and lands on an expression that is a combination of all of those things and leaves you convinced, in an even shorter amount of time, that you are in danger. “Did you really think you’d be out of here in fifteen minutes?”

“No.” You look at his lips again, and then face forward to cut yourself off. “Maybe.” You squeeze your eyes shut. “It would have been fine if you ohfuck—”

This last because he presses back into you, all the way, at the same time his hand finds your clit. “Do you still think that?”

“No.” Your voice is quiet, shaky.

“No?”

Louder now, “No, nope, not even a little—”

“Glad to hear it.” He starts moving again. It’s slow, and his voice is strained, but he’s moving and his fingers are on you at the same time he’s inside you, and he’s taking advantage of the pace to really focus on what spots he’s angling himself against. “Otherwise I might have gotten offended.”

“Didn’t mean to—okay.” Your elbows are beginning to go the way of your knees, which is to say you lower yourself back down to the table while you are still capable of doing so in a safe and controlled manner. His hand is still wrapped around yours. “Oh God. You can—faster. Faster, please.”

“I will. I just want to get you a little closer.”

“I already—”

“No, that didn’t count.” He is going faster, whether he realizes it or not; and it is getting you closer, which was maybe part of the point. “That didn’t count. I want you to come for me.”

“I did come for you.”

“On me. Around me. That’s what—that’s all I’m waiting for, you just have to—”

It’s working. What he did with his tongue, what he started and finished and started again—you feel it, feel the threads of it, lengthening, growing, sparking again each time he thrusts inside you. 

“Yeah,” you say, because what else can you say. “Yeah. Can you just—” You bite your lip. 

“What?” He’s breathing faster, again, almost panting.

“Your hand,” you manage. “On—on my neck.”

“Your neck?”

You nod against the table.

“Okay.” He doesn’t stop. “Okay. Can you—with your hand—can you keep rubbing yourself? Can you do that for me?”

You are flat against the table. The hand around yours doesn’t loosen at all. With some effort, you move your other hand down, under you, and it brushes his for a moment before he makes way for you, and uses his newly freed hand to reach up and wrap around the back of your neck.

“Like this?’’ he asks. He sounds almost hoarse, though nothing compared to the sound you let out as you nod, clenching around him even tighter than before. “Okay. And don’t stop—your clit—good, that’s good, just—”

His hand tightens around your neck slightly, just on the sides, as he starts fucking you hard, harder than before, hard and fast in a way that is forcing sounds out of you that you cannot control. You try to rub your clit in some approximation of what he was doing, and it’s more slippery than you could have anticipated and your fingers keep grazing his cock as he thrusts into you, and you’re close, you’re close again.

“I—” You make a sound into the table. “I’m.”

“I know.” He doesn’t stop. “I know, I know, I’m here—” 

He squeezes your hand again, and for some reason this is the thing that undoes you.

This orgasm is a different kind of good from the first. That was a sharp, hot, precise flash of pleasure; this time is broader, gentler, warmer. True to his word, he follows almost immediately after, shooting hot inside you, and you are full as you squeeze around him and pant into the table.

You can hear his breathing, too, behind you. You listen to it slow in time with yours.

He squeezes your hand again, this time as a precursor to letting go, and it almost hurts as much as the loss of him pulling out of you. He runs the other hand, the neck one, down your back, smoothing your skirt back down as he goes. There are shuffling sounds—boxers, zipper, belt. You don’t move.

“Hey.” His hand is on your hip again—lighter. Tentative, like he wasn’t just digging into it ninety seconds ago. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” You are still face planted into the table for the same reason as before: if you stand up, you will have to look at him, and why you ever thought that would be easier after he fucked you than before is one of the great mysteries of the universe. “Yeah. That was—I’m just—.” You stand up very abruptly. “Oh my god.”

“What?” He sounds alarmed. 

“I need to lie down.”

“Are you dizzy?” He sounds even more alarmed. “Are you—the couch, is the couch okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine, the couch is fine but, do you have a towel, it’s just—I need to lie down for twenty minutes,” you say, apologetically as you can muster. He crosses a step to the kitchen, and grabs a towel, and tosses it to you. You catch it without looking at him, and you waddle over to the couch in the unsexiest manner possible, where you proceed to put the towel on top of a pillow and lie down with the pillow under your hips. Your skirt flips back up. You cross your legs as though it will help. It really doesn’t. “I completely forgot. Just so it doesn’t—you know.”

A pause. “So it doesn’t what?”

You look at him. In very short order he has gone from sounding alarmed to wearing a poorly-hidden smirk.

You narrow your eyes at him. “You know.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I do. I think. But I kind of want to hear you say it.”

You purse your lips. You stare at the ceiling, then look back at him, then back at the ceiling, then at the insides of your hands. “So it doesn’t leak out,” you say, muffled against your palms. “There. I said it.”

“You did,” he says, sounding annoyingly pleased.

“Are you happy now?”

“Very.” His voice is getting closer.

When you open your eyes again, he’s standing over you. You frown, and push his face away with both hands. “I hate you.”

“I know.”

“You’re the worst.”

“I know.”

“I can’t believe I left my underwear in the car.”

“Why did you do that?” he says, sounding equal parts delighted and bewildered.

“I don’t know,” you wail, except you can’t help but laugh with him. “It just seemed like something people do!”

“What people?” His voice is further away now, like he’s leaving the room, and there’s a vague sound of drawers being open and shut. “Internet people? Is this a porn thing I don’t know about? Because porn is not supposed to be a good representation of real life, you know, that’s a specific thing I have to say in the sex ed unit. I have to say that. To a room full of eighth graders.” A drawer shuts. “Is porn where you got the table idea from?”

“No,” you say miserably, back into your hands. You aren’t sure if he can hear you, and you don’t care. “That was all me.”

A piece of fabric hits the back of your hands. You pick it up, to look at it. Boxers. White. Black text on the band. 

“For you,” he says. “They’re clean.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You look at them a moment more, then pull them on. “You know, I really wasn’t expecting this from you.”

“Okay,” he says, leaving to the kitchen. “So what I’m hearing is that first, you thought I’d be the guy who would finish having sex and kick you out within fifteen minutes—still not over that, by the way—and then you also thought I’d let you leak in misery on the couch? For another twenty minutes? And I was still your first choice of sperm donor? Because if that’s the case, we need to have a serious chat about your taste in sexual partners.”

“You can connect with Olya about that. I think she already had an intervention planned.” You pull the waistband of the underwear out, then release, letting it snap against your waist. “But I was talking about the Calvins. I kind of assumed there’d be, like, little Bunsen burners around the band. Or some kind of day-of-the-week situation.”

“The Bunsen burners are my Thursday pair,” he says, emerging from the kitchen with a glass of water. He passes it to you before plopping down on the floor next to the couch.

You take a sip. “What are you doing?”

“Sitting. Next to you.”

“It looks like you’re lying down.”

He is, in fact, flat on the carpet without so much as a pillow. “Yeah. Next to you. Is that allowed?”

“Of course it’s allowed, it’s your house. I just don’t want to stop you from doing the things you need to do.”

“What do I need to do?”

“I don’t know. Put your cold Chinese food in the fridge?”

“I did that already.”

“Oh.” You take another sip. “Prepare for parent teacher conferences?”

“I did that already. At school. It’s mostly the same every time. Parents agree. Parents disagree.”

“Parents hit on you,” you continue for him.

His face turns a little pink. “Sometimes, yeah.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course they do.”

“What, you don’t believe me?”

“I literally said of course they do. Because of course they do.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re. You know.” You look at him—messy hair, messy glasses, messy smile—and then determinedly back at the ceiling. “You’re not completely horrible to look at.”

“Wow. And this is you after two orgasms.”

“That was a nice thing! I said a nice thing!”

“You’re in my house, wearing my boxers—”

“Yes, your Bunsen-burner-less boxers. I’ll have to plan around Thursdays, going forward.”

“Going forward?” he says.

You freeze. You do not look at him. “If it’s not too much of an imposition,” you say carefully—and then you are immediately cut off by his hand smushing your face.

“It’s not an imposition,” he says. “It is absolutely not an imposition. We can do this as much as you want.”

“Mmph,” you say.

He pulls his hand back. You look at him. “I just didn’t want to assume,” he says.

You stare. Messy glasses, hair, smile—you look back at the glass. “Like you said, this is me after two orgasms.” You are very interested in the glass and, furthermore, the water inside it. “Which was, for the record, not the point.”

“Of course it’s the point.”

“But like, okay, if we were doing this with a turkey baster, that wouldn’t even be a concern—”

“Well, we aren’t doing this with a turkey baster. I made it very clear that it was on you to provide the turkey baster, and you didn’t, so—”

You shove the water at him, if only to shut him up, but you’re grinning. He’s also grinning. You take the water back, and struggle to take a sip, because it is significantly emptier and you are still flat on your back.

He stands up. “C’mere,” he says. He helps you sit up, and then sits down where your head was, letting you lay back in his lap. “Is this okay? If I sit here?”

“It’s your house, Ryland, you can sit wherever you want—” He pinches your nose. You glare up at him. He smiles pleasantly down at you. “Yes. Idds fide,” you say. “Awesobe. Really.”

He releases your nose, and runs a hand back through your hair. Your eyes shut automatically.

“But seriously,” he says. “Was that—was there anything bad? Anything you didn’t like? I’m very open to notes. For next time. Since there’s going to be a next time.”

“It was all good,” you say. You think it might be the first time you’ve said that to a guy and honestly meant it. “The whole thing.”

“That can’t be true.”

You open one eye. “Are you calling me a liar?” The other eye opens. “Or, wait, was it bad for you?”

“What? No.”

“I mean it. I am also open to feedback, and I know I was being super weird at the beginning, I was just, like you said, I was nervous, but I can be so much more normal next time—”

“You were perfect,” he says, at the same time he runs a hand back over your head. “And, sure, I’d prefer if you weren’t that nervous all the time, but that’s because I don’t want to be doing things that make you nervous. So if I am—”

“You weren’t. It’s just you.”

As in, there’s nothing you could have done better. As in, you make me nervous just existing. As in, I’ve thought you were perfect since we were in elementary school, and I know you don’t mean it back the same way but if you were going to say it at all I wish it had been sooner than this.

He smiles. “Yeah,” he says softly. “It’s just me. And it’s just you. So there’s nothing to be nervous about, yeah?”

“Mm.” You let your eyes close back shut as you turn your head, snuggling more firmly into his lap. He makes a noise that sounds like a wince, and shifts beneath you, and you look back up at him. “Sorry. Did I—”

“Nope,” he says. His voice is definitely strained. “No. You’re fine. I just. Has it been twenty minutes yet?”

You look at him. Then you look at his lap. Then you look back at him. “Already?”

“Yeah, I think. I think it’s been about twenty minutes.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s been less.”

“Has it been an amount of time that would qualify as going forward?” he asks. Then: “We don’t have to, if you’re not up to it.”

You make a show of genuinely considering. “I am a little sore.”

“Right. That, that makes sense.”

“But not that sore.” You meet his gaze. “And probably going again is good. Statistically.”

He nods as you sit up and put the water down on the coffee table. He keeps nodding as you begin to shimmy off his underwear, his own hands going back to deal with his belt and his zipper and all. “Yeah. Better odds, definitely better. The numbers alone. If you’re sore, do you want to be on top this time? So you can have more control over how—”

"Right. I just feel like, is that counterproductive? Like, I spent all that time on my back, just to let gravity..."

“I’ll—” His mouth clamps shut. “Nope.”

You stare at him. In years and years, in decades, you’ve never known any version of Ryland Grace to do anything but say exactly what he thinks, exactly at the speed he thinks it. “What was that.”

“I was just about to say the worst thing I've ever thought."

"What."

"You'll leave if I tell you."

"What?"

"I was going to say, I'll plug you up."

You’re not smiling. Really, you’re not. It’s just that the corners of your mouth are pulling so far up and out that it’s hurting your cheeks. “Oh my god."

"I know."

"That's terrible.”

"I told you!"

“Like I’m, what, a sink? A power socket?” His face is too buried in his hands to allow anything but a muffled groan in response. You grin. He is somehow, in spite of all of this, still hard. “If you wanted me to leave you could have just said so."

“I don’t—”

"Hey, signal received, loud and clear. I’ll just—” You stand, and turn to the door. You mean it as a joke. It doesn’t matter, though, because you don’t get that far before he catches your wrist and tugs you back.

It only takes two or three movements for you to straddle him.

All at once your field of vision is very full of nothing but messy hair, and eyes bright behind his glasses, and his stupid perfect nose, and his mouth—

"We can't kiss," you blurt out.

He blinks. His face stays still otherwise. “Okay.”

"It's a rule I have. For hookups. No kissing on the mouth.” At the word mouth, his eyes drop to yours, which is fine, that’s normal, you can’t just tell someone not to think of an elephant. But the thought of him thinking about kissing you makes you dizzy enough that you rush to continue, “Everywhere else is fine, though."

You are not a good liar. He is an even worse liar, which might be the only way you get away with this. He also might be justifiably distracted by the fact that the entire naked length of him is pressed up against the entire naked length of you, and you are wetter than before from his mouth and from two orgasms and from him leaking out of you.

"Everywhere else?" he asks.

You nod. 

“Here?” His hand is warm against the back of your neck as he drags his thumb back and forth across your neck, just below your ear. 

When you nod, he follows with his mouth.

He continues lower, fingers and then lips, to your shoulder—“Here?”—your sternum—“Here?”—and then his hand is cupping your breast over your dress—“Here?”—at which point your nodding becomes frantic. You dip your shoulder, helping him push down the strap and the neckline until he’s able to dip into your bra and free you and drag a tongue across the curve, closing his mouth around your nipple as you wrap an arm around his head and press him to you and wind your fingers into his hair. 

He sucks harder, harder, until the pleasure has a sting to it. You tug at his hair. He relents, pulling away only to replace his mouth with his hand, his thumb, back and forth as he laughs into your neck.

“You’re so,” he starts, then pauses to press his hips more firmly into you, then huffs out another laugh, low and disbelieving. “The sounds you make.”

Your face heats up. “Sorry,” you mumble into the side of his head.

“No. Don’t you dare. They’re great sounds. Excellent sounds. Very helpful.” You throb against him at that, and he must feel it, because his next laugh chokes off. “Can I—are you—inside?”

“Inside,” you agree, a little breathlessly. You lift your hips just enough to line him up to you, and there’s a genuine pang in your chest from how badly you want to kiss him—

—but then he’s inside you, and inside you and inside you and inside you, taking up so much space that you don’t have any left for silly things like regret.

His mouth is back on your chest, your collar, pushing down your dress on the other side. You’re struck with—something. Jealousy, maybe. Your hands loosen from their death grip on his shoulders to grab at his shirt, the buttons, greedy, frantic. “Can I—”

You’re clumsy with the buttons, so he comes to your rescue. He’s somehow even worse. Between the two of you, you manage to fumble a few open, and having those few inches of chest-to-chest contact when you bury your head back in his neck feels nothing short of religious. 

Aside from minute adjustments of the hips, and a twitch inside you, he’s trying very hard to be still. You can tell its an effort because, when you finally move, lifting up slowly on shaky legs, his fingers tighten on your hips. You sink back onto him with a slow, intentional breath.

“Good?” he asks into your jugular. “It doesn’t hurt?”

“No.”

It does. But it’s a low, quiet ache, a base note of soreness that only intensifies the pleasure, until your thighs give out and you lower yourself back down more quickly than planned, and the hit of him against your cervix makes you yelp. “A little,” you amend.

“Sorry!” He sounds panicked, which is so endearing it almost makes you forget about the pain. His hands visit lower on your hips, cupping your ass, helping you lift up a little as he presses his hips down and away from you, and a sound escapes you that has nothing to do with pain or soreness and everything to do with the drag of him inside you. “Sorry, sorry. Is that—we should stop. Let’s stop.”

Now it’s your turn to panic. “No. No stopping.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. It’s all right if you do.”

“It is absolutely not all right, that’s—”

“I like it,” you admit, and when he looks up you force yourself not to close your eyes or look away. Whatever sentence he was in the middle of dies on his lips. You need to stop looking at his lips.

“Oh,” he says.

“It feels good.” You watch him watching you. “I want to be a little sore. I want to be able to remember you were inside me.”

That last part slips out on accident, and you have a front row seat to watch it land.

His eyes are bright behind the glasses (crooked, smudged, a little foggy), but there’s a stillness to his expression overall, like he’s trying very carefully not to scare off an endangered animal, except for a tiny little twitch at the corner of his mouth, and you want to kiss the corner of his mouth so now you do have to close your eyes.

The next two seconds feel like they last about an hour.

“Okay,” he says, like he’s still thinking it over as he says it, and then, more resolutely: “Okay.”

Something unties in your chest. You open your eyes, and see him looking at you like—like—you can’t examine that expression too closely, actually. If you think about that expression too much you are going to start having all kinds of other thoughts you aren’t allowed to have. “Okay?”

“But we go slow.”

“Slow is good.”

“And if it starts to—if it hurts in a way that doesn’t feel good, we stop. Tell me right away, and we’ll stop.”

“I will,” you agree, already shifting your hips a bit in his hands to press back against him. You don’t take him all the way down to the hilt. Almost, but not quite. You feel him press against the back of you, and you let yourself sink down just a millimeter more, earning that bit of pain, the sweet ache, before nodding. “There.” Your eyes flutter shut, your head tipping down. “Until there is good.”

He nods. His forehead is pressed to yours—not on purpose, you think, that’s just how your head fell, that’s out of your control—and you’re breathing the same air, and you honestly deserve a Nobel for not closing those last few centimeters.

“Good.” His voice has dropped about an octave.

You clench around him, and you feel his thighs flex, under yours, through his pants, as he presumably fights the urge to thrust up into you.

“Sorry,” he says, which confirms it. You feel the tip of his nose travel up across your forehead, followed by his lips, ending at your hairline. “We’re going slow. I want to go slow. It’s good that we’re going slow. I can kiss you here?”

“Yes.” He presses his mouth more firmly against your head, and you angle your face into his neck. “We don’t actually have to go that slow.”

“It’s good,” he repeats, like he’s trying to convince himself, “that we’re going slow.”

“But your food. It’ll get cold. It’s probably already cold.”

“I have a microwave. A great one.”

“Mmhm.”

“Actually it’s just okay, you remember, it’s the same one, I think it’s probably been here since the Cold War—” You laugh again, which makes you pulse around him again, and he lets out a shaky exhale. “Have I mentioned how glad I am that we’re going slow.”

“Once or twice.”

“Great, great. Good. Just wanted to make sure you got that. On the record. In your records. One of them. Both. Either. And it doesn’t hurt.”

“Not in any way I don’t like.”

He makes a sound into your hair that could best be described as tortured. His fingers are tight on your hips, digging. You know that it’s just practical, that he’s mostly doing it to help support your weight so that you don’t move too fast, don’t hurt yourself again. You are still hopeful of bruises tomorrow. You are also hopeful that he’ll fuck you properly sometime in the next ten seconds, because if he doesn’t you might die.

“You don’t have to hold back” you say. “I mean it. As fast as you need. As hard as you need.”

A pause. Then he guides your hips forward—not deeper, but closer, flush against him, and the pressure takes you by surprise, and you whimper.

“You get to feel good too,” he says. “You said whatever I need, right? Anything I want?”

“Mmhm.” He moves you, and you let him. “Mmhm.”

“Right. Not too deep,” His mouth finds its way back to your neck, just below your ear, and you keep rocking against him in that heavy, unrushed rhythm, your clit pressed back and forth against his stomach where his shirt has ridden up. “Not running anywhere, just this, just—” You pulse around him, and his voice breaks. “— just like that. Need to hear you make those pretty noises while you squeeze down on me.”

“Ry—”

“You want me to fill you up, right, you want me to put a baby in you, that’s the whole point, and I want to, I’m going to, I just—then I need to feel you—need you to feel good. Need you to come again.”

“Ryland.”

“You can do that for me, right, you can, you can, it’s only fair.”

You don’t know how long you stay like this. It’s slower than you wanted, but exactly as fast as you need, and he is patient, steady, even as the monologue runs away from him and he begins babbling nonsense into your ear. Or maybe he’s making perfect sense. You think you hear your name a few times, but who even knows anymore. You’re pretty sure you’ve lost the ability to process language.

He lets go of your hips on one side to get a hand back on your chest, gentle, rolling your nipple between forefinger and thumb. You bury your face in his neck, and then make some effort to lift it back up, until you are practically cheek to cheek.

“It’s only fair, you have your rule, I have mine,” he says. You don’t even know what he’s talking about. You’re not sure he does, either. His mouth is next to your mouth, level, along the same plane, and it would be so easy, nothing at all, to turn your head and—

And then his mouth moves higher, to your eyes, next to your eyes, and he’s saying, “Here, is here okay, can I kiss you here, can I please kiss you here.”

You make some sort of noise of agreement, so far past words you don’t know if you could produce a full sentence if you tried.

The moment he has your permission, he turns his head just the slightest bit to properly press his mouth against your temple, and he keeps it there while he crushes you to his chest with one arm around your waist, keeping the pressure of his pelvis against your clit,  and every sound he makes vibrates through your skull as he finishes inside you.

Neither of you moves for a long, long time. Your chest is pressed to his. You could almost swear you feel his heart beat through it, a little faster than yours, a little out of rhythm. 

“Your food is definitely cold,” is the first thing you manage.

“It is,” he agrees. “Because I put it in the fridge.”

“Oh.” The freckles do go down to his shoulders, you see now. You run your finger between them, tracing constellations, up until the place where they disappear under his shirt where you pushed it back. “Wow. When did you do that?”

“Before. After. Between. I told you that. I said it out loud.”

“I forgot.” The comfortable silence returns. You feel his hand, slow up and down your back, and the other in your hair, still, his thumb against your temple. “I probably need to lay down again,” you finally say. “For twenty minutes. I think that’s the rule.”

“Sure. Just one more second.”

“Okay.”

You let several minutes pass.

“I don’t even know why twenty minutes. It seems like an arbitrary amount of time”

“Yeah?” He kisses your temple again—slow, like he’s committing it to memory—and then your jaw, and then your collarbone, and then your neck again, and it tickles and you giggle and while you giggle he finally turns, careful, and lowers you back down to the couch. He pulls out of you, soft, and you’d protest but you are honestly too satisfied down to your bones to do anything but let him. “I thought you did all that research.”

“I did. Nobody on Reddit could agree on a number.”

“You did not just use research and Reddit in the same sentence,” he says, walking back to the kitchen. The sink goes, and then stops. The fridge opens. A bag crinkles on the counter. The chiming of silverware in a drawer, the one to the right of the sink, next to the junk drawer. Your heart feels so full it could burst. Here’s to the things that last.

“Cool it, doc. We can’t all have a fancy degree.”

“You want fried rice, or white?”

“Both.”

“On it. And you literally have a J.D. Juris doctor.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t make me a researcher, it just means I get paid twice as much to do half the work of one.”

“Mean,” he says. You stick a tongue out at him, even though you know he can’t see it. “But fair.”

The microwave goes. You lie back, having pulled his boxers back on, and you update your mental profile of him, this man you’ve known for the better part of thirty-four years.

Ryland Grace is not the kind of guy who has sex and then kicks you out within fifteen minutes.

Ryland Grace is also not the kind of guy who lets you leak in misery on the couch.

Ryland Grace is smart but not obnoxious about it.

“You want something other than water? I guess it’s late for coffee. Or is that one of those things you can’t have? Like alcohol? I did—I haven’t done, like, research, that’s a completely different thing, but I was reading about…”

Ryland Grace is smart but mostly not obnoxious about it.

Ryland Grace prints things out at the library if he’s afraid they’re inappropriate for the school printer

Ryland Grace is the kind of guy who agrees to donate sperm to an old friend without question.

He is tall, and brilliant, and sweet, and funny, and has a great head of hair, and is also built to a crazy degree for someone whose primary form of exercise seems to be biking places.

He’s farsighted, but that means he keeps the glasses on during sex and that honestly has to count as a pro.

He is good in bed, and you get to keep on sleeping with him for as long as it takes for you to get pregnant.

That last part makes you pause.

The as long as it takes part. The part where there’s a guaranteed end date.

Which is your fault, of course, and also entirely by design. Help me have a baby is a very different context than help me have a baby and also we should date. It’s completely different than help me have a baby and also remember that time sixteen years ago when I poured my heart out to you and you—

“There.” He places a coaster on the coffee table, and a steaming plate on top of it. “You don’t have to sit up yet, it’s pretty hot. I just put a little of everything. And it’s definitely a no on the coffee, unless you want decaf, but then I remembered you hate coffee so I just brought more water.”

You take the fork he offers you. “Thanks, Ryland,” you say.

It comes out softer than you meant for it to. He doesn’t notice. He just smiles, and goes back to the kitchen to make himself a plate. You watch him go, and you think:

Ryland Grace is the perfect person for you to have fun with, have a baby with, and then forget about completely.

You can do that. You can totally do that. You just don’t know how you’re going to do that.

But then he comes back with a steaming plate of food of his own, and jokes about burning his tongue, and then immediately burns his tongue, and you laugh at it like a friend would. And, once you’re satisfied that you’ve been on your back enough to be relatively leak-proof, you sit up and race him to see who can finish their noodles the fastest (he lets you win, like he used to when you were kids), and every time you offer to leave he finds some excuse or some question that requires you to stay, until he actually has to leave to avoid being late for work, and you drive home and you shower and you go to sleep in your own bed. And you wake up only thinking about him a little.

And that feels like a good place to start.

[sketchupnfries]

Since Rocky and Grace have access to a ton of video games on the Hail Mary, I figured eventually they'd play Just Dance during their trip to Erid

[dinomoder]

This is the best ad for Project Hail Mary I have ever seen. Like if I was on the fence about watching or reading it, this would convince me to do so.

[gay-mooshrooms]

[corinthianism]

HAZY COSMIC JIVE . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ryland grace (1)

pairing: ryland grace (project hail mary)/gn!kryptonian!reader

additional tags: the reader is the last kryptonian alive (no clark/kara/zod) and was raised on earth, reader is basically clark kent, superheroes don't exist you're just an anomaly, LOTS of fluff, mutual pining, rocky is the best wingman, grace and rocky geek out over reader's physiology, canon near-death experience, sunshine x sunshine

synopsis: the hail mary is pulled into adrian, threatening to end grace and rocky's mission to save the stars. the stars send a savior of their own.

author's note: full credit to @soupiemeowmeow for the idea! and @bettyboop1ze for requesting someone to write a starmora vibe <3 thank u guys for the inspiration !!! 6/28/26 author's note: this chapter has been edited!

series masterlist | main masterlist | ao3

CHAPTER 1: BLIP-E

He’s an idiot. He’s a stupid, reckless idiot. 

That’s probably what Rocky’s thinking right now as he leaps after the collector hanging off the Hail Mary. Grace hears his friend panic over the comms.

“Abort, abort, abort. Grace will die! No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no—”

The sound of Rocky telling him to stop this incredibly stupid move is drowned out by the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. The xenonite chain attached to the collector snaps, leaving Grace’s umbilical cable as his only literal lifeline. A slew of school-appropriate exclamations spill from under his breath as he swings just enough to the side to avoid being hit by debris that broke off from the Hail Mary. He attempts to reel himself back to the ship’s surface, only for his cable to wind around and pin him against the ship instead.

The adrenaline rushing through him must be at an all-time high with the way his senses are flooded with stimuli from every direction, and at the same dulled to everything that doesn’t pertain to his immediate survival. He’s aware of how uncomfortable he is; his sweat makes his undersuit stick to his skin, his ears are ringing, his EVA suit is weighing him down with every move he makes now that he’s close enough to Adrian to actually feel its gravity. He pats his side, trying to feel for the tiny pocket knife concealed in his suit, which he takes out and cuts the cable with. There’s no time to register the feeling of his stomach dropping, knowing that nothing would stop him from falling to his death now. The task of climbing back onboard to the airlock chamber is near-Herculean—the seconds stretching to what felt like hours—and a passing thought of thanks flits in his head to Armando and the electrodes that made him so jacked during his coma. 

Take it one step at a time, Ryland. You can do this. He reaches for the edge of the open airlock, tossing the collector inside before he goes in himself, rushing to the cockpit to get him and Rocky the hell out of here.

The two both relax when Grace finally settles in the captain’s seat, getting ready to return to orbit before the ship gets torn apart. It’s a tense, bumpy ride, and he’s sure he’s never been this stressed in his life, but the need to survive this overrides his fear. He manages to keep his hand steady as he flies the ship out of this hell planet, even with Rocky getting progressively more antsy with each second that he doesn’t turn off the spin drives. The Hail Mary rumbles the higher up they get, chased after by a massive fireball courtesy of their Astrophage fuel finally having something to burn while in Adrian’s atmosphere. System warnings flash bright red all over the screens in front Grace, in English, Russian, Chinese, but all telling him the same thing: the ship is falling apart.

Finally, the screen directly in front of him lets him know he’s officially in the clear, and he lets go of the gear shift, flicking the switches to turn off the engine. All the blaring alarms suddenly stop and everything goes quiet— silenced by the vacuum of space. He holds his breath, waiting for something to go wrong as he looks around and then back at Rocky. 

“Did we do it?” he blurts out. For a moment, he can breathe. His body relaxes.

A shadow zips through space, fast enough that Grace barely registers it at first. He only realizes that it was something when he hears Rocky’s anxious chitters and—

“Blip-E detected.”

“Grace. Grace.” Rocky tries to get his attention before another one of Mary's system warnings could sink in. “Grace Rocky not alone.”

Before he could respond, the ship shakes violently, alarms blaring once more as they get pulled back into Adrian.

“Why ship moving, question???” 

“THERE’S A HOLE IN IT!”

The Astrophage, their fuel, is migrating to Adrian because of course it is, and with the two bad fuel tanks they ejected, the force of the jettison sends them flying back, spinning way too fast. Grace feels as though he’s being squeezed by an invisible force, barely able to process what was going on, let alone move. The ship rattles him and Rocky in every direction but unlike Rocky, he doesn’t have Eridian physiology or a xenonite ball between him and the mismatched panels of the Hail Mary.

He’s pressed up against the window on the side of the cockpit. His vision has always been bad, but there’s no mistaking the shadow seemingly floating outside the ship. With each violent spin, the shadow inches closer. Another unexpected turn of the ship forces him away from the window. Rocky is trying and failing to stabilize himself within his ball.

The lever to activate the centrifugal gravity system is right there, he just needs to… get closer…

BANG.

The ship stops spinning abruptly—his mind registering within the split-second it happens that that shouldn’t be possible—but the force of it leads to Grace hitting his head against the control panel. Rocky’s terrified chitters get louder despite his own condition not being any better. Grace is seeing double of everything, the darkness creeping in from his peripherals. He faintly registers something wet on his skin: his own blood. The last thing he feels before it all fades to black is the familiar lightness of zero gravity, while Rocky’s translator echoes glitching words into the cockpit.

“Stranger. Stranger. Stranger. Stranger. Stranger. Stranger. Stranger—”

──────────────────

It’s cold, but his skin is sticky with sweat. His limbs feel like jell-o, just like the day he woke up on the ship.

The ship. 

He’s on the ship. His name is Ryland Grace. He’s a middle school teacher. He has a doctorate in molecular biology. He’s a crew member of the Hail Mary. His crewmates are dead. Rocky is— Rocky. 

Where is he?

He opens his eyes and regrets it immediately, because he’s met with overhead lights that are blinding and uncomfortably sterile. There’s a migraine kicking in already just from that single second of seeing them.

“Eye movement detected. Good morning, Dr. Grace.”

Armando’s hovering over him, tubes are sticking out of him. It all feels so familiar. He’s hit by the sudden remembrance of those first two weeks after he woke up, isolated and on the verge of going mad. Light years away from home on a one-way trip where he’ll die alone. The fear of going back to that state of mind shocks him into action and he ignores the way his head is pounding as he tries to get up.

Someone is by his side in an instant. “Woah, woah, woah, take it easy.”

“No, no, I need to get to Rocky— wait.”

There’s a hand on his shoulder, a human one, and it takes a moment for his brain to catch up with the fact. 

He pauses. He looks at the hand, then his eyes travel up from the hand to the arm to the face of its owner.

The scream he lets out is ear-piercing, he’s sure, and he’s suddenly flailing backwards in an attempt to get away from this… this stranger on the ship that was only supposed to have him and Rocky on board. He haphazardly throws storage boxes and medical apparatuses to block the stranger from getting closer. They look… shockingly human, and wearing an odd kind of—

“Is that spandex?” he exclaims, his fear ebbing slightly to make way for sheer confusion.

“What?” the stranger’s face contorts into an expression not unlike his own, and they look down at their suit where Grace was looking. It’s blue, paired with a red cape. A red-and-yellow “S” is embossed on their chest. “Oh! No, no, it’s not spandex. At least I don’t think it is?”

A moment passes. His breathing picks up.

“WHAT IS GOING ON? WHO ARE YOU?” he shrieks again as the panic swells up in his chest. His brain is screaming at him to get away, get away, get away, because there’s no logical way for another human being to be on this ship with him. He prays to whatever god will listen that he’s just hallucinating; that has to be it. 

The stranger puts their hands up and backs away, their actions so human that Grace is fully inclined to believe them to be one if it weren’t for the fact that they somehow managed to get onto the Hail Mary.

“I’m from Earth!” they cry out. 

“THEN HOW ARE YOU HERE?” Grace cries out even louder.

“I… flew?”

That stops him in his tracks, a glimmer of hope quelling his panic momentarily. A way home! “You have a ship?”

“Uhh...” The stranger’s shoulders fall, crossing their arms sheepishly, almost like they’re embarrassed? They avoid his gaze. “No…”

“WHAT?”

“Please calm down! I’m not trying to hurt you! I want to help!” They try helplessly to convince him. The sincerity behind their words seem to have an impact on Grace, who’s already trying to piece together every possible circumstance that would lead this person here. He finally slumps against the wall, still breathing heavily in an attempt to level his heart rate. The stranger speaks again, “I saw your ship and your friend let me in. I couldn’t understand what he was saying but he led me to you.”

“That’s Rocky! Is he okay? Is he alive?” 

“He’s in bad shape but I carried him back to his… actually, I’m not sure what it is. His ball? But he’s alive.”

“Thank god.” He lets out a big sigh of relief, running his hands through his hair. He looks back up at them, rubbing his eyes. He’s still wary of this person, but what choice does he have? All he can do now is check on his friend and hope that this stranger is telling the truth. “Where is he?”

The stranger visibly relaxes at Grace’s acquiescence. “He’s just in the other room. Do you need help?”

“No—” Grace tries to get up on his own, groaning when his arms don’t cooperate. He looks down at the bandage on his right forearm. The wound underneath still stings. “Yes. Please.”

They offer him a small smile as they make their way around the blockade of stuff he threw between them, taking his uninjured, outstretched arm and swiftly lifting him to his feet. He lets out a soft yelp of surprise, not expecting them to do it so easily. “You’re… strong.”

“It’s been said before,” they reply awkwardly, returning to a respectable distance from Grace as he follows the trail of liquid mercury on the floor. Rocky’s blood. Dread weighs Grace down with every step. His mind is his enemy now, shoving to the forefront of his consciousness every worst-case scenario from here on out.

There, at the end of the corridor, is his friend, in bad shape like what the stranger said. More so. The tough, rocky exterior looks like it’s been burned, exposing a silvery interior that, despite being a completely different species, Grace knows is painful. His friend lets out a few weak chitters. Seeing him in this state is like a punch to Grace’s gut.

No, he thinks. It’s worse. It’s so much worse. Here is someone who was just as alone as he was, who came to him willingly despite never meeting a human before, who learned as much as they could about him and went out of their way to build a friendship with him so they could both save their planets. Rocky doesn’t deserve this. Grace hasn’t met any other Eridians, but he’s certain that Rocky is the best of them. 

The wound on his arm stings again underneath its bandages, but this time Grace looks down at it with unimaginable gratitude. The scar it’ll leave will forever be a reminder of what Rocky had done for him. His legs are close to giving out, so he chooses to sit on the floor to be closer to his friend, leaning against the xenonite.

“I’ll watch you sleep, pal…” he tries to comfort Rocky, though his own voice trembles at the weight of the possibility put before him. That his friend might die after saving him. He takes another deep breath. “But you gotta wake up.” 

The memory of Rocky’s “great words of encouragement” resurfaces in his mind. He gives Rocky’s ball a few taps, hoping that maybe he’ll hear it repeated to him. He doesn’t.

He wipes the tears on his cheeks before facing the stranger who was standing a few feet away. 

“He let you in?”

“He did,” they answer.

“Why?”

“Your ship was spinning too fast. I stopped it.”

The implications of such a statement take him a moment to calculate in his head. “What? With your bare hands?”

“...Yes.”

“And you said you’re from Earth?”

The stranger winces. “That’s only partly true.”

“How are you only partly from Earth?” Grace presses, too tired and too sad to even be afraid anymore. 

They sigh, already knowing how weird they sound. “I’m not human, but I was raised on Earth by a human couple.”

“I’m not even… I’m not even gonna get into that right now,” he groans, closing his eyes again. “Just… don’t lay eggs in me. Or eat me. I just want to save my friend and solve this… fudging… Astrophage thing.”

The stranger chews on their lip for a while, debating whether or not to keep going. They settle for a simple question.

“What’s your name?”

Grace opens his eyes again, the question sitting deep in his chest in a way that’s not entirely comfortable. It reminds him of when he first awoke from his coma: weak, confused, scared. Not able to remember anything about himself. He takes a good look at them. In the past ten minutes they’ve known each other, it’s only now that he takes them all in. Apart from the ridiculous suit, they do look human. They sound human. Beyond that, they seem like a nice person, if he could look past the fact that they somehow flew to Adrian with no ship, and stopped Mary from spinning out of control with only brute strength.

But they do seem like a nice person. Far be it from him to deny the company of another human— almost-sorta-kinda human, at least.

“My name is Ryland. Uh, Grace. Ryland Grace. Grace is fine. You?”

They tell him their name, Kent, and it’s one he recognizes as being an Earth name. First name-last name and all. He can’t help the breathless, tired laugh that escapes him when he hears it. 

“What? Why are you laughing?” the stranger asks, their smile mirroring Grace’s. 

“I just… sorry, I don’t know what I was expecting. Something like, Bleep-Blorp, I guess. I don’t know, some sounds I can’t pronounce,” he sighs. “Not… that.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” they reply, mildly amused. He doesn’t speak again. Silence engulfs the room. Grace's eyes are still red with tears. The stranger makes no attempt to start another conversation, or even move about the ship. They just keep him company. 

A beat.

Grace sucks in a breath. “What do you know about the Petrova line?”

author's note: that's the first chapter of hazy cosmic jive! originally supposed to be a one-shot, but it's getting so long that i thought it would be better as a short series! let me know what you think my loves <333 more fluff in the coming chapters and YEARNING, i promise!

taglist: @mensbestfriend @good-night-starlight @miakxn @bermatchalah @mrsandorbby @readersofthelostarc

[3motionally3xhausted]

My contribution of PHM fanart that took me so much longer to finish than I wanted

[inkdippedquills]

paper planes [masterlist]

Series Summary: So what the fuck are you meant to do if you hate one of your soulmates after falling in love with the other? Hate-fucking him was probably not the best call. (Soulmate AU)

Pairing: Rabbot x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Tags/Warnings: Enemies-to-hate-fucking-to-soulmates, soulmate AU, hate-fucking, they’re so mean to each other, slow-burn, angsty, growing and becoming a better person

Chapter 1 ↳ Someone I have loved but never knew

Chapter 2 ↳ There's no such thing as good grief

Chapter 3 ↳ Knowing this is not enough is enough

Chapter 4 ↳ And now I hear a symphony

Spotify Playlist (list in order):

divider credit: @\saradika-graphics

[azaablue]

the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.

[kenobiwanx]

sooo I'm obsessed with Red Dead Redemption 2 right now and I had to draw my favorite bounty hunter, Din Djarin, as if he were in the game

[jupitercomet]

je te laisserai des mots | Part One

SUMMARY Since he first came into your life, two things have always been true: you've been in love with Bradley Bradshaw from the moment you laid eyes on him and he's been in love with your sister from the moment he laid eyes on her. But passing years and unforeseen circumstances find you and Bradley married—unfortunately, both your truths remain the same.

CONTENT little women au, fem reader (no use of y/n, but reader has a last name), angst, fluff, slow burn I guess, historical inaccuracies (read: I kinda just made up a time period that's whatever I want it to be and we're all gonna go with it), minor unhealthy language about food, toxic family dynamics, brief mentions of war, blood/small injury, barely edited

WC 6k

A/N heyyy 🧌 not sure if anyone remembers me (or this fic honestly lol) but idk I was looking through it the other day and got inspired to rewrite it again and here we are! if you do happen to remember this fic, hopefully you'll enjoy this remastered version of it. I haven't really been following the topgun fandom anymore (I've faceplanted back into my superhero obsession) but it felt wrong to change bradley to a different character. I also don't know if I'll post anything besides this fic, my plan is to start with this one and see where it goes! anyway that's enough yapping from me, please enjoy :)

NEXT

PROLOGUE…

There is something incredibly haunting about the concept of love. 

Maybe it’s all the weight that people can’t help but put into a simple word consisting of two vowels and two consonants. Maybe it’s the way people seem to chase it so insistently, as if there is nothing else in the world that could possibly matter. Maybe it’s simply the fact that love is nothing more than a concept—an unexplainable unknown, a guess of a feeling.

You don’t know much about love, on rare occasions you’ve questioned its very existence. But you know enough to know that, whatever it is, no one has ever felt that way about you. And there was a time when you thought that they did—that someone loved you, and cared for you, and looked at you like you were brighter than all the stars in the sky—but you were wrong. You were young, and naive, and foolish, too caught up in the shiny novelty of your hopes and dreams to see things for what they truly were.

As a little girl, you dreamed of your wedding day like it was a promise. You imagined delicate bouquets of wild flowers, twinkling candle lights flickering around the room, and soft pastels against cream whites. In the dust of the attic, you’d find the folded stacks of your mother’s old cotton curtains, draping them across yourself and prancing around the creaky floors with bare feet you imagined in elegant slippers. Your sisters would laugh at you, before wrapping themselves in their own curtains—or one of your father’s old suits, in Charlie’s case—pretending to cover you in gold and pearls and fawning over your dreamt up ring. 

Watched on by an audience of your creation, Rosaline would strut across the attic with her chin held high, tossing invisible flower petals over her shoulder for as long as she could get away with before Charlie would hurry her along with a laugh. Edith would follow, lining up next to Rosaline and giving her a playful nudge with her hip to stop the younger girl’s scowling. Then it would be you and Margo, wrapped arm in arm as Edith hummed a random melody for you to walk to. In perfect step, you’d reach the rest of your sisters, where Charlie would be proudly standing on an old apple crate, the sleeves of your father’s suit jacket rolled up to her elbows. In the fantastical world of your attic, you’d stand in the center. Margo and Edith would pretend to cry, Rosaline would excitedly remind you of all the flower petals she tossed on the floor, and Charlie would marry you to an imaginary man who you knew loved you more than anything.

Now, sitting silently as your father tenses with displeasure and your mother purses her lips in discontent, your vision blurs with how much you’re focusing on the woody grain of the table and you wish more than anything to be back in your attic, wrapped up in your mother’s white, cotton curtains.

From across the table, Pete Mitchell lets out a soft, resigned sigh. You can feel his eyes on you, almost burning you with his gaze, but you don’t dare look up. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and there’s a weight to his words that feel like he’s talking about much more than the current moment. “We tried to get Bradley to see reason, but with everything with—,” He stops himself. “With everything that happened, he’s… refusing.”

“So what exactly are you saying, then?” Your father’s voice is sharp, easily recognizable as the tone of a general.

For a moment, no one speaks. You feel Pete Mitchell glance at you again and you bite down harshly on the inside of your cheek to fight off the tears that have been itching your waterline. 

Penny Mitchell places a hand over her husband’s, trying to subdue the tension in the room with a gentle smile. “Perhaps we should give it some time,” she suggests. “I’m sure we can all agree that the past week has been challenging for everyone, Bradley just needs some time to process it all. After that, I’m certain he’ll be more agreeable.”

Pete Mitchell nods in confirmation and the answer seems to quell your father. Your mother remains silent and, when you glance down at her lap, her hands are stiff and frozen. You have no idea what she’s thinking and the uncertainty makes your stomach twist with nerves. Though your hands are hidden under the table, away from sight, you still hold back from the urge to pick at your nail beds. 

Your father says something more to Pete and Penny Mitchell, but you can’t seem to focus on it. The rest of their conversation sounds like muffled noise as they say their goodbyes. You follow your mother like a silent shadow. You almost feel like you’re floating. Like you’re walking on weightless steps, everything around you fuzzy and unfocused. 

Through it all, your mind drifts, flashing through memories of this house you’ve come to know almost as intimately as your own. 

You can see the hallway that leads to the staircase, decorated with beautiful paintings and detailed portraits of different members of the Mitchell family. You can see all the steps that take you up the winding staircase, all the homely rooms of the Mitchell estate. And then, at the end of it all, you can see one final room, the door closed and certainly locked. 

And as you and your parents pass through the threshold of the front door, as your face is scorched with embarrassment and the insides of your cheeks hurt from being bitten, as your eyes turn glassy and you feel like you’re floating and sinking all at once, you can see exactly what’s inside that room.

Inside that room, hidden away with such little care for you that he couldn’t even face you himself, is the man who you once thought just might have the capacity to love you. Now, as you walk away from that room, ducking behind your mother’s frame, you’re certain of two things: 

You are foolish and he never would.

AUGUST, SIX YEARS EARLIER…

“I hate this,” Charlie wrinkles her nose in disgust, yanking at one of the frilly sleeves of her dress. “How much longer until I can take this thing off of me?”

Your mother clucks her tongue, though she doesn’t even spare your sister a glare, her eyes firmly trained on the guests mingling around you. “Behave, Charlotte.”

Charlie slumps back in her chair with a scowl, but stays silent, only kicking at the fabric of her skirt in an act of defiance your mother chooses to ignore. You can’t quite figure out if that’s more upsetting to Charlie than being chastised. You’d think she’d grow tired of the constant back and forth with your mother—you know you would—but if anything the challenge seems to excite her, like she’d rather have all the questions than all the answers. The two of you have always been quite different in that way.

Around you, people chatter quietly, dressed in similar formal attire. Some you recognize, though only vaguely, but most are complete strangers to you. The thought makes you fold in on yourself slightly, rubbing the fabric of your skirt between your index finger and thumb just to focus on something else. 

This catches Margo’s attention and she leans closer to the shell of your ear with a look of understanding. She points subtly at the back of an older gentleman sitting several rows in front of you. “That’s General Prescott,” she tells you quietly. “He knew father from before the war. It’s his daughter that’s getting married. I think you met her once, but it was quite a while ago.”

You shoot her a grateful smile and she squeezes your hand again. Though it’s an action she’s done upwards of a thousand times before, this time there’s a notable difference in the new sensation of her engagement band pressing against the top of your knuckles. You watch as she pulls her hand away from yours, running her opposite index finger against the ring with a faint smile. When she catches you staring, you give her a smile of your own. The ring is something you’re both getting used to.

It didn’t necessarily come as a surprise when Thomas proposed to your sister, honestly it was more of an inevitably. From the moment he came into the clinic with a large lump on his head caused by accidentally walking into a barn door and locked eyes with your sister as she tended to him, it was as good as set in stone. You hadn’t been there, of course, but luckily Dr. Bangs gossips enough to provide much more detail than Margo—who only said she’d met a handsome man at work that day—explaining that Thomas was so smitten with her that he almost hit his head again on the door as he left. The next day, he was at your door, head bandages and all, formally asking to court your sister.

You like Thomas. He’s kind and witty and always puts up with Charlie and Rosaline’s eccentricities. Most importantly, he loves Margo more than anything in the world. But ever since the engagement, you’ve struggled not to resent him just a bit. It never lasts for very long, just momentary lapses, and you know that it really has nothing to do with him and you would be mad at anyone in his place, but you can’t help but feel resentful at the thought that he’s taking your sister away from you. 

Because that’s what will happen—what was always going to happen—your sister will get married, and then she’ll have a husband and be a wife, and wives live with their husbands and not with you. And one day, all your sisters will get married, and you’ll get married, and you’ll never live with each other again. You can’t fully imagine it. You’ve never had to live without Margo, not once in your entire life. Sometimes the thought of it claws at your chest. It’s an almost frantic feeling of wishing time could just stop, that you could just stay in this moment forever and your sisters would stay right where they are too and no one would ever leave and you’d never have to be without each other.  

But time doesn’t stop, regardless of how much your heart constricts. In a month's time, Margo will be married and then she’ll be gone and you’ll all get older and do the same. You’re trying to be happy about it, but for the first time in a long time, you can’t find it in yourself to pay attention to a wedding. You miss the bride walking out in a beautiful dress, the face of the groom when he finally sees her take those steps down the aisle, all the vows about love and forever, and try to ignore how it feels like there are rocks in your throat.

It takes Margo’s hand on your shoulder to pull you out of it and alert you to the fact that the ceremony is over. There’s a confused worry in her eyes as she watches you get up from your seat quickly, but she says nothing of it when you placate her with your best reassuring smile. Your mother and Charlie have already left, so you walk out of the church with Margo to the reception, trying hard to smooth out any wrinkles in your dress before your mother sees.

As soon as you enter the reception hall, Margo is quickly swarmed by her friends and some of the older women in town, all cooing as she excitedly shows off her ring and recounts the story of Thomas’s proposal. You stand off to the side awkwardly, not wanting to distract from your sister, and scan the room to try and find where Charlie and your mother are sitting. 

“Oh, thank God.” A hand wraps around your bicep, fingers firmly pressing into the skin. You turn as Charlie pulls you closer to her, the relief on her face palpable. “I was wondering where you went. You have to help me.”

You laugh lightly. “What trouble could you have possibly gotten into in the two minutes I was gone?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Charlie huffs. “It’s Mother who’s—,”

You both look up at the sound of your names being called to see your mother’s pointed but refined gaze. “Come, there’s someone I’d like to introduce you to.”

“Wonderful.” Charlie mutters under her breath, but you’re already leading her over to your mother before she can bolt.

There are two men sitting at the table with your mother, the older one engaging in light conversation with her. He looks to be around your father’s age, with white strands blending into his blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard, a pair of thin spectacles balancing on the bridge of his nose. The younger one looks to be around your age, sitting politely in his chair in an expensive looking suit. It’s unclear if he’d been participating in conversation with your mother, but whether he had or not, his attention had now been caught by you and Charlie and he watches you as you walk over.

Once you get close enough, your mother hurries you with her hands and presents you in front of the two men. She says each of your names in order—in response Charlie grimaces and you smile politely. “And this is General Seresin and his son Jacob.” Her voice is sugar sweet as she introduces the two. “I believe Jacob is just around your age, Charlotte.”

“Yes, I turned 16 last winter, Mrs. Simpson” he supplies politely.

Your mother’s eyes light up. “Oh, wonderful! Isn’t that wonderful, Charlotte?”

Charlotte looks something akin to a feral barn cat, something between annoyance and rage glazing her eyes. She opens her mouth—too say something incredibly rude and unladylike, you’re sure—but then, unusually, clamps it shut, her expression still visibly sour. The silence hangs awkwardly in the air and you can sense your mother’s well-trained composer chipping away with each passing moment.

“Quite wonderful,” you assure the two men before the interaction becomes unsalvageable. “It’s not often we meet many new people our age.”

Both your mother and General Seresin look generally appeased by your statement—though your mother considerably less so—while Jacob’s eyes dart between you and Charlie with barely concealed amusement.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, we were both just a bit shocked to learn your age.” You tense as Charlie speaks, knowing that the smirk lighting up her face only means trouble. “Given that you look so old and decrepit, and all.” 

General Seresin’s eyebrows raise and your mother looks like she wants to smite you both where you stand, but Jacob just laughs, not even bothering to hide his amusement this time.

“I see.” The look of horror on your face must be evident because, when he looks at you, his grin widens. “Well, then I apologize for any confusion I’ve caused.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Your mother gets up quickly, trying to maintain a docile appearance as she grabs Charlie by the arm. “Charlotte hasn’t eaten quite yet and it makes her a bit… discourteous. If it’s alright, perhaps we should get some food?”

“Of course.” You shrink slightly under General Seresin’s gaze, his eyes unreadable as he looks at your sister.

Your mother gives him a polite smile, before turning slightly to Jacob. “As an apology for her indiscretion, Charlotte will bring you back a plate as well, Jacob.”

Your mother drags the two of you away before Jacob can respond or Charlotte can worsen the situation. Once you’re out of earshot of the Seresins—and the rest of the wedding guests—your mother turns on you both with a fury.

“You will not ever do something like that again.” 

“Mother—,”

You subtly squeeze Charlie’s hand, begging her to hold her tongue. “We’re sorry, Mother. We’ll apologize to both Jacob Seresin and his father, I promise.”

Your mother’s gaze falls to Charlie expectantly, and you have to squeeze your sister’s hand again to get her to give a curt nod of agreement. “Very well.” Your mother sniffs. “Now, get your food and go back to the table. I will speak to General Seresin and try to salvage this.” You watch as she relaxes her shoulder, mask coming back on as she turns to leave. “And watch how you eat in front of him.”

And then she’s gone. As soon as she blends into the other wedding guests, Charlie’s hands ball up into fists.

“She is unbelievable!”

You let out a soft sigh. It’s futile to try and reason with your sister, so you don’t, instead letting her angrily shove macarons in her mouth as you put smaller portions of food onto your plate. Beside your plate, you’ve brought one for Jacob Seresin as well—knowing better than to remind Charlie that, technically, she was supposed to be bringing food for him. 

You’re not quite sure what to make of him, you think, as you thoughtfully place food on his plate. He seemed amused more than anything at your sister’s blatant mockery, almost as if he enjoyed it. He’s handsome—perhaps not the most handsome man you’ve ever seen, but your mother has certainly introduced Charlie to worse options. You try not to focus on how handsome he is for too long, he’s clearly meant for—and seems interested in—your sister.

From beside you, Charlie rolls her eyes with a groan. “If he doesn’t stop looking at us, I’m going to throw a macaroon at him.”

You try to look discreetly back at the table to see Jacob very obviously watching you both.

“He seems quite taken with you. Maybe he’ll ask you to dance when we get back.

“Please.” Your sister scoffs, wiping macaron crumbs from her chin with the back of her hand. “If he even entertains the idea, I’ll step on all his toes as we waltz.”

You frown slightly. “Please don’t.”

“I’m serious,” Charlie insists, through another mouthful of macaron. “And if he calls me ‘Charlotte’, I’ll kick him in the shin. I don’t know what Mother has said to him about me, but, I swear to you, by the time we finish eating, I’ll make sure he thinks I’m the most horrid girl he’s ever had the displeasure of meeting!” 

All of that sounds to be the exact opposite of your mother’s strict instructions, but you know that Charlie isn’t bluffing in the slightest. Again, you feel the smallest bit of resentment towards Thomas because, if he hadn’t proposed, then Margo would be here with you instead of mingling amongst the other guests to share the news with everyone, and then you wouldn’t have to placate Charlie alone.

Instead, you look back at Jacob Seresin—who is still staring intently at your sister—worrying your lip through your teeth in thought.

“If I keep him away, will you promise me that you will not do any of that?”

Charlie flings her arms around you dramatically. “Yes! Yes, I promise! Oh, I love you, I love you! You are the most wonderful sister I’ve ever had!”

You giggle at her theatrics. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re much too dramatic? Just let me think for a moment.”

“What’s there to think about? You’ve already said he seemed interested in dancing, just go ask him in my place!”

“But—,”

“You’re a much better dancer than me and you know it,” Charlie states emphatically. “Now go, before Mother figures out what we’re up to.”

The music changes to something you recognize, but can’t name, and you relent, instructing Charlie to wait for a moment longer by the food before returning to your table. Then you gather all your courage as you walk back to Jacob—notably without the two plates you made—his lips part, but before he can even attempt to ask where your sister is, you speak.

“Would you like to dance?”

You try not to wince at how shaky your voice sounds and hope against all hope that he doesn’t reject you outright because then you’d have no other way to stop him from pursuing Charlie for the rest of the evening, and you just promised her you wouldn’t let that happen.

Your attention snaps back to Jacob when you hear the sound of his chair moving. He stands up and holds out his hand to you. 

“Very much so.”

It takes you a blink to collect your bearings and then you place your hand in his before he can change his mind and let him lead you to where the other guests are dancing. You catch Charlie’s eye as you do so. If you waited a moment longer, you would have missed the smile she gave you before heading back to the table with her food.

The music grows louder as you get closer to the orchestra and soon you and Jacob Seresin have fallen into step with the other dancing couples. You dance as smoothly as two teenagers can manage, though he’s quite a bit better than you, leading you with a practiced grace that you could only wish to have.

Jacob clears his throat suddenly. “Your sister seems to be… quite the character.”

You bristle slightly at the implication, but swallow it down quickly and plaster on a polite smile. “Yes, I—We—apologize. As my mother said, she hadn’t eaten much today.” Your voice falters as you try to think of all the things your mother would want you to say to rectify the situation. “But that’s still no excuse and we apologize for any offense and—,”

“I didn’t take any offense.” Jacob almost seems entertained by your rambling. “But I can’t help but wonder if there was any validity to your sister’s claims.” His head drops slightly, close enough that his teasing eyes take up most of your vision. “May I ask if you think I look–what was it–‘old and decrepit’?”

Your lips part in surprise and you lose your footing with a stumble, though Jacob corrects it effortlessly. “No, I—Of course I don’t—I would never—I think you’re very handsome!”

“Oh, very handsome? That’s quite the complement.” Jacob raises an amused brow.

You feel heat rush to your cheeks, now fully abandoning any semblance of following along in your waltz, simply letting Jacob guide you around as you try to contain your fluster.

“Yes, of course.” If you were Charlie, you think you would have stepped on his toes by now, but you aren’t, so you don’t. “I think you’d make a very handsome brother-in-law.”

Jacob grins. “I see.” Then his face softens slightly. “It’s a shame then.” Your head cocks slightly in confusion and he supplies, “My father and I will be leaving as soon as the month is over.”

“Will you be back?”

“Perhaps,” Jacob grimaces. “I’m not sure. He won’t talk to me about it much, but I think Father fears that the war is getting worse.”

You suck in a breath, your thoughts drifting to your own father. Much like Jacob, you find yourself in your own predicament of your mother sheltering you from the truth of your father’s safety. The occasional letters you get from him hardly go into detail either, and you’ve learned to stop asking your mother when he’ll finally be able to come home.

Your dance with Jacob ends on a somewhat somber note, the two of you lost in thoughts that you’re not yet intimate enough to share with the other.

Thomas and Margo’s wedding came sooner than you would have liked, but late enough that you’d been able to process it as much as you could. By that time, Jacob Seresin and his father had already left, forcing your mother to look for another eligible suitor for Charlie. At the very least, watching—and being roped in to—all of Charlie’s ever escalating plots to scare off any potential husband left you little time to focus on your eldest sister’s absence. 

Still, there was a dull ache that wouldn’t subside anytime you came down for breakfast and Margo wasn’t there. She promised to visit you regularly—and already has. She and Thomas didn’t even live that far away, but you knew it was only a matter of time before they did. Before Thomas found a better job, and they had children, and then Margo would enter a part of her life that you weren’t meant to follow. You try not to think about it.

It’s winter now. Your shoes crunch against the white snow as you walk, the bottom of your dress dampening slightly. Your mother had wrapped up your lessons early this morning—Charlie had been especially fidgety and, after one too many loud interruptions, your mother had exacerbated her patience and dismissed you. Father had sent you all some presents with his most recent letter and Edith had become enamored with the book he got her, choosing to read it quietly in her room. Charlie had quickly set to work creating a grand pirate map and Rosaline only wanted to be wherever Charlie was—which just left you.

You weren’t exactly in the mood for pirates, you thought briefly about visiting Margo, but the trek seemed too long for the weather. And then that thought made you sad, that there was enough distance between you and your sister that it could be influenced by weather. To try and damper the melancholy feeling in your chest, you wrapped yourself in a scarf, tucked your pencils and paper away into a small satchel, and set out for the lake.

It was frozen over now—the ducks long gone—but with the way the snow powdered the branches of pine trees and wild grasses peaked out from under the frost on your walk to the lake, you knew the scene would be beautiful. Your fingers itch at your sides—partially because they were freezing, but also because your father’s gift for you had been a set of new charcoal pencils and one of them just matched the green of the pine trees perfectly.

Your nose feels like ice itself when you finally reach the lake and you breathe the cold air in with a soft smile. As you suspected, the view is magnificent, better than you’d even imagined. You brush the snow off a large stone before sitting down and taking it all in. For a moment all you can do is stare and then, suddenly remembering why you came to the lake in the first place, you open your satchel and pull out a stack of paper and the metallic tin holding your new charcoal pencils.

It’s cold enough now that you’re becoming congested, your fingers stiffening. You persevere though, sketching out the horizon line, trees, and the shape of the lake. With a cock of your head, you take in the scene again. Wouldn’t it be lovely if there were a couple ice skating? You lightly map it out on the paper, allowing yourself to indulge in curiosity. 

You’d only ever gone ice skating once. It was back during the earlier stages of Margo and Thomas’s relationship, early enough that you’d only met him a few times at that point. It was a day similar to this one and, upon learning that your uncle had gifted you all ice skates for Christmas, Thomas had insisted on taking you out to the lake to try them on. Edith had picked it up quickly, while Rosaline had made it around the circumference of the lake once—with a vice grip on Thomas’s arm the entire time—before deciding that ice skating was unenjoyable. You’d also found trouble with it, holding onto Margo’s hands as she helped you both glide on the ice.

Charlie was trying to go as fast as she possibly could, tripping and slipping and getting up with a loud laugh. Thomas warned her that she would wake up with bruises from all that falling, and Charlie informed him that “there was nothing fun about going slow”, and you skated around the lake twice more, watching Charlie twirl and glide, and never let go of Margo’s hand once.

Ultimately, Charlie did wake up with bruises and, when your mother saw them, she put your ice skates away in the attic.

The wind rustles the pages of your sketching paper, pulling you from the memory. Your light outline of the couple skating had become more defined, transforming now into a resolute silhouette. Plucking the drawing between your fingers, you hold it out in front of you, tilting it from side to side to warp the perspective—just like your aunt said that real artists in Paris do.

A gust of wind picks up suddenly, pulling the paper from your grip, and the rest of your sketches scatter with it.

“No!”

You leap to your feet, rushing to collect them. In your haste, you don’t think to gather your dress, your petticoat getting caught under your steps and pulling you forward. Your hands shoot out before you can think, only one of them lucky enough to land on the soft snow. The other is sliced open by a loose stick, sending a burning sensation up the length of your arm that has childish tears pricking at your waterline. You slump to the ground, no longer caring about the wet snow, or your drawings, or your new tin of charcoal pencils, crying quietly as you hold your injured hand.

“Excuse me? Are you alright?”

“No.” You pout pitifully, because you're not. Your hand hurts, and your sketches are ruined, and you got blood on your dress, and you miss your father, and you miss your sister, and your hand really, really hurts.

There’s the sound of crunching snow and then, suddenly, two long legs are standing in front of you. You look up to see a face you don’t recognize looking at you with brown eyes full of concern.

He squats down to be closer to your level, probably ruining his nice looking shoes and pants, but he doesn’t seem to mind. It’s then that you’re able to take him in in more detail—through the tears blurring your vision. You’re now positive you haven’t seen him before. He looks older than you, definitely, but younger than Margo. He’s also the most handsome boy you’d ever seen in your life.

“Are you hurt?”

You nod.

His eyes drop down to the hand you’re clutching to your chest, he holds his own out gently. “May I?”

You hesitantly offer it to him, flipping your hand to let him see the injury on your palm. When you see just how much blood there is coming from the cut, your eyes widen and start welling up with tears again.

“It’s alright,” he tries to placate you, noticing how upset you’ve become. He cradles your hand gently as he inspects it. “But you’ll need someone to bandage it. My uncle’s quite close by, he should be able to help.”

You sniffle something too quiet for him to catch and he ducks his head closer. “Sorry?”

“I lost all my drawings.” It comes out louder this time, but just as pitiful.

You can hardly stand to look around at the scattered papers—some now wet and soggy from the snow—before your face falls into your uninjured hand with a defeated sob. 

“One’s all the way out on the lake!”

“Hey, don’t cry,” he consoles you, helping you up and sitting you on a rock. “I’ll get all your drawings for you. You just wait here and—,” He takes his scarf off and wraps it tightly around your injured palm. “—Hold this taut for me, okay?”

You sniffle. “Okay.”

You watch as he spends the next five minutes running around the lake, collecting your sketches. He checked on you routinely as well, making sure you were staying put and keeping his scarf against your cut like he’d asked, and perhaps gauging how cold you were. You aren’t sure what you must look like, but, whatever it is, makes him move faster.

Planting his feet firmly on the ice, he makes his way to the last sketch cautiously. He wobbles slightly and your heart leaps to your throat. You try to call out to him to just come back—that one sketch isn’t worth all the trouble. But either he doesn’t hear you or is determined to get it anyway and, only then, does he come back to you with a large smile. 

“There.” He holds them proudly, before grabbing your satchel to put them away with the rest of your things. You watch as he puts the pages in delicately, mindful of their fragility now that most of them are wet. He places the lid back on your tin of charcoal pencils and places them in as well. “All accounted for.”

“Thank you.” You tell him sincerely as you grab the arm he offers you and get up from the rock. 

“It was no trouble.” He smiles gently, swinging your satchel over his other shoulder.

Having seen the whole ordeal, you know that it was nothing but trouble, but you’ve already started succumbing to the exhaustion that followed your excessive crying and you don’t quite have the energy to explain to him why you weren’t worth the trouble to begin with.

“Can you walk?”

You nod meekly and the two of you set off for, what you assume is, his aforementioned uncle’s house.

“Is that what you were doing out here?” He asks suddenly, before clarifying, “Drawing?”

You nod again.

“Are you an artist then?”

The cold air against your wet cheeks makes your skin itch and you wipe away some of your tear tracks with your good hand. “No, I’m not an artist,” you correct. “I just do it because I like it.” And then, because you can’t stop yourself, you add, “I’m not good enough to be an artist, anyway.”

“I disagree.” You can feel his eyes on you, but don’t dare meet them. “I saw your drawings as I was picking them up. I thought they were amazing.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. No one had ever called your art amazing before—no one had ever called anything you’ve done amazing.

“Oh.” Despite the cold, your cheeks now feel very hot. “Well… thank you.”

It takes you far too long to realize that he’s leading you to the Mitchell estate. 

As soon as you recognize the grand manor, your head snaps up to him in surprise. “Your uncle lives here?”

“No, he—Or, yes—I should say—,” He pauses, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “One of them does, yes. But my other uncle should be able to fix up your hand and he doesn't live here, he’s just visiting.” 

You narrow your eyes as you look at him again, this time more analytically. 

You remember something that Margo had told your mother days ago, on one of her visits to the house, something about how Pete Mitchell’s nephew was finally coming to stay with him and his wife. Everyone in town knew the story of Bradley Bradshaw, the boy who lost his father to the war and then his mother to illness a year after. At the time, everyone assumed that meant that he would be coming to live with his aunt and uncle and suddenly all thoughts of his tragic orphaning were quickly replaced with the fact that he was becoming quite the eligible bachelor. And with no one else to carry the Bradshaw name, none of the older women in town even tried to be coy with their motives.

But then weeks passed and Bradley Bradshaw still hadn’t arrived at the Mitchell estate, and neither Pete Mitchell nor Penny Mitchell offered any explanation for it, and eventually everyone became bored of the whole thing and moved on. 

But now, it seems, Bradley Bradshaw has finally arrived.

please don't copy, repost, or feed my work into ai, thanks!

[youthereader]

Now or Never Now

pairing: Dr. Robby x Reader

word count: 10.2k

summary: You were meant to be on vacation with your boyfriend, but instead you were there alone, where you meet the man across the hall from your hotel room, Michael, drinking alone in the hotel lobby.

Months later, you're admitted to the ER at the Pitt.

warnings/content: angst, fertility issues, Reader has endometriosis, some descriptions of blood, explicit casual-not-so-casual vacation sex, oral (f and m receiving), light praise kink, caretaking, hurt/comfort, accidental pregnancy

a/n: don't even get me startedddddddddddd!!! it's super fitting that March is also Endometriosis Awareness Month. I just have so many feelings. I hope you like this!!!! divider by me; unbeta-d and poorly proofread

It wasn't supposed to be like this. 

Although, the location seemed perfect. Pristine beaches, the clearest water you'd ever seen. The friendliest greeters when you arrived at the hotel placing leis around your neck. Everyone seemed to smile and absorb all those good feelings. There was literal laughter in the air. 

It was all that you planned it to be, except you weren't alone when you first talked about coming to Hawaii. All that vacation time you saved up together, and then your life went to shit. 

That was a month ago. You debated for weeks about cancelling everything, since your partner cancelled your life together - but then over time you felt like it was worse to be sitting around at home feeling sorry for yourself instead of being here anyway. 

You could grieve your old life here instead, where everything looked like a scene on a postcard.

You went to your hotel room, opened up your suitcase and fished out your first swimsuit. It was a low cut one-piece that hugged your body. You wrapped a sarong around your middle and swapped your sneakers for flip-flops and walked down to the beach with your towel and a book. 

You'd been doing the same thing at home, except instead of the ocean you'd had your messy apartment surrounding you. If this was all you did for the rest of the day, fine. 

You fell asleep in one of the sunbeds in the long line covered with umbrellas on the shore, only to be awoken by the shrieks of a young family whose children tore down to the beach with their gear. The father gave you a sheepish look as you stared after them, picking up your book from the spot it fell beside you.

Sand was already in it, great. And you managed to lose your spot. You couldn’t be upset at the kids, though. They were in literal paradise. You probably should have stayed home…

You trudged back to your room to shower. As you got out your key, elevator doors shutting behind you, you spotted a man whose back was to you opening the room opposite yours in the hallway. 

You ducked into your room without a word, not before having brief, awkward eye contact with him. He was older than you, but handsome all the more for it. His brows hiked ever so slightly as you disappeared, and you hoped he wasn’t offended. 

You weren’t in the mood to talk just yet. 

-

Hours later, you couldn’t sleep. You ordered room service instead of attending the lūʻau, hoping that by tomorrow you would have the courage to show your face to random strangers. 

Now, with the blankets twisting around you each time you moved, there was no way you were getting to sleep anytime soon. 

You took a deep breath and left your bed, throwing your cardigan over your sleep clothes. Heading downstairs, you could hear there were still a few people around, but it was nothing like earlier that evening. 

No-one was at the bar, save the guy behind it, and another figure nursing a beer. You recognized him immediately as your neighbor from across the hall, and sat nearby him, an empty stool between you.

As you waited, you scanned the wide dining area behind you. There was one other man at the far wall, staring into his phone with a large whiskey by his elbow. 

“What would you like, ma’am?” 

The bartender approached with a wide smile, unbothered by the hour. 

“Uh… vodka soda, please.”

“Of course,” he said, and departed. 

You felt watched and looked at your neighbor. 

“I’m not interrupting?” you asked, and he shook his head. 

“Stay.”

You told him your name and offered your hand. 

“I think we’re on the same floor,” you added, and he shook your hand. 

“Yeah. I’m Michael.”

You nodded, taking a short sip of your drink when it arrived a beat later. You remembered your clothes. Michael was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. 

“I… can’t sleep.”

“Sorry to hear it,” he said. “You’re here by yourself? Where’re you from?”

You nodded. “Pittsburgh.”

He burst into a real smile and you felt your face flush. He was very, very handsome. Never mind your first impression. He was cute as hell.

“Me, too.”

“Oh, no shit?” you said, and he laughed. “What are the odds?”

You talked a bit about the journey there, and Michael said he’d got there yesterday. He was on a long vacation, nothing fixed.

You snorted. “Jesus. Mine was nothing but planned. So much of it went to shit already-”

It was like you couldn’t help yourself, cringing. You hadn’t meant to already get into it, but it was bound to come up, why you were alone. 

“I mean, I had these big plans but the person I was supposed to come with decided not to in the end.”

“Sorry, again,” Michael said, taking a swig of beer. 

You shook your head. “Don’t be. Turns out he wasn’t the guy I thought he was.”

Michael went quiet for a second, tilting his head, narrowing his eyes. “Was this… a break-up?”

“Yeah,” you sighed. 

There was a pause and you added quickly:

“Not that I’m losing sleep over him! I’m way past that. I just… had these plans…”

You should have already been drinking long ago if you were going to bring this up with a complete stranger, but fuck it. You were on vacation, things were different. This wasn’t like being at your local dive, or telling people you work with.

“I had a laparoscopy,” you said. “It’s when-”

“Do you have endometriosis?” he asked.

“How did you know that?”

“I’m a doctor,” he said.

You looked away, suddenly very aware of him looking straight at you. You wondered what else he knew about you, even if it was just by looking at you. 

“I wanted to start IVF, after this trip,” you went on. “This was meant to be our last big one before - hopefully - a baby.”

It wasn’t like you, to disclose so much. You didn’t feel judged, though you could sense the cogs were turning when you looked back at him. 

“Must be something about you, for me to get so personal so fast,” you mumbled. “And I guess that happens a lot, when people find out you’re a doctor. But I’m guessing you’re not a psychiatrist?”

He shook his head, with an almost sad kind of smile. “Emergency.” 

“So you work in a hospital?” you asked, and he nodded.

“Yeah.”

The silence between you that followed felt less strange, somehow. You didn’t want to avoid him like you had before, at least. 

“I really am sorry if I gatecrashed your downtime,” you said, and he shook his head, draining his beer. 

“Nah, I couldn’t sleep, either.”

He got up and you considered doing the same, but left your glass instead of finishing it.

“You wanna go for a walk?” 

You thought about it, and then wondered why it mattered. It didn’t hurt. You nodded, rising from your seat. You gathered your cardigan around yourself and walked out, down the short footpath to the beach. 

Tiki torches still burned, lining the sand well enough to see his face in the halflight. The moonlight did the rest. The tide came and went in a steady rhythm, the night otherwise blissfully quiet. 

“It’s so… peaceful out here,” you murmured, and Michael nodded. 

It was romantic. It was supposed to be, that’s why you chose to take your ex here. If he hadn’t run away from you, you’d be rolling around in the sand together, trying to make a baby. The regret crested over you again and you sighed, moving on, not waiting. 

“Has the treatment been… effective?” he asked, and you glanced his way, for a moment too lost in your thoughts to understand.

Oftentimes, when someone learned you had endometriosis, their response was pitying, or worse, falsely trying to relate to your emotional and physical agonies. No, it wasn’t like ordinary period pain. Yes, it had derailed work and school, it had made life harder in a lot of ways. 

Yes, you hoped to have children. Past tense - hoped. You didn’t know anymore. It meant doing it alone, if you were doing it now. 

“I thought you were supposed to be on vacation,” you retorted, folding your arms. 

He copied you, and you could make out a smirk on his face. 

“I’ll send you the bill.”

Your welcomed laughter followed, before you rolled your eyes. “I guess it has been. Symptoms aren’t as bad. For now.”

There wasn’t a cure. You just had to wait it out, hope that each cycle didn’t render you bedridden like usual. 

“That’s good to hear,” he said. “Sorry, that’s personal…”

“Hey, I’m the one who told you,” you said, shrugging. You glanced towards the water. “Jesus.”

You sidestepped the tide as it came rushing in, faster than you expected. Michael did the same, but he’d been paying attention, guiding you back with a hand that hovered the small of your back. He wasn’t quite touching, but you felt that spark of sudden proximity. 

You kept walking in silence, a little further away from the shore. 

“How long were you planning on staying here?” you asked, and he shook his head.

“I’m undecided,” he said.

“Is that why you can’t sleep?” you asked. 

You may as well try more honesty with him. He knew what felt like too much already. You looked at one another. 

“It’s probably related.”

You smirked back at him, then suppressed a sudden yawn. It was probably time to head back. Michael nodded toward the hotel and you walked back together. The elevator ride was silent, too. You went to your door, and then glanced back his way, shoving the keycard in.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he echoed softly. 

Something about that made you feel warm inside. 

-

You approached him the next afternoon, among a group of other tourists waiting on the pier. You couldn’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses but he smiled back at you.

“Hey, I know you,” you said, face shielding your eyes. 

You hadn’t seen him all morning, though admittedly you’d hoped to. You slept okay once you got back to bed, and spent the beginning of the day looking for him at breakfast before you went back to your room to laze around. 

This afternoon trip was booked well in advance. It was supposed to be a late lunch on the ocean, with a tour guide included. A few families, couples and a bachelorette party gathered to board the yacht. 

You and Michael stood together like two kids pairing up on a field trip. 

“I can’t get over how clear the water is out here,” he said, and you beamed. 

“I know, right?”

You hadn’t expected him here. In fact, neither of you had said anything about what you planned to do while in Hawaii. You packed too much, as you were prone to, so you were glad to have brought at least a couple nice dresses and skirts. 

Today’s outfit was brand new, tags popped off that morning. Linen dress that cinched at the waist with a broad sun hat. 

Michael’s Birkenstocks looked well-worn, his shorts were the same from yesterday. He wore a navy polo shirt that hid little of his broad frame. His… bulk attracted you. You wanted to stare at his forearms but tried not to. He was fun to look at, but he was a person, too. 

Also, you’d just gone through a breakup. 

You put on your sunglasses and ascended with the others, Michael behind you. He stayed by your side as the tour guide from the hotel began his introduction, and then everyone took a seat as the yacht began to move away from the dock. 

“This is insane,” you murmured. 

For the next half an hour, you listened with Michael beside you as the tour went on. Describing  the flora and fauna of the islands, you wish you could see it for yourself, not have someone only describe it to you.

There was a loud gurgle and you looked at Michael. 

“Was that your stomach?”

“...yes,” he whispered. 

You covered your mouth with your hand, pressing your lips together for good measure. As the trip went on, you too felt hunger begin to pull your focus.

When they finally docked on the other side of the island, wait staff approached with heaping trays of fresh fruit and seafood. There were collective sighs of relief all around. 

“Get in there,” Michael encouraged, and you laughed openly, tucking in. 

-

“Did that feel… weird to you?” you asked, twirling your hat absently. 

You walked back up to the hotel with Michael, and he nodded. 

“Yeah, it felt… commercial,” he muttered. “Inauthentic.”

“Not a waste of money, though, surely?” 

“I’m not your accountant.”

“I’m just saying - I don’t totally regret it,” you retorted. “It wasn’t what I expected, though.”

His sunglasses were tucked into his neckline, his arms bearing a healthy glow from the sun. You looked at his skin when he kept the elevator door open for you, allowing you in beside him. 

He pressed the button for your floor. 

“It’s not gonna help my Yelp review, I’ll tell you that much...”

You smiled again, looking away. “Obviously.”

It felt so good to be on the same page. It was different to what you were used to. With your ex, it never felt like you were truly in sync. It was your downfall, in the end. All the time you were together it felt like you’d manage to get over that eventually. 

“Are you gonna grab some dinner downstairs later?” he asked, and you met his gaze.

He wasn’t saying that just to make conversation. You believed that with how he was looking at you now, although maybe you weren’t the best judge of character when it came to men.

“Yeah, maybe after a nap,” you said. 

“Sounds good,” he said. 

“Were you… were you hoping to see me?” you asked. 

“Sure.”

He made it sound so simple. Why wouldn’t he hope to see you? Your face flushed and you looked away. 

“Okay, cool,” you said. 

“Okay, I’ll see you after,” he said. 

He let you out first, and you felt butterflies in your stomach for the first time in years. You smiled shyly and walked away to your door, letting yourself in before you embarrassed yourself. 

-

Something shifted inside you and wanted to enjoy yourself for the sake of it. You showered, after you didn’t nap - your brain kept thinking about Michael and his warm eyes peering at you - and dressed in one of your sundresses.

You found him at the bar and he nodded towards the dining area, where the host led you to a table overlooking the beach outside. Handed a menu, you peruse, unsure of where to begin.

Michael ordered beer, looking your way. 

“I’ll get a cocktail,” you beamed. “Sex on the beach.”

If it landed anywhere, you tried not to read it too much on his face as you were left alone. He hadn’t said this was a date - but he hadn’t said it wasn’t either. 

Conversation came easily, like you’d never stopped talking earlier. 

“What’s it like being an ER doctor?” you asked, as you picked up some bread from the basket between you. 

You offered it to him and he took a piece, breaking it in half on his plate.

“Chaotic,” he said. “Sometimes heartbreaking.”

“I can’t imagine how challenging it is,” you said, chewing. “I would never stay calm.”

“It’s not easy.”

You felt like he was skirting around the reality he faced, and your brows furrowed. 

“I feel like you’re trying to not sound as impressive as you are.”

He laughed at that, passing a hand over his face wearily. 

“I mean…”

“You’d constantly have to be flexible, right? No day is the same, you deal with anything and everyone…”

“Yeah,” he said. “But someone has to.”

You swallowed. The waiter returned with your drinks, and you took yours with a brief smile of acknowledgment. You took a sip, and put the towering glass aside, picking out a piece of pineapple stuck to its rim. 

“So why you, then? Why not do something other than emergency healthcare?”

You shoved the fruit in your mouth, watching him. He drank from his glass of beer as you asked this. He sighed. 

“I don’t… want to. But I probably should.”

You appreciated his honesty. You sucked the juice from your thumb, nodding. The silence felt taut with more questions, from both sides of the table.

“Why’d you break up with your ex?” he asked. 

You smiled bitterly. “He didn’t want to have babies with me.”

The heaviness of your conversation only just hit you. You were both alone here, out of choice, but now you’d decided to create this bond, however fleeting it may be. 

“I’m sorry,” he added. 

“You didn’t upset me,” you said, because he hadn’t. “It’s the truth. He left me. I thought he wanted to have kids. We talked about it enough.”

You sighed, not unlike him. 

“We started dating just before lockdown, and then we moved in together pretty fast. I was already diagnosed with endo then - and whenever we talked about the future it felt like hypotheticals. I mean, the world had fallen apart, and we weren’t going anywhere. We were forced to know one another really well. And we did, I thought. I thought we were close.”

You rolled your eyes at yourself, at how wrong you were.

“I think maybe he thought I’d never be serious about it, because I knew it  would be hard to conceive, but then I started cutting back on drinking-”

You glanced at your drink briefly and gave a short laugh.

“I was trying to get my body healthy for trying, and I finally had my surgery…”

“And he flaked,” Michael said, not unkindly.

“Yeah,” you said. “And I feel like an idiot that I spent all this time with him, and I never really knew him. I think he meant  more to me than I ever did to him.”

You picked up your drink again to stop talking, to stop yourself from becoming too sad again. You were only repeating the same thoughts you’d had for weeks.

“He’s an idiot,” Michael said, and you met his gaze. “He should have known sooner, anyway. Let you down better.”

You rolled your eyes again, trying not to notice how his eyes bore into you. Your skin began to feel hot.

Mercifully, the night’s entertainment began. Dancers twirling flames drew all attention away from your sad life, and with it your perspective. You were here, and not at home feeling sorry for yourself. 

The night was warm, beautiful. The scenery and culture was spectacular, and this man was sitting with you out of choice. Things could be a thousand times worse. You were lucky.

“Hey, if anyone gets hurt, at least I know where to find a doctor,” you said, clapping with the rest of the dinner crowd. 

Michael’s eyes were bright with mirth. 

Some time later, full of good food, carrying your purse under your arm, your shoes in one hand and a water glass in your other, you and Michael walked along the beach together once more.

“Do you have kids?” you asked, and Michael took a second to reply.

“I had a stepson, sort of,” he said. “I haven’t seen him in a while.”

He didn’t explain, but added:

“Answer’s no.”

“Do you want them?” you asked. “I mean, did you ever?”

“Sometimes,” he said. “Other times…”

Again, he didn’t elaborate, his words hanging there. You decided to fill the silence.

“I guess I always wanted to try, to… y’know, give it a shot. Try to fight my infertility.” 

He nodded, wincing. “I guess it would be hard if I was working like I do.”

“People make it work.”

“Sorry, I guess I’m just naturally morbid from time to time,” he said. 

The sand was oddly comforting as you strolled, the sounds of life around you mere background noise. You drew in a breath, deciding to be your most direct.

“You weren’t just being nice, about my ex being a moron?” you asked.

His brows hiked. “No.”

“It can be hard for guys to be with-”

“With women with chronic illnesses?” he cut in. 

You glanced towards the sea, the darkness beyond. 

“Yeah, I guess that makes him sound like an asshole.” You sighed. “I’m going to stop mentioning him. I promise.”

Michael stopped, and you turned back, looking down at his hand he had poised beneath your nose.

“Pinky promise?”

You smirked, indulging him. You clasped his pinky with your own, shaking. For a beat too long, you noticed. He pulled away first, only to step closer to you, watching your face.

The heat between you was undeniable. He lifted his hand once again, thumb and forefinger catching your chin. 

“Walk you back?”

“Sure,” you said, heart hammering. 

-

It took a little while to fall asleep, since he was a gentleman and did as he said - walked you back to your room and then said goodnight. 

No kiss, not even a hug. You simply parted ways and then you throbbed for hours after, feeling like you should have just gone for it. Unless somehow you were misreading it. 

Those thoughts were pushed aside the second your landline rang beside you, around eight the next morning. You rolled over, confused, picking up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Hey, did I wake you?” 

Michael’s voice early in the morning made a thrill stir in your guts, a smile already playing on your lips. He was all soft and friendly, and you felt like you could hear him smiling on the other end of the line, across the hallway. 

“No. Who is this?”

“It’s the guy that’s gonna get you to see some real nature today, if you let him,” he replied.

You grinned, rolling onto your back. “What did you have in mind?”

“A hike, if you’re up for it.”

You knew you didn’t look your best when you were huffing and puffing up a hill. 

“I’ll take it easy on you,” he added.

“Gee, thanks,” you muttered.

When were you ever going to do this again?

“Alright, fuck it.”

You agreed to meet one another in the lobby in half an hour and you hung up, leaping out of bed and into the shower. 

You threw on some shorts and your new hat, tried to figure out a way to look both cute and not totally ridiculous, and then headed downstairs. You grabbed a banana from the breakfast buffet and a coffee and scoffed them down, before making your way to the lobby. 

He was waiting for you, backpack over one shoulder. 

“Don’t have one of those,” you said, gesturing. 

“I can carry everything.”

“Where’re we going?” you asked, following him out the door and into the street. 

“It’s a tourist trap, technically,” he said, and you punched the air. “But the biodiversity is up there, compared to yacht tours-”

“Man, that Yelp review just writes itself, huh?”

You suspected he could walk faster if he wanted to, but he was doing the nice thing and making sure you weren’t left behind. He offered you bottled water that you took, uncapping it as you climbed a footpath up a steep hill. 

“There’s a cliff view,” he explained. 

“That’s the reward?”

“No, the journey is the reward,” he said, and you snorted. “Yeah, I know how I sound.”

He sounded like someone who could call out his own bullshit, which you appreciated. It was refreshing, in a way. In this place with him, there was no room for a facade.

You made sure to walk beside him until the path was too narrow, and then you took the lead, in the hope of seeming up for anything. Also, you knew the shorts you wore did great things for your butt.

Nearly half an hour later, you reached the top, passing another couple that nodded and smiled at you. 

“Enjoy.”

“Thanks,” you called after them, as Michael let them pass. 

The view took your breath away. Rocks below as waves crashed into them. Lush greenery all around. Birdcalls echoing as Michael rested beside you against a tree. 

“You did it,” he murmured, taking out his water. 

You tapped his bottle with yours and drank. You felt a little out of breath, but otherwise good. There was a sense of achievement.

When you got back to the hotel, Michael jerked his thumb towards the concierge desk. 

“Gimme a sec.” 

“What are you up to?” 

He had a conspiratorial glint in his eye as he walked over, you hurrying after him. As he approached the desk, a worker smiled at you.

“Afternoon, Dr. Robinavich.” 

“I was wondering if anyone was available at short notice, we were out hiking…” 

The worker's uniform reminded you to buy a Hawaiian shirt while you were here in the next few days, the thought distracting you momentarily. 

“Unfortunately, we only have a couple's massage session available, it's a longer one. Our regular masseuse Amy is away, she does our shorter sessions…”

“Couple's massage?” you blurted, and Michael looked at you. 

“Would you mind?” 

Uh, fuck no. You shook your head. The worker smiled. 

“Alright. We'll see you in twenty minutes.” 

-

You quickly realized that you were in over your head. The massage rooms were low lit with the kind of ambient lighting you associated with softcore porn.

The tiny candles that dotted the room, along with the soothing New Age music coming from the small speaker in the corner only added to the highly sensual atmosphere.

“Uh…” you said, as you walked in with Michael. 

The masseuses stood by with towels in hand, two smiling young women with matching frangipani in their hairdos, their skin glowing, looking soft to the touch. You envied their calm, feeling your face burn.

“Good afternoon,” one of them said, beaming. “I’m Naomi, and this is Mia…”

Mia gave a little wave. 

“Afternoon,” Michael said, nodding.

He was also weirdly at ease. Then again, as a doctor, wouldn’t he deal with embarrassing situations all the time? You pressed your lips together, listening. 

“We will give you a few minutes to undress to your liking. Are there any concerns before we continue?”

You cleared your throat. “I - uh, I can have a tender abdomen sometimes, I have endometriosis…”

Naomi nodded, understanding. “Yes, of course. We can avoid certain areas. Anything you want us to focus on?”

“My neck and shoulders,” you said. “I think I probably look down at my phone too much.”

“My back,” Michael added. “I’m on my feet a lot, generally.”

“He’s a doctor,” you said, and he looked at the floor. 

“Oh, wonderful,” Mia said. “Thank you.”

They departed, Michael staring after them. 

“‘Thank you’? I’m not a veteran.”

“You worked through the height of the pandemic though, right?” you said, and he met your gaze, his face changing. 

Dread or something close to it flashed across his face and you immediately regretted your question, realizing far too late how invasive and awful it was.

“I’m sorry, that was crass,” you babbled, and he shook his head.

“It’s fine.”

He moved away, towards one of the massage tables, fingers going to his buttons. 

“Right,” you muttered. “Uh. I’ll just…”

You went to the other table, taking your shoes off, hands going to your shirt to remove it as fast as possible. 

“Don’t turn around,” you said.

“You good?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” you lied. 

“Because we don’t have to do this if you’re uncomfortable.”

You thought about it for longer than a second and then slipped under the towel, the table firm and unyielding under your weight. You tried to ground yourself, your nipples hardening under your towel as you spared a glance at him. 

His back was to you, but he was under his own towel, no shirt. He had some scars, a couple moles you found endearing. Freckles and marks of age that only flattered him more. He was broad, too, of course. 

You thought of that strength hidden under his clothes. 

“Can I roll over?” he asked, and you whispered:

“Yeah.”

He turned, pulling in a breath. 

“You with me?” he asked. “Are you in any pain today?”

You shook your head, and you were touched by his concern. You buried yourself further under the towel, barely peeking out. 

He murmured your name a couple times and your eyes snapped to his. 

“My liver spots and wrinkles are really that hard to look at?”

“Shut the fuck up,” you retorted, laughing uncomfortably. “You’re cute and you know it.”

He began to laugh, rolling onto his back, hand passing over his face. You wanted him so badly then, wishing he was under the towel with you. Now you had ninety minutes of this a few feet away from you.

“This is supposed to be relaxing,” he said. “So try to relax.”

“A man telling me to relax,” you muttered. “My favorite.”

“Yes, and a male healthcare professional, too, no less,” he retorted. 

Your eyes met again and you shuffled up a little, until your arms were free, the towel still covering your naked torso. 

“After this, we should-”

Whatever bold thing you were about to propose was interrupted by a short knock on the door, Naomi’s voice floating in. 

“Are you ready?”

A beat, and Michael closed his eyes. 

“Yeah,” he called. “Thank you.”

The massage itself was divine. It felt far shorter than its ninety minutes, and after a while all you could do was melt into a pile of goo. You were surprised you didn’t nod off, and Michael admitted the same in the elevator back up to your floor. 

Whatever momentum you had earlier was lost, but you didn’t mind. You weren’t in any hurry to get back there, by how liquid you felt. You were rubbed all over with lavender oil and felt your clothes sticking to your skin. You craved a hot shower and a bed to nap on. 

You gave him a dreamy little wave as you went your separate ways.

-

You woke hours later, hearing a knocking at the front door drifting in as you fought off the remainder of your sleep. You lifted your head from your pillow and walked out to answer it.

Michael stood before you.

“I definitely woke you this time,” he said, looking at your bathrobe that matched his. 

He looked apologetic but cuddly in the fluffy white robe, his feet bare. He had nice toes, you noted vaguely.

“It’s fine,” you said, not bothering to lie. “It’s better I don’t sleep through dinner.”

“I’m actually wondering if you wanna…”

He gestured behind him, toward the elevator down the hall.

“I was gonna order room service,” you said. 

You were too lazy to dress in something nice, to walk all the way down. You were spoiled by the massage. All you wanted was creature comforts. 

“You can order it at mine.”

He really, really wanted to see you, that was clear. You softened, rubbing your eye. 

“Okay…”

You took your phone and your keys and followed him out. His TV set was on, his window was open with the curtains moving with the soft night breeze, and the moon was out. The sounds of the hotel floated up from below, but you liked it here best, in this little space of his.

His suitcase was open against the wall, its contents far more economical than yours. From your brief glance, you saw a small bottle of cologne resting on his bedside table. On the yacht you’d smelt a fresh, slightly sweet scent on him.

His room itself had his own scent, amplified. You could chase it if you wanted to. It was vaguely earthy, welcoming. You perched on the end of his bed beside him, your knees touching.

He was so close.

“Good day?” you asked, and he nodded. 

Then he took your hand like you were his and you stared down at him.

“Your hand is crazy soft,” you whispered, just to break the tension. 

“It’s probably from all the hand sanitizer at work,” he murmured, threading your fingers together. “Aloe in it.”

You looked up into his eyes, your stomach full of butterflies. 

“Michael…”

You took his free hand and slipped it into your robe, under your bra cup, his fingers finding your nipple. He stared down at your skin, thumb flicking over you as he rolled your breast, the moan tumbling out of you. 

He leaned in to kiss you, your noses brushing. Light teasing, lips passing over one another until he pushed into your mouth with his tongue, your breaths already turning to panting. You were  molten, wet without being touched anywhere near your pussy, and you knew it. 

Your hands went up to his hair and you pulled him towards you, the TV playing in the background as you kissed and kissed, both of his hands on your chest now. You pulled back once your lips began to numb, relishing in how soft his beard was, noting the grey hairs you could make out. 

“Can I take this off?” he murmured, nuzzling your skin as you nodded. 

He pushed down your robe and then the straps of your bra. Freed of them both, you threw a leg over him and straddled his lap, feeling how hard he was beneath you. You gave a grind of your hips against his and he groaned into your mouth, the sound reverberating through you.

You slotted in together, rocking as you kissed, clumsy but not ever rushed. It was so thorough, and you throbbed for him, scratching his scalp. 

“Sex can hurt sometimes,” you warned. 

You were telling him what you knew he’d already know.

“I just don’t want to disappoint you,” you whispered. 

Michael promptly planted his foot and spun you around so you were pinned underneath him. 

“That’s not gonna happen,” he said, and you kissed him hard for that alone, his cock rubbing against your thigh insistantly.

He broke away with a soft smack of your lips, and you gazed up at him with a shy smile.

“Can you get a condom?” you whispered.

He nodded, moving back quick enough to make you laugh at his enthusiasm. You watched as he went to his suitcase, retrieving a box.

“Wow, how many is in there?” you teased, resting on your elbows. 

“I’m on sabbatical for three months,” he said, and you smirked again. “And I’m a doctor.”

“I’m not complaining,” you said. 

“Good.”

You took hold of your underwear and lifted your hips, pulling them off. You tossed them aside as he watched with a quiet awe. 

“I was hoping to do that,” he said, returning to the bed. 

The clear outline of his erection made your heart hammer with anticipation. A Pavlovian-like response, your mouth watered as he went to take off his own robe and pants underneath. 

When he stood naked by the bed, you crawled over for a closer look, and to touch, of course. You couldn’t help it. You reached for his cock, wrapping your hand around it, his hand finding your shoulder and squeezing. 

“Shit,” he whispered, as you jerked him slowly, tenderly. 

His eyes closed, distracted. He still held the unopened box, and you took the opportunity to dip down and take him into your mouth without warning. 

You went all the way down, until you were hitting your gag reflex, careful to not trigger it too hard, dragging your tongue along the underside. He tasted nice, that musky saltiness that was never quite enough. The precum that rewarded you made you moan around his cock, pulling back, swirling your tongue around the blunt tip.

He was so warm, and so hard. You bobbed your head, pushing yourself further, foregoing breathing to make him lose his own. He panted as you worked him over in hard sucks, his hand moving up to grab your hair. Just hard enough to be known, but not painful.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Fuck…”

You missed this, feeling wanted. Feeling cherished, even if this was fleeting. You could believe it just enough. You pulled back, eyes watering from the effort. 

“You…”

He pushed you back, until he lay on top of you, caging you in with his arms. His wet cock slipped between you, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, your nails digging into his back. 

“You’re a menace,” he murmured, peppering your face with kisses. 

You made out again, until you were certain you were dripping onto the sheets, your naked chests and stomachs pressed together. You panted, sweat already beading on your forehead and his. 

“Condom,” he said, and you nodded. 

He broke open the box, took out the sleeve of them and tore one off. You watched as he pulled it on efficiently, expertly.

“When’s the last time you fucked someone?” you panted.

“Feels like too long ago, now,” he said, his eyes blown with lust. 

He pulled you under him again and kissed you, lining you up.

“I’ll go slowly,” he whispered, and you nodded. “We can stop if…”

“No, don’t stop,” you whispered back. “Please don’t stop.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck as he sunk into you, your cunt gripping him already, a whimper falling from your lips as he filled every inch of you to the brim.

You gasped, adjusting. You felt all tingly, right down to your toes. He groaned as he shifted, not moving as you accommodated for him.

“You’re a fucking dream,” he breathed, and you moaned.

“Keep… going.”

“I can’t get too worked up or it’ll be over too soon,” he said, and you laughed breathily.

“You’re so sweet,” you whispered.

“I mean it…”

He finally began to move, his nose bumping yours with each thrust. Things quickly dissolved into sweat and moans, each stroke bringing you closer to the edge. He moved in for another swift kiss, teeth clacking, and you gripped him harder, digging into his flesh.

Your bodies slapped together, foreheads pressed to one another’s. He slowed, breathing heavily, kissing you deep as he tried to recalibrate.

You watched him pull back, to preserve himself a little longer. You squeezed him deep inside and he blinked down at you, narrowing his eyes. 

He shifted, moving your legs up to rest your ankles on his shoulders. The stretch was exquisite, his cock feeling impossibly deep inside you. His retaliation was rewarded with your shuddering moan.

As he pounded into you, it blurred between too much and just enough, your trembling hand slipping down between you, desperate to reach your clit. 

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he whispered, and you nodded, suddenly overwhelmed by it all.

Your pleasure crested and you came, crying out right by his ear, his face buried into your neck as he showed you no mercy. Bending you in half like this, your legs in the air, your wailing by his handsome face - it all would usually mortify you but it felt too fucking perfect to diminish. 

He kept going for several seconds after you crashed back to earth, huffing and nearing his own end. You clung to him as he spilled inside the condom, going rigid above you. You pressed a kiss to his arm, panting with him. 

In the gentle afterglow, he settled against you, a happy kind of hum in your hair. He held you against him, and it didn’t feel like he let go for a long, long time, but things were blurry at best by the end. 

It was a good fuck. Legendary, even. He peeled away reluctantly and flopped beside you with a sigh. You rested in the wet patch for all of one minute before you too decided you had to move away. 

-

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but you woke much later. You drew in a breath, surrounded by Michael’s heat and scent. You shared a pillow, you remembered, as you blinked and took in the surroundings in the early morning light. 

The TV was still on, though its volume was too low to make out the majority of the dialogue, you could see it was a black and white Italian movie. 

Michael’s arm was across your middle, as if he had flung it across you during the night. You watched the side of his face. His blissed out face filled your stomach with butterflies. 

You rolled over, and then he stirred at your movement. You waited until he was waking up to finally move again, slipping out of bed and walking to the bathroom. 

“Get back here,” you heard him call, and you smirked, glancing at the mirror. 

Once you flushed the toilet and washed your hands, you went back, seeing him waiting for you. 

You picked up your robe and threw it on. Michael's brows hiked. 

“I really don't want you doing that.” 

“I'm gonna go,” you said. You sat on the end of the bed. “Sorry to burst your bubble.” 

You moved to grab your slides but he stopped you, suddenly behind you and pulling you back into his arms.

“You want me to stay?”

“Don’t be so surprised,” he murmured, lips already ghosting your neck. 

You hadn’t slept with someone new in literally years, so you were rusty, you figured. But he seemed serious about how much he wanted to repeat this. After all the buildup, he wanted more? You weren’t about to argue with him when his hand opened your robe again, exposing your skin once more.

And you certainly weren’t going to stop him when he lay you down, your head half off the bed, diving between your spread thighs with all eager lips and tongue.

He had a confidence with a woman’s body that you knew didn’t just come with age, though you suspected it helped immensely for some men. He had a greater understanding of experience, plus his regular ‘touching strangers’ thing. You could never. Michael seemed born for this.

Your hands found the back of his head as he ruined you, spearing his tongue inside you, fucking you relentlessly with it once you started to whine and shiver with pleasure. Your thighs quivered, fighting to keep themselves open as he stroked deep inside your cunt.

“Oh, fuck…”

You back bowed as you came, and he didn’t let up, working your clit with his thumb at a steady rhythm. He only stopped when you tried to pull away, his kisses landing on your inner thigh, wet and sticky. He kept kissing you, cherishing you. 

It was so intimate and intense you had to look away, your hand over your face. 

“You okay?” he panted, and you nodded. 

He pulled you up and rolled you over so your face was in his pillow, the spare under your hips a second later. In no time at all, he lined himself up, the blunt tip of him teasing your folds.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, and you believed him. The reverence was undeniable. 

When he pushed inside, bottoming out with a grunt, you gripped him in earnest. He bent down, kissing your neck, your shoulders. You were still recovering from before, still in that floaty stage, when he began to move. 

“Fuck, look at you,” he whispered, never missing a stroke. 

He didn’t last long, and you didn’t mind. You honestly didn’t notice, with how full and wanted you felt. He was rougher than last night, taking from you, all the while whispering encouragement as you gave him all. 

He came with a groan, fingers biting into your ass as he went still. You sighed, content as he pulled away. 

Once you showered in your room and returned, he ate you out again after breakfast. It was a lot. But it felt like the closest thing to perfect. Too bad it wasn’t going to last longer than a few more days of your vacation.

“What are you doing after this?” you murmured, popping a grape into your mouth. 

“Well…”

He glanced down at you beside him, lifting the sheet, as if to examine your naked body. 

“I meant after vacation,” you said. 

He was engrossed in your lower half. You moved your free hand across your lower stomach where your scars were. As if detecting your self-consciousness, he switched back. 

“I’m still not sure.”

“Haven’t given it more thought?” you said. “You’ve got a passport, right?” 

He nodded. 

“You could always, y’know - disappear…”

He swallowed, looking away. The immediate shift in him had you wanting to take it back, like usual.

“I don’t have to know,” you added. “I’d just hope you enjoy it. You deserve it.”

He rubbed his eyes. “I dunno about that.”

He went quiet then and you finished eating, moving closer. He let you under his arm, pulling you into his side. Your legs tangled. 

“What have you ever done that was so awful, Michael?” you whispered. 

He gave a pained smile. You were starting to know it well.

“The stepson I had,” he began. “Jake.” 

“What happened?”

He closed his eyes. “Pittfest.”

Of course. The entire event had slipped your mind as something he’d be part of. You remember donating blood in the days that followed, and you were lucky to not know anyone who’d been there. The whole city had been affected though, for months after. 

“He was there, I gave him my ticket for his girlfriend,” he mumbled. He bit his lip. “Leah. She… she was shot, and I… I… couldn’t save her.”

You pulled him into a tight hug before he could resist it, kissing his head, clinging to him. Your chest squeezed when he hugged you back, and you heard him sniffle. 

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered.

“Yeah, me too,” he mumbled. 

You stayed like that for a while, and he began to relax against you, your lips still brushing his brow when you spoke.

“It’s not your fault.”

“Don’t,” he said. 

“Michael, it’s not- it’s not your fault. Don’t do that to yourself. I know we’ve only known each other a few days but…”

You pulled back to look him in the eye. 

“I feel like I… fucking skipped time or something. I know you well enough that you tried everything you could to save her, and… I’m sorry. I’m just so fucking sorry you have to live with that-”

He broke you off with a crushing kiss. In seconds you were tussling again, rearranging yourselves for him to push inside you. It was rushed and desperate, like you hadn’t been fucking for hours. 

“We fucking skipped time,” he whispered, pounding into you like it was his mission to do so. “C’mon, I’ve got you…”

When he played with your clit, everything shrunk to a pinpoint and you tensed up, clenching around him. 

“Attagirl,” he whispered, watching you fall apart. 

He didn’t relent until he had his fill, your mind going blank.

-

Robby’s back and shoulders were beginning to ache, as they always did this late into the shift. He hadn’t sat down in over eight hours, except to tell a patient’s relative some bad news in the family room. 

That didn’t count. 

He hung his neck, tugging on his stethoscope with both hands, taking a deep breath through his nose. It wasn’t chaotic, but a steady hum of constant beeps, voices and movement around him. He was waiting for several beds to be available upstairs.

“Six still waiting on labs?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Dana said without looking up. “And trauma two’s CT just came back.”

“Great,” Robby muttered.

Everything was normal, the tunnel-vision type of end to his day. Dana answered the phone, taking off her glasses as she stood up from her chair.

“Robby. Incoming severe vaginal bleeding.”

He nodded, looking around. Whittaker went into eight with a brave look set on his face. He watched as Mel walked with Mohan, deep in conversation. He knew Santos was trying to chart nearby. 

McKay came out to grab another computer, logging in. 

“Severe bleeding incoming,” he murmured. “Look alive.”

Not three minutes later, the paramedics burst in with the stretcher, a sheet thrown over the lower half of the woman whose eyes were closed, her face twisted in pain.

“Severe vaginal bleeding,” one of the paramedics rattled off. “History of endometriosis per patient. Syncope at home.”

Robby’s mind clicked into gear.

“How long?”

“Couple hours of heavy bleeding.”

“Any pregnancy—”

He stopped. The patient’s head rolled slightly to the side on the stretcher, just enough for the overhead light to fall across her face.

Robby’s brain registered it before the rest of him caught up.

The ER disappeared. The smell of the antiseptic, the fluorescent lights. All of it was replaced with sun, the ocean - Hawaii. 

You.

He stopped walking, McKay bumping into him. 

“Robby?”

“Trauma One,” he said, coming back to life. Years of practice kept his voice steady.

He stepped forward, grabbing the gurney to help steer it. 

“BP is eighty over fifty.”

“Jesus,” he hissed. 

“Heartrate is 130.”

Of all the places to see you again, his ER. 

Of all the hospitals in all of Pittsburgh, she rolls into mine.

Like something out of fucking Casablanca.

You were transferred to the hospital bed, Robby slipping gloves on as he approached your side, his voice calm:

“Let’s get two large-bore IVs. CBC, type and cross, CMP.”

Your head lolled to the side, your eyelids fluttering.

“...Michael?”

He ignored McKay’s eyes burning into the side of his face. He began to check your pupils. Your skin was cold.

“You’re in the ER at PTMC. You’ve lost some blood, but we’re taking care of you.”

You blinked, still hazy. But you managed to focus on his face, his gentle tone. You nodded, closing your eyes again. 

Monitors clipped into place with soft, rapid clicks. The familiar choreography of a patient circling instability.

“Fluids and a transfuse,” he said to the room. He glanced back at you, grabbing your hand.

“Pressure’s dropping,” Princess at your left said. “Seventy-eight systolic.” 

He adjusted your arm for the IV, the sting of it nothing compared to the pain you felt elsewhere. Someone hung a bag of fluids behind him. 

“Blood’s on the way, we’ll start a transfusion the second it gets here.”

“Excellent,” he said. 

You struggled, eyes fluttering shut. He leaned in closer to you. 

“Hey - stay with me.”

“Robby, should we page OB now or wait for labs?” McKay asked, and he shook his head.

“Given the history, I don’t want to wait.”

“The… history?” she asked, sharing a look with Princess.

Robby tried to not visibly react to the highly likely scenario that this incident would be circling in the days to come.

Robby ignored them, giving your wrist a small squeeze. 

“You’re going to be okay.”

“BP’s responding,” someone called. “Up to ninety-two systolic.”

“Good,” Robby said immediately. “Keep it going.”

Your breathing had steadied slightly, though your eyelids still fluttered with the effort of staying conscious. The first unit of blood arrived moments later.

“Type O negative.”

“Perfect,” Robby replied. “Let’s start it.”

The bag was spiked, the line flushed, the transfusion beginning in practiced, efficient movements.

Robby didn’t step away, nor did he hand you over or delegate. He lingered by your side, hand resting beside yours as he watched your vitals. 

-

On the last day of your vacation, you woke up in his arms. You could hear the crashing of the waves below the open windows, the sea breeze on your bare skin. 

You rolled over, facing him, your noses brushing. 

“I wish I could go with you,” you whispered for the first time. 

You meant it, but knew neither of you would actually follow through with it. 

“I should kidnap you,” he whispered back, and then he kissed you. 

-

“Robby.”

It was Santos, rushed but remaining calm. Practically fearless, but looking for help. Robby glanced over his shoulder, then back at you in the bed.

“Yeah,” he sighed. He took off his gloves, stood up and tossed them in the trash. 

He went by Dana at her desk and nodded over at your room. 

“Come and find me when she wakes up.”

“Will do, Chief.”

Dana stared him down but he refused to engage. He wasn’t in the right headspace. Seeing you like that, so vulnerable, had too great of an impact.

He pushed off the desk and left to follow Santos. 

-

You rest for an hour before you manage to open your eyes again. You glance around, seeing a nurse wearing a hijab checking your vitals.

Among the sea of pain is a shame so sudden you gasp, remembering Michael all over again. What were the chances you ended up here?

“I’ll go get Dr. Robby,” the nurse said. 

You sat up on your elbows, nodding. You hadn’t prepared yourself for this. You only had to wait another ten minutes before the resident with a ponytail from before came in with Michael in tow.

“How are you feeling?” the resident asked, and you glanced over at Michael, feeling scrutinised.

“Okay, uh-”

“I’m Dr. McKay, and this is- well, you seemed to know each other,” McKay said. 

Michael crossed his arms. “Yes, uh…”

“We’re friends,” you said, though that didn’t feel right. 

You hadn’t spoken in months. On that last day, no promises were made. You exchanged numbers, but you hadn’t wanted to ruin his time off, and you left him in Hawaii. 

Sure, you’d thought about him constantly since, but not all for good reasons.

Michael didn’t say anything about that, looking at your monitors.

“You’re definitely improving,” he murmured. “And the glow is back in your skin.”

“It might be sweat,” you muttered.

“How’s your pain?” McKay asked. “If you can give it a number-”

You always thought this was one of the more frustrating ways of dealing with endometriosis. Having to self report.

“Like a seven to eight,” you interjected. “I wouldn’t say it’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt. I can kind of sleep with it. Or pass out.”

That wasn’t funny, not even remotely, but you saw Michael smirk in the corner of your eye.

“You called the ambulance?” McKay asked, and you nodded.

“After I came to,” you said. “The bleeding was getting worse, and then I realized it wasn’t slowing down, and my towel was soaked through.”

“How was your last menstrual cycle?”

“Fine,” you said. “Not like this. Not exactly easy, but not like this…”

You pulled in a breath. You knew where this was going.

“Any surgeries?”

“I had a laparoscopy six months ago,” you murmured. You looked at your hands. 

“Any other complications?”

Your eyes stung. You picked at a cuticle. 

“I had an ectopic pregnancy a few months ago.”

-

Robby rubbed his eyes under his glasses, staring at his screen. He had left you and McKay, dragged away by another patient.

Santos came up to the charge desk, glancing up at the list of patients. 

“Ectopic?” 

He heard McKay beside her. 

“Left tube,” she said. “Treated with methotrexate. When detected early, we can avoid rupture and surgery.”

It was a teaching moment, but only then did it hit Robby squarely in the chest. He’d been distracted. 

Ectopic, a few months ago. 

Hawaii?

He looked at McKay, whose conversation with Santos changed to something about the weekend. 

“Hey, Santos?” he called. “Are you any closer to sending your guy home?”

“Sure,” she said, hands in her scrubs pockets. “Once I get back a clear drug test.”

McKay met his gaze. 

“I ordered an ultrasound for your friend,” she said. 

He nodded. He looked at his watch. 

“You think you’re leaving any time soon?” Dana snapped. 

He put away his glasses with a sigh. He felt several pairs of female eyes on him as he made his way back to your room. 

He slipped inside, shutting the door behind him. You swallowed hard, a lump already there.

“Hey, so… you lied to me,” you said. 

“About what?” 

He came over to your bed and sat on the chair beside it, scooting closer. It was too close for a doctor-patient relationship, you felt. You didn’t mind.

You lifted your hand and reached over, tapping his name tag.

“It was easier to be Michael.”

“‘Robby’ does suit you,” you murmured. “It’s cute.”

“Cute?” he repeated, leaning on one elbow. 

You stared at one another for what felt like an age, a story unravelling between the two of you. 

“Don’t be sorry you came here,” he whispered. 

“I’m not, it’s just - I didn’t want this to be the way I saw you for a second time,” you mumbled. “I mean, if I ever saw you a second time. I didn’t… I didn’t call.”

“Neither did I,” he said. He sighed. “I could’ve.”

“But I didn’t, like you’d hoped.”

“No,” he said. “You did not.”

Everything felt heavy. You sniffled.

“Jesus, sorry,” you said, with a roll of your eyes. You wiped your nose with your hand. “To be fair, I am on my period.”

“It’s okay.”

“It doesn’t feel like it’s okay,” you whispered, your voice so small you could barely hear it yourself.

He was the one to take your hand, your fingers twining. He squeezed.

“I didn’t get back with my ex,” you said, and he nodded. 

“Good.”

You snorted, but then instantly sobered by the look on his face. He stared intently at your fingers before looking back at you. 

“Was it mine?”

You nodded. You knew what he meant. The moment passed between you and you let out a shuddering breath.

“It wasn’t even a real pregnancy,” you said. “No possibility of it… happening. But I just had this feeling before - and I tested positive, so…”

You rolled your eyes again.

“For two days it was like…”

You couldn’t get the words out. He squeezed your hand again. 

“For two days it was like it was ours.”

-

Robby had been taking a lot of deep breaths in the last half an hour. On the rooftop, the air was fresh, the nighttime sharpness coming in. 

“So,” he heard someone say, and he turned, seeing Jack.

“So,” he echoed.

“Who’s the girl?”

He smirked, shaking his head. Unbelievable. He hadn’t even seen him yet and he knew about you. He could accuse Dana, but if he was honest, most everyone at the Pitt was a gossip.

“She’s the one I met in Hawaii,” he murmured.

Jack’s mouth fell open. “Holy shit.”

“Mm.”

“You’re up here because you’re trying to figure out a way to get out of this?” he teased.

He joined Robby, glancing down. 

“Not exactly,” Robby replied. He grit his jaw for a beat. “She was pregnant. Ectopic. Then today she came in after she couldn’t stop bleeding.”

“Endometriosis? What stage?”

“One.”

Jack shook his head. “Y’know, there are women whose biopsies confirm it, because surgeons can’t find it. They can be microscopic.”

“It’s brutal,” Robby muttered. “I can’t stand it, Jack. Seeing her like that. She might’ve…”

He didn’t dare say it. 

“What’re you doing up here, brother?” Jack murmured. 

“Thinking,” Robby muttered. “Thinking too much.”

As they began their walk back, he said:

“She’s waiting to be transferred to OB.”

He wasn’t going to let it go until he said it out loud, so he did it, feeling heavy.

“I got her pregnant. It was me.”

Jack didn’t seem surprised, giving him an understanding, soft sort of look.

“It’s okay, it happens. Is she okay?”

“I guess. No?”

He needed to focus back to work, to finally finish his shift. He started to make the rounds. 

-

He came back to your room. You put down your magazine Dana got you. 

“Hey,” you said. “You’re gonna leave?”

He nodded, going to the computer, swiping his card. He typed, glasses on. You remembered the first time you saw him use them, when he read the menu on your first not-date on vacation.

“I can feel you watching me,” he said, not looking up.

“What’re you doing, then?” you asked.

He typed, then scratched his head. Typed some more.

“Recommending you have an iron transfusion after your follow-up blood test. Your gynecologist will get a letter from the hospital. And then… it’s on me.”

“Robby,” you said, a little alarmed. You knew the cost of those. “That’s too much. What the fuck?”

He smirked, giving a definitive tap.

“Because, baby, you are anemic.”

You felt a burst of something - a warm affection that made your eyes water. You watched as he came over, sitting on the edge of your bed. He held your hands.

“A girl walks into a hotel bar, and she happens to be from Pittsburgh, and I pass that up? What a fucking…”

He pressed a kiss to your knuckles.

“...moron.”

You gave a tearful little laugh, and leaned toward him, kissing him. It was rushed and clumsy, but the mixture of trust and danger - it was everything to you. 

He was everything. You pressed your foreheads together. 

He exhaled against your skin. 

“Robby,” you said. 

“Hmm.”

“Don’t disappear again.”

His grip tightened ever so slightly.

“I promise.”

tagging: @that-wimpy-cowboy-doll @thesandbeneathmytoes

[docrobinavitch]

you’re a cowboy like me

dr. robby x f!forensic psychologist!reader masterlist you can read this fic on ao3 here content: 18+ mdni, discussions of homicide (reader is evaluating a minor who is currently in the pitt he is being transferred to psych after being charged with the murder of another classmate), discussions of toxic masculinity, use of homophobic f slur by minor oc (once), discussions of addiction (alcohol), on the page panic attacks, minor violence (not on page, just aftermath), sexually explicit content, age gap, swearing, alcohol, smoking, vomiting, some angst with a happy ending, biker!robby my beloved words: 15.5K synopsis: reader meets robby while evaluating a client in preparation for his upcoming murder trial. soon enough, robby finds himself wanting to evaluate you instead. a/n: when two avoidant motherfuckers link up to maximize their joint slay!! i took some inspo from the netflix show adolescence so if ur reading and ur like “hey this reminds me of—" yes 🙂‍↕️ exactly 🙂‍↕️ also i made a playlist for Them and posted about it which i will link here if anyone is interested. as a disclaimer i DO have a psychology background, but not in this specialty so please take everything with a grain of salt, i am sure it is largely inaccurate. hope you like, i had a lot of fun with this one. as always please come yap with me about it later. <3 syd

The smell of antiseptic and the copper tang of blood was nauseating as you stood by the nurses station, hands clasped on the tabletop. Your hair was tucked neatly behind your ears. Piercings sat undecorated on your earlobes, shirt buttoned nearly to your chin. Your hospital guest pass stuck just at your breastbone.

It was a Tuesday in Pittsburgh and it was raining. Wet orange and brown leaves stuck to most surfaces, slimy with rot. The air was heavy with the smell of decay that came with late October. You thought, then, of the dead girl and whether she liked the fall or preferred the bright heat of summer.

Unhelpful. Your brain chastised, and you shook off thoughts of her. You weren't here for her, you were here for the boy.

"Can I help you?" A woman with short blond hair, secured neatly in a clip at the nape of her neck looked at you with vague annoyance. She had an iPad in her hands and glasses slid low on the bridge of her nose.

You cleared your throat, "Yes, I'm looking for a Liam Anderson? He was supposed to be admitted to psych for an eval, but I'm told he's still down here waiting for a bed."

The woman eyed you skeptically and looked down at her iPad, "You a relative?"

"Uh, no, I'm with the state. I'm here on behalf of the public defender's office."

She looked back up at you, "I don't think it's really necessary for the kid to be seeing a lawyer right now, do you?"

"I'm not a lawyer, I'm a psychologist." You slid your ID across the counter and watched as she picked it up, "His lawyers asked me to come."

She slid your ID back to you, "Again, feels unnecessary at this stage. Come back when he's been admitted to psych."

She began to walk away, but you followed after pocketing your ID, "It's really, really crucial that I get as much time with him as possible while they're preparing for trial. And before the psychologists upstairs really dig their teeth into him."

"Kid, I gotta tell ya, I really don't have time to argue with you. We don't do visitors for patients down here unless they're family. Now, please, I have work to do—"

"Dana," A tall, bearded man with deep creases by his eyes and darker circles underneath, stopped directly in front of the two of you. He held a small coffee cup in his hand and a stethoscope was draped around his neck, and his gaze traveled to you, "Who's this?"

"The latest pain in my ass," Dana grumbled next to you, but you didn't falter. You were used to being unwanted when trying to gain access to a client, "You deal with her, she's from the state, trying to visit a patient."

The man in front of you frowned at that, but before he could ask clarifying questions, Dana disappeared and you reached a hand out to him to introduce yourself.

His hand was warm and rough as it wrapped around yours, "Nice to meet you," He said, sounding anything but, and he began walking, "Look, I'd love to figure out why you're here and why you're harassing my nurses, but frankly I don't have the time so I'd appreciate it if you could just locate the nearest exit—"

"I'm just trying to do my job the same way the rest of you are. If you could just direct me to my client, I'll do my evaluation very quietly and it'll be like I was never here."

He stopped walking again and turned to face you, sighing, "What is it you're here to do?"

You handed him your ID, "I'm with the public defender's office, I'm here to see Liam Anderson."

He looked from your ID up to your face, then back down again before handing the piece of plastic back to you, "The kid that killed his girlfriend?"

You bit back a sigh, "He is being charged with the murder of a fellow student, yes."

He nodded, "You don't think he did it."

You shook your head, "I'm not a cop, that's not my job."

"Then what is your job?"

"I'm a forensic psychologist. My role is to spend as much time with the client as possible and determine if, in my professional opinion, he seems capable of committing such a crime."

He tilted his head slightly, "You work for the public defender's office, you said?" You nodded, "So what happens if you think he did it?"

This time, you did sigh, "Again, I'm not in the business of evaluating guilt—"

"Right, but what happens if you feel he is capable?"

You shrugged, "The defense just won't call on me to testify. They'll probably find another psychologist who disagrees with me. It's just an opinion, it's not really evidence. But juries find it compelling, nonetheless."

He scratched the back of his head, "You really shouldn't be here, it's family only down here—"

"You won't even know I'm here, I swear."

He seemed to weigh his options before sighing heavily, "I assume giving you what you want will be the easiest way for me to get back to work?"

You smiled, "Undoubtedly."

He narrowed his eyes at you, watching you closely in a way that was beginning to give you hives and made you feel like you had something in your teeth, "What if I told you he's been really polite and just like any other twelve year old that rolls through here?"

You cocked your head to the side, "Has he interacted with any women while he's been here?"

He hesitated and pulled back, as if surprised by the question, "Uh, no, actually. I don't think so."

You shrugged, "Then I'd say it's mostly irrelevant, but I'll keep it in mind."

He started walking again and gestured for you to follow, "I really don't think he did it."

You were growing annoyed at his fixation on the duality of the situation, "Don't know how many times I have to say it—"

"I know, but you have to have an opinion, right?" He stopped outside a room labeled "Behavioral Health 2". You could see Liam through the window, sitting at a table, doodling on a notebook in front of him.

You watched him carefully, tried to make out his scribblings on the page, but his arm covered most of it from your view, "It would be difficult to do my job well if I was always wondering about the truth," You turned back to him, "It'd be irresponsible for me to have an opinion. Besides, this is the first time I'm meeting him."

You remembered that he said he was really busy before, but now seemed more interested in you, still eyeing you curiously, "Have you ever gave an opinion that you regretted? Later found out the person was guilty?"

You blinked at him, "Are you asking this in a judgmental way or are you genuinely curious?"

"Curious. Must take a toll on you, no?"

You shrugged, "I don't spend day in and day out with a client. I base my opinions on the few hours I get every so often when they're prepared to see me. There will inevitably be clients who are very good at putting on a show. I can usually spot them, but I'm not perfect, I have biases like everyone else."

He raised his eyebrows, "You've really rationalized all this. Detached yourself from it."

You gave him a tight smile, "I don't deal in feelings, I deal in behavior."

Finally tearing his eyes from you, he nodded to the security guard who stepped to the side so he could open the door, "If you need anything, ask for Dr. Robby."

You exhaled in relief and ducked under his arm as he held open the door for you, "Thank you."

When the door fell shut behind you, the din of the emergency room quieted significantly and you felt yourself straighten.

"Hi Liam," You said gently, "Your lawyers asked me to come talk to you today. Would it be alright if I sat down?"

You gestured to the seat next to him and after a moment, he nodded.

"I brought you orange soda," You fished the bottle you had gotten from the vending machine upstairs out of your bag, "Your mom said it's your favorite."

He stared at it for a few beats before reaching for it, "Thanks," He whispered, his voice rough from what you assumed was nonuse. Or, perhaps overuse, if he had done a lot of screaming and crying. But Dr. Robby's evaluation suggested otherwise.

You looked over his drawing as he drank the soda. It was some doodles of what looked like classmates playing baseball. Some sketches of the nurses and doctors, even the security guard outside the door. Nothing out of the ordinary for a twelve year old. They were all quite good.

"Do you know any card games, Liam?" You said, before digging into your bag for your deck.

***

Robby peaked over to BH2 every so often, growing more perplexed every time he did. The two of you were laughing and playing and sharing snacks. For hours. He doubted you were discussing anything of substance.

So when you finally came out of the room, he was right behind you. As you turned to walk away, you walked right into his chest.

"Christ—!" You swore.

His hands steadied you, but he otherwise acted unphased, "So what's the verdict, huh? He's a normal kid after all? Didn't kill the girl?"

You scoffed and walked around him, "Once again, I'm not here to determine guilt."

"You don't think he could do it, though, right? Otherwise, what the hell have you been doing with him all day?"

You opened your notepad and began jotting things down while standing at the hub, a crease between your eyebrows as you did. Robby idly wondered what you'd do if he smoothed it out with his thumb.

The truth was, he found you fascinating. All hard edges until you got alone with the kid and then you suddenly softened. Now he started wondering which was the act?

"I have no idea, Dr. Robby. I am building rapport, surely you've heard of it?" You looked up at him with a snarky smirk on your face, "I'm just trying to get him to trust me right now so he'll remove whatever mask he's wearing."

"That seems… awfully manipulative."

You sighed tiredly. It wasn't the first time you'd been accused of being manipulative and it wouldn't be the last. But it felt awfully hypocritical coming from a doctor, "Really? You're telling me you've never been a little manipulative with a patient to gain their trust?"

Robby scoffed and shook his head, "This is hardly the same thing." He jerked his thumb towards BH2, "That's a scared kid you're taking advantage of."

"I'm trying to help him. If anything he tells me hurts his case, no one else will ever hear it. Except his lawyers." You flipped your notebook closed, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have another appointment to get to. I'll see you tomorrow."

He watched you walk off, a bit dazed, and when you were nearly out the door it hit him that you said you'd see him tomorrow.

You'd be back for the boy. He looked back over at BH2, noticed the boy was smiling a little to himself now as he doodled in his notebook.

He really shouldn't have let you sit with him today and now you'd be back again tomorrow to break the rules again. He sighed heavily and headed back into the fray, deciding that that was a problem for future Robby.

***

Like clockwork, there you were again at the hub the next day. Your outfit a variation of the previous day, another button up, another pair of slacks, another pair of loafers. Neat and tidy. Not a hair out of place.

You were the psychologist, but Robby got to thinking that the way you dressed probably said a lot about you. You cared a lot about how people viewed you and clearly you wanted them to view you as controlled, careful. He watched you bite your lip as you were jotting down some notes and thought you were probably a bit of a perfectionist, perhaps a touch anal.

Even so, he'd be remiss if he didn't acknowledge that he found you absurdly pretty. He loved the way you bit the pen cap between your teeth and the furrow of your brow when you were concentrating. He still longed to smooth it out with his thumb.

But all of that was irrelevant, because you couldn't be here again today.

He walked up to you and leaned against the counter, "You can't see him today."

You didn't look up from your notes, "This again?"

He leaned on his forearms, knowingly testing the limits of how close you'd let him get before you moved away. But still, you either didn't register his proximity or it didn't bother you. "What're you writing anyway? You haven't seen him yet today."

"I can't take notes while I'm seeing clients, makes them nervous and it makes them start assuming what I think is important. They'll start tailoring their answers accordingly. So I have to try and remember everything important and write it down afterwards. I just came from another client."

He hummed, "So, guilty or not guilty?" You looked up at him with disdain and he chuckled, "I'm just joking. But seriously, I can't let you see him again. You shouldn't have seen him yesterday, you have to wait until he gets admitted upstairs."

You chewed the inside of your cheek, "How is he today?"

He sighed heavily, "He's antsy. He's been stuck in that room for days. He's been pacing and banging his head against the wall, not enough to injure, but…" He shrugged, "He's a kid stuck in that little room, no privacy. He's probably scared."

You angled your head around Robby so you could get a good look at BH2 and Liam was standing at the window. When he saw you, he smiled shyly and waved and you smiled back, "If you let me see him, it might help." You said, "I brought him snacks. Besides," You turned back to Robby, "He's seen me now, he'll probably throw a real tantrum if I leave without speaking to him."

Robby slowly shook his head, a smirk on his face, "You're a real piece of work."

You smiled back at him and he found himself a bit proud of the fact that he had made you smile.

"So you'll let me see him?"

His eyes searched your face as he pondered. It had gone fine yesterday. And you were right that he'd probably throw a fit now if you left. He sighed, "You can stay for one hour. One. That's it."

Your smile widened until he saw teeth, and fuck, he found it unbearably charming.

"Thank you, Dr. Robby." You said cheerfully and closed your notebook, hoisting your bag over your shoulder and headed to BH2.

"Thought you said you weren't letting her in again?" Dana said at his side, both her and Robby watching as you walked into Liam's room.

"I wasn't," Robby said and scrubbed at his face, "But he saw her and got excited. I figured it would be worse for him if he didn't see her."

Dana looked up at Robby and then over to BH2 again, where you were handing Liam a candy bar and a bag of chips, "This is the kid they're saying murdered a twelve year old girl. You know that, right?"

Robby shook his head, and gestured to you and Liam, "Look at him. You really think he did that?"

Dana shrugged, "They must have some pretty compelling evidence if they arrested a kid."

"Cops fuck up all the time."

"Yeah," Dana said and looked back down at her iPad, "Not with white kids."

She walked off before Robby could reply. His eyes trailed back to BH2. Liam had grown at bit more somber since he last looked, eating a chip slowly and intently watching you as you spoke. He still thought maybe the cops had got it wrong, but what if Dana was right, what if they hadn't? And he had allowed you to lock yourself alone in a room with a killer?

In the end, he shook it off. You were fine yesterday and you'd be fine today. But he did check up on you more frequently than he had the day before. Just in case.

***

While Liam settled in to eating his chips, you looked over his doodles. More of his classmates, more of baseball. You pointed to them, "Are these your friends?"

He nodded while he chewed, but didn't elaborate, "You must miss them." You pushed, but he only shrugged.

"The doctors said you seemed a bit lonely earlier. That you were pacing around and banging your head on the walls."

He paused to look at you for a moment, then he looked back at his bag of chips, "They think I'm crazy," He said softly.

"What makes you think that?"

He shrugged again, "They locked me up in here. Won't let me talk to anybody."

"They let you talk to me."

"That's different."

"How so?"

He was silent for a while, avoided eye contact, then, "Can we play cards again?"

You kept your facial expression neutral, "If we have time later. I'd like to talk about your friends for a bit."

He sighed, as if this was an inconvenience to him, "There's nothing to say."

"Surely, there's something you could say about them. Their names, for starters—"

"I'm not gonna give you their names."

You tilted your head to the side, "Why not?" He stared stubbornly ahead, a scowl on his face, "Liam," You said gently, "I'm not gonna get them in any trouble. I work for your lawyers, I'm not the police."

You waited and waited, but he was still silent. "What did you guys do together?"

"I don't know," He said finally, "Hung out. Played video games. Walked around the neighborhood."

"Are your friends all boys or were there girls who hung around as well?"

He gave you a funny look, "No, just boys."

"Why'd you look at me like that? Like I said something strange?"

"Well, I'm not a fag." He said fiercely.

You paused a moment. "You think hanging out with girls would make you homosexual?"

He huffed, "Not, like—Like as friends. Boys don't hang out with girls as friends unless they're gay. Which I'm not."

You nodded slowly, "So what sort of circumstances would hanging out with a girl not be considered 'gay'?"

His cheeks grew red and he looked down at his hands, "I don't want to talk about this anymore. I wanna play cards."

"Okay," You said, "Once you answer that last question we can play a round of cards."

He threw himself back in his seat and sighed, "I don't know, like, going on a date with a girl."

"So, romantically, then is okay?"

He shrugged, "Yeah, I guess."

"So if the girl was your girlfriend she'd be okay to hang out with your friends?"

He frowned, "If I had a girlfriend, why would she hang out with my friends? She's not gonna fuck them."

It could mean nothing, you told yourself. There were plenty of young boys who had been influenced by podcasters and Youtubers that sold an alt right, toxic view of masculinity. The idea that all women were good for was fucking and as they got older, hosuework. It didn't make him homicidal. It didn't necessarily make him violent at all, just probably misguided.

But it was clear he wasn't going to tolerate this line of questioning for much longer. It was too soon to push him too hard.

"Let's play some cards." You said eventually, and fished the deck out of your bag.

***

You were waiting for the bus at the front of the hospital, still diligently scribbling notes from the session into your notebook.

"Hey," Robby strolled up to you, a helmet in one hand and his backup over his other shoulder, "You left before I could ask you how it went."

You shrugged, "Fine."

"That's it? Fine?"

"I really shouldn't be telling you anything," You said, "Anything he tells me in there is confidential."

He scoffed, "He's my patient."

You closed your notebook and looked up at him, forcing a smile, "It went fine."

He watched you for a moment longer before breaking your gaze and running a hand over his beard, "I can't let you back in there with him if you come back and I don't care if he screams about it. So, do us all a favor and don't come back."

You hummed, "Okay, I'll take that into consideration."

He laughed, "There's nothing to consider. I won't let you back in there with him. It's dangerous and puts the whole hospital at risk. You'll only waste everyone's time if you come back."

You sighed, "Okay. I'll see you tomorrow, Dr. Robby."

He huffed a laugh through his nose. Unfortunately, it didn't bother him as much as it should that he'd be seeing you again.

"You'll be waiting forever for the bus, why don't you let me give you a ride home?"

You eyed his helmet skeptically, "An ER doctor that rides a motorcycle?" You looked up at him, "You'd think you'd know better."

He smirked, "You should see the number of us who smoke."

You gave a short laugh, "Appreciate the offer, but I'll wait for the bus. I don't like the noise."

"I have an extra helmet, it'll cover your ears and muffle most of the sound."

You narrowed your eyes at him as you considered. Was he flirting with you or was he really just trying to be nice? You always had a hard time telling the difference.

Finally, you sighed, "Alright, fine."

And so that was how you ended up on the back of Dr. Robby's bike, dopey looking helmet snug on your head. You punched your address into his phone, which he then clipped to his handle bars so he could see the GPS.

"You alright?" He asked after getting on the bike in front of you.

"Yeah."

He turned to look at you, "You look scared."

You swallowed. No point in lying. "I am a little, yeah."

He took your wrists and wrapped your arms snug around his waist, "It'll be fine," he said, "Just hold on."

It had been a long time since you had touched anybody and the warmth of his body against your skin almost alarmed you.

"You ready?" He shouted over the roar of the engine.

"Yeah," You shouted back.

Immediately, you nearly fell backwards as he pulled out onto the street and sped up. You had been trying to keep some semblance of distance between your bodies, but you quickly found you were unable to keep your grip unless you plastered yourself to his back. So that's what you did, arms tight around his middle and chin resting on his shoulder.

The streets passed in a blur and you were struck by the intimacy of this whole thing. It hit you hard when, stopped at a red light, you went to lean back to give him space and instead he had placed his hands over yours where they rested on his stomach, ran his thumb gently over your skin, keeping you pressed to him. It shocked you to find that you wished you could take your helmet off so you could press your ear to his back and listen to the steady thrum of his heart.

You had been annoyed with him just hours ago, but you were so goddamn touch starved a single motorcycle ride had you wondering what you wouldn't do to keep holding him like this.

But you didn't live very far from the hospital and it was all over too soon. Parked outside the home you were renting, he didn't stop you this time when you pulled your hands away from him.

As you got off the bike, he wrapped a hand around your wrist to steady you, which was lucky because once on solid ground, you lost your balance.

"Thank you," You said, pulling the helmet off your head and handing it back to him. From the smirk on his face, you thought your hair likely looked a little insane. You tried to comb it down with your fingers.

"You're welcome," He ran a hand through his hair and rested it on the back of his head, "Tomorrow, though, we're back to being rivals if you show up in my ER again."

His tone was light and playful and you smiled. Strange. You couldn't remember the last time someone had pulled a smile from you so easily. You had always been hard won and harder to keep.

"Yes, sworn enemies. Noted." You said and started backing away towards your house, "See you tomorrow." You said, and mock saluted him before turning away.

***

Robby was trying desperately to keep his temper in check while Gloria walked behind him, periodically taking bites from his protein bar as he took stock of the ER, his residents, his med students. Gloria and her constant buzzing in his ear was not helping matters.

"Robinavitch," She said exasperated, "Please tell me you did not leave a young woman, unsupervised, in a room with a murderer."

"What happened to innocent until proven guilty?"

She huffed behind him, "Sure, but we still treat those charged with violent crimes with caution. Especially in this hospital. If anything happened to her, do you know the lawsuits—"

"He's a kid, Gloria. And besides, Ahmad was right outside the whole time."

"We were instructed by the police not to leave anyone alone with him in there."

Robby sighed and turned around to face her, "You know, Gloria, none of this would be happening if there was a bed upstairs for him in psych. Instead he's been waiting down here for days with staff that are ill equipped to handle his needs—"

"I didn't come down here to talk about boarding, I came down here to tell you that if she comes back here today, you need to have security escort her out. Am I understood?"

Robby waved her off as he saw Dana trying to get his attention, "Yeah," He called out behind him, "Got it."

And he thought he did. He had every intention of telling you you'd have to leave if you showed up. And show up you did, but he didn't find you at the hub this time. He found you already in BH2.

Well played, he thought mildly to himself as he walked over to the room and knocked on the door.

You looked up and when your eyes met his, he thought he saw you fight a smile.

"Hi." You said as you stepped outside the room.

He shook his head, "You gotta go."

You nodded, "I'm almost done, I just need another, like, thirty minutes."

He scoffed, "How long have you been here?"

You shrugged, "I don't know, almost two hours I think."

He scrubbed his face with his hands and then laced them behind his neck, "You have to go, now."

You tilted your head, "Come on, Dr. Robby. You don't mean that."

"I really, really do—"

"Robby—Incoming MVA, ETA six minutes." Dana shouted as she walked by.

Robby started backing away, "—And I don't have time to argue with you, so please, please just get out of here. I don't wanna tell you again."

And then he was gone. You stared after him for a moment or two, debating whether or not you should listen. But you were finally really getting somewhere with Liam and if you left prematurely it would derail all the progress you'd made.

So you walked back inside BH2 and shut the door behind you.

"What was that about?" Liam asked as you sat back down.

"Oh, nothing of consequence," You folded your hands in front of you on the table, "So, where were we? I think we had made our way back to talking about your friends and your girlfriend."

"Don't have a girlfriend."

"Chloe wasn't your girlfriend?"

At the mere mention of her he balked, "No." He said finally.

"Was she your friend, then?"

"I told you, no. I'm not friends with girls."

You pressed your lips together, "Well, I guess I'm just confused because from what I understand she was with you and your friends the night she died."

"Who told you that?" He asked, voice raised.

"Is it not true?"

He pulled at his hair in frustration and looked away from you, "It's true."

"So you're not friends and she's not your girlfriend, but somehow she ended up at the arcade with you and your friends."

"We just ran into her, that's all. Her and her friend Julia. Julia's dad came to pick up Julia and Chloe was gonna walk home. So we offered to walk her."

"That was nice of you."

He shrugged, "Her house is like a block from mine."

"So you walked her all the way home that night?" He nodded, "Did you talk at all? On the walk to her house?"

He frowned, "What?"

"I'm just wondering if there was any conversation."

"I—No. No."

"So you three boys walk Chloe home—"

"It wasn't the three of us."

You frowned, "What do you mean?"

"My friends, their houses were in the opposite direction. It was just me and Chloe."

You hoped the shock wasn't evident on your face. The official interview from both the police and his lawyers said that all three of them walked Chloe home, and the last they saw her, she was alive. You weren't allowed more information than that. You knew there was some sort of physical evidence they had on Liam, but knowing too much impacted your objectivity. So you didn't know the specifics. But Liam admitting that it was just him and Chloe on that walk… That was something he hadn't said before, you were sure of it.

You cleared your throat, "Okay, so just you and Chloe. And you walked in silence the whole time?"

He shrugged, "I don't know. We talked about school and stuff, I think." He scratched his head impatiently, "I don't really remember."

You nodded, "So you get to her house, what happens next? You keep walking and she goes inside?"

"No, I walked her to the door." He cleared his throat and you watched as a flush crept up his neck, "And then, we um, and then we—we kissed."

You raised your eyebrows, "You kissed Chloe when you dropped her off?"

He shrugged and smirked, and you got the impression that he was trying to show off. That maybe he was trying to impress you. And a knife of ice cold dread wedged itself in your stomach, began to spread through your veins.

"She kissed me," He said confidently, "Even put her hand on—on my dick."

You swallowed and looked down at your hands, "I'm sorry, Liam."

He frowned, "Why're you sorry?"

"Well, because Chloe's dead. It must be hard knowing that you shared such an intimate experience with someone who's no longer here."

He paled considerably, "Why the fuck would you say it like that?"

"Like what?"

"That—like—she's—"

"Dead?"

"Shut up!" He shouted suddenly.

"I worry you're not grasping the permanence of the situation—"

"I know what it means to be fucking dead."

"Then why are you so angry with me?"

He shook his head in frustration, "Fucking cunt," he said under his breath.

You opted to ignore his swearing, "What happened after she kissed you?"

He shrugged, looking down at the table now, avoiding your eyes, "I went home."

You inhaled deeply, "Liam, are you being honest with me?"

"Yes."

"Okay," you sighed, "Because I just find it strange that someone who, by your own account, was not your friend, not your girlfriend, not someone you really even talked to very much at all would initiate kissing you the first time you're alone together."

"Oh, you find it strange because you think I'm ugly, is that it?" His voice was raised again, "You find it hard to believe that a girl would want me?"

You shook your head, "I've spoken with your teachers, some of your classmates, I've spoken with Julia. All of them say the same thing, that Chloe didn't like you very much. In fact, in some cases, actively avoided you."

"Well what the fuck do they know, huh?" He stood up so abruptly, he knocked his chair over and began pacing the small room.

"Liam, I need you to sit down—"

"They weren't fucking there that night!"

"—Sit down. Now."

"Nobody was fucking there! Just because you think you're too pretty, too good for me doesn't mean she thinks that! You think you know everything— Well you don't fucking know anything!"

He was very close to you now, leaning over the table and screaming in your face while you remained seated, face impassive.

"Liam," you said quietly, "Please sit down."

He was breathing hard and after a moment pulled his face away from yours and turned his body away from you. You allowed him a few moments to calm himself before he righted his char and sat down again.

Your stomach was roiling with nausea now and you thought you might be sick. He was lying about the kiss, you were sure. But you thought there was likely a bit of truth there, based on his outburst. You wondered if he had walked her to her door and tried to kiss her then gotten angry when she rejected him.

You saw flashes in your mind of the crime scene photos. The friendship bracelets she wore on each arm nearly up to her elbows. The butterfly clips she used to decorate her hair.

If you couldn't get it together, you were going to vomit. You swallowed the saliva that had pooled in your mouth and looked back at Liam.

"This is our last session."

"What—?"

"—I've really enjoyed our time together, getting to know you—"

"No—Is this because—Because I shouted? I didn't mean to—I'm sorry!"

"No, we always had a limited amount of time together, Liam, you knew this when we started—"

"But it's only been three days!" His eyes were wet and frantic when you looked at him, much like a panicked dog.

And despite it, despite what you knew your evaluation would say, what you knew he likely had done, you felt a little sorry for him.

Here was a twelve year old boy whose whole life was ruined, now, because of a split second fit of rage. You remembered how his mother had described him to you. Sweet and precocious most of the time, but quick to anger. Rage that could bring down a whole house. But up until this point, had never harmed anyone.

And you wondered if that rage hadn't been so normalized, hadn't been packaged as just the average prepubescent mood swings of a boy, if someone would have gotten him help sooner. If it would've made a difference, if he would've ended up here anyway, in this room with you.

If Chloe would still be here, bracelets jangling up her arms as she walked to class with Julia.

"I'm sorry," you said softly. You felt your own emotional resolve fraying as you did.

Liam was screaming incomprehensibly at this point. The security guard came inside, added his own shouting to the ruckus. Liam was throwing things; the snacks you gave him, the soda, his notepad, anything he could get his hands on. You thought you heard Robby shouting something as well.

You ducked out of the room, walking fast towards the ambulance bay. You barely registered that Robby was following after you, your name falling from his lips as you stumbled outside.

***

Robby was very irritated as he followed after you. You had very nearly gotten assaulted after he had asked you to leave. You were both exceptionally lucky the situation hadn't escalated further.

As he followed you out to the ambulance bay, he intended to shout at you about how irresponsible you had been and how you better not ever step foot in his ER ever again. However, once he stepped outside, he saw you vomiting in the bushes nearby and he immediately softened.

"You okay?" He asked, soft and gentle behind you as you pulled back, wiping your arm across your mouth as tears streamed down your cheeks. He thought it must have been the most out of control he'd ever seen you.

And you laughed softly at his question, shaking your head and lowering yourself to the ground.

Robby lowered himself to the ground as well, crouching in front of you. You stilled when he took your face in his hands, scanning for injury, "Did he hurt you?"

You shook your head again, gently pushed his hands from your face, "No, he didn't touch me."

"What happened?"

Your hands trembled as you rubbed them over your face, impatiently pushing the tears from your skin. Robby waited as you seemed to gather the words, stopped himself from taking your hands in his to stop the tremors.

"I'm not usually this… effected when I make an evaluation," you sniffled, "but he's just a kid and… And I thought maybe they had gotten it wrong. I wanted them to be wrong about him and I let myself get too wrapped up in it and then when he—" You recalled the smugness in his voice when he lied to you about Chloe and a fresh wave of nausea overtook you. You closed your eyes, took a slow, deep breath, "It's not helpful, but sometimes I imagine if I had met some of my clients before… If it would have made a difference?"

Your tears were beginning to choke you and you swallowed them down, "It sucks being the person called in after the horrific tragedy has already occurred because all I can do is try to create a narrative for what I think went wrong. And what good does that do anyone? That little girl is still dead. He's still gonna be locked up at least until he's eighteen. And what sort of irreparable damage will that do to his psyche?"

Robby cleared his throat, "I see patients all the time," he said slowly, "who die under my care and some of the time, I have to let them go with the knowledge if they had just gotten to me fifteen minutes or a half hour sooner, I would've been able to save them." He shrugged when you looked at him with bloodshot eyes, "It doesn't make the work you're doing irrelevant. We can still learn from your evaluations what to do better next time so things like this don't happen again."

You tilted your head to the side as you looked at him, "Why're you being so nice to me? I snuck in here without your permission and then stayed after you told me to leave."

He smirked and shrugged his shoulders, "Guess I have a soft spot for women who break the rules."

You managed a small smile and said, voice hoarse with tears, "Thank you, Dr. Robby."

"Just Robby," he said softly, then, after a moment, "please."

Your face softened, relaxed just marginally and he felt a bit of relief. He hadn't realized how worried he'd been, seeing you fall apart like this, until that moment.

"Thank you, Robby."

He felt his heart constrict in his chest at the sound of his name on your lips and thought he was probably done for. And you were going to leave today, probably never to come back. But that was fine. It was probably for the best.

So he just nodded and rose to standing, reached a hand down to you to help you up as well. Then he watched you walk through the parking lot, briefcase held tight to your chest like a shield as you went to stand at the bus stop, eyes still wet and furrow still between your brow.

***

You haunted Robby's thoughts for the rest of his shift. He kept replaying in his head the way you had said his name, like a prayer of salvation. He needed to get you out of his head.

So when the shift was over, he headed to a bar for a beer or four to drown out thoughts of you. But when he walked inside, he stopped cold over threshold.

You sat at the bar, laptop in front of you as you typed furiously, a pen held between your teeth as you looked down at your open notebook to the side of the laptop every few moments.

Robby couldn't decide as he stood there if this was luck or a disaster waiting to happen. Romantic relationships for him usually fell in the latter category.

He didn't believe in fate, but if ever there were a time to, he supposed this might be it. So eventually, he forced his feet to take him to the seat next to you. You didn't look up or even seem to notice him until he was pulling out the chair.

And when you did, eyes coming up to meet his, your face lit up. "Robby," You said, and you sounded happy to see him.

"I swear I'm not following you." He said as he sat down, "You bring your work to the bar?" He asked, nodding at your laptop.

You nodded, "Sometimes. If it's a hard case and I'm writing up the evaluation alone in my house I can…" you swallowed, "well, I can go to a dark place. So it's better if I'm around people."

"What're you drinking?" He nodded to your glass that was now just melting ice, "I'll buy the next round."

"Oh, I don't drink," you said, and flagged down the bartender, "It's just a Coke."

You turned to the bartender before Robby could say anything, "Vinny, could you get Robby a drink and add him to my tab?"

Vinny nodded and smirked at you, "Your tab, huh?" he said, voice teasing, "Should I add another Coke to your tab as well?"

You returned his grin, "Yes, please, and don't forget the cherries."

The bartender shook his head and then turned to Robby, "What can I get you, pal?"

Robby was now looking between you and the bartender, feeling a pained sort of jealousy that he felt ashamed of feeling. "Uh," He managed finally, "Just a Stella Artois is fine if you have it?"

Vinny nodded, "You got it."

Robby turned back to you, "So you don't drink tonight or you don't drink ever?"

"Ever." You said, eyes traveling over the screen of your laptop.

"You don't find it difficult to be sober in a bar?"

You shook your head, "I've never drank so I don't have the temptation."

Vinny slid a glass of Coke to you with a comical number of Maraschino cherries sitting on top of the ice and then slid Robby's beer to him. Robby nodded his thanks and looked at you in amusement as you popped a cherry onto your tongue.

"You've never drank?" You shook your head, still with a cherry in your mouth. "Not even a sip?"

You swallowed your cherry, "Alcoholics run in my family. Both my parents were alcoholics and it ruined their lives. I didn't really need any other convincing after that, but when I started getting older and my friends all started to experiment, my aunt sat me down. She very… gently explained to me that while many of my friends could drink and would likely never have a problem, my genetics make it so that one drink for me is the equivalent of willingly swallowing a bomb that I have no way of knowing how to defuse," you shrugged, "And maybe the timer won't ever run out, but my family history makes it more likely that it runs out as soon as I take that first sip." You took the straw of your Coke between your lips, "So I don't drink."

You had said the whole thing nonchalantly, but he tilted his head to look directly in your eyes, "I'm sorry about your parents."

You shrugged, "It's okay. My aunts, Vinny's moms, took me in when my parents couldn't take care of me anymore. I would've been way more messed up if it weren't for them."

Robby raised his eyebrows, "Vinny is your… cousin?"

"Oh, yeah. Sorry, I should've mentioned. He owns this bar, it's why I come here to hang out. He gives me all the Cokes I want for free."

He felt a bit ashamed at the relief that pulsed through him at this revelation. "I was raised by extended family as well, my grandmother. You're right I think, in a strange sense, that we were lucky. I don't know what my life would've looked like if she hadn't been around."

You gave him a sad smile, "I'm sorry about your parents," you said, parroting him earlier.

He nodded and took a sip from his beer, "Thank you."

"I hope I didn't make too much of a mess for you earlier. I can be… impulsive sometimes. I'm told."

Robby chuckled, "You're told?"

You shrugged, "I think I'm impulsive a reasonable amount of the time. Others disagree, as I'm sure you would about today."

You had made quite the mess for him. Gloria had come straight downstairs to rip into him as soon as she had heard and it had taken him a good ten minutes to calm her down and assure her there had been no injuries and that you wouldn't be filing a complaint.

However, Liam's behavior had finally gotten him moved straight up to psych, so in the end Robby thought you had inadvertently done him a favor.

So he shook his head, "I can also be persuaded to make rash decisions on behalf of my patients. So I don't really blame you. But if you had gotten hurt, we'd probably be having a very different conversation."

You hummed, "You probably wouldn't have been so happy to be running into me tonight then, huh?"

He smirked and shook his head, "I think I'd be hard pressed to find any situation where I wouldn't be happy to run into you."

You laughed nervously and looked down at your drink, "The feeling is mutual."

Even off the clock, you were still attempting to be put together and fight any kernel of chaos. He recalled the way you had tried to comb down your hair after getting off his bike the other day and he had silently wished you wouldn't. He thought the only time you had ever thrown caution to the wind was probably within your work. Like he had seen you today, falling apart.

He wanted to see you lose control again, but because of him. He remembered how hesitant you had been to wrap your arms tightly around him on his bike and he instead wanted you to be clawing at him to get closer. He yearned to have you say his name again, but desperate and wrecked, begging for release only he could give.

"Any chance you want to get out of here?" He asked softly.

Your eyes snapped to his, then to his hand, wrapped around his beer bottle, "With you?" You asked, eyes still on his hand. He didn't miss the way you bit your lip when he lightly tapped his fingers against the bottle.

"With me," he confirmed and your eyes locked on his again.

He wasn't sure what sort of internal debate you were having, but you were silent a few moments as you looked him over. You glanced at your laptop where your evaluation sat, unfinished, and then sighed, "Okay, but it has to be my place."

Ah, a way for you to maintain control. Fine. He'd allow it, for now. Besides, it would give him the chance to get to know you better and get to know the sides of you you didn't allow anyone else to see.

"Deal," he said and stood, pulled out his wallet while you packed up your things. He knew you said to put him on your "tab" but since your cousin owned the bar, he had a suspicion that just meant he was drinking for free. And even though it was just one beer, he didn't like that. So he placed a ten dollar bill on the table and walked you out of the bar.

***

You felt borderline insane as you walked him to your door. It wasn't that you hadn't had a one night stand before, you had had plenty. But you had sworn them off more than a year ago after the last guy you brought home took a piss in your kitchen sink. Said he couldn't find the bathroom in the dark. Never mind the fact that you intentionally left a nightlight on in your bathroom for this very purpose and that he would've had to walk by it to get to your kitchen sink.

Regardless, you had decided you didn't want strangers in your house anymore and you certainly would not willingly enter a stranger's house. So your sex life had taken a very dramatic pause ever since. And maybe that was why you hadn't needed much convincing to bring Robby home. He certainly didn't seem like the type of man who would piss in your sink.

But also, something about him had you wondering if the second he touched you, you would combust on the spot.

Or maybe it wasn't him at all. Maybe you really were just that desperate to be touched by anyone at all.

When you opened your front door, you smiled immediately at the sound of your Russian Blue making herself known and reenacting her usual routine of meowing at you in distress until you scooped her up.

Which you did, and she nuzzled into your chest, "We have a guest, Zelda, so you have to be on your best behavior." Her purrs rumbled through you as you scratched behind her ears.

"You have a cat." Robby said, and reached to pet her as well, fingers brushing yours.

"Is that a problem?"

He shook his head, "No," he smiled as he scratched under her chin and was rewarded with her purrs, "Zelda, like, Zelda Fitzgerald?"

You chuckled, "No, Zelda like the video game. The Legend of Zelda."

His eyes went back up to yours and he smirked, "You play video games?"

You shrugged and bent down to let Zelda go. Now that she had yelled at you for leaving and you had apologized with scratches, she would disappear probably until Robby left. She never much cared for the men you brought home.

"Helps me decompress. I've played them since I was a kid, but less often now. I don't always have the time." You turned to look at him and found him watching you, a fond look on his face, "What?"

"Nothing," he said again, still that slight smile on his face, "It's just that I walked into your house moments ago and I feel like I've already learned more about you in the last minute than I have in the last three days."

You nearly physically flinched at that, but turned away to hide your facial expression from him. This wasn't exactly what you had brought him here for, to get to know you. You just wanted to get laid by a seemingly normal, handsome doctor.

"Do you want something to drink?" You asked as you headed towards the kitchen, "I don't have any alcohol but I have some seltzer or soda?"

"Sure," he said, "I'll have a seltzer."

As you rummaged through your fridge you heard him call from the next room, "Is it okay if I play something on your record player?"

Despite your earlier thoughts, that you didn't want him to know you, you were endeared that he seemed to be losing himself in your things, in your house.

"Go ahead," you called back and grabbed two cans of seltzer.

By the time you got to the living room, he was playing All the Ways by the Secret Sisters. You were pretty sure it was the same record you had left in the player the last time you used it.

"You know this song?" You asked, as you handed him a seltzer.

He shook his head and popped open the can, "No, I was just curious what you were last listening to. I like it, though," he said as the verse progressed.

You sipped your seltzer and feeling his eyes on you, turned to look at him, "What?"

"Dance with me?"

You laughed, "You don't strike me as the dancing type."

He shook his head, "All this song calls for is swaying, which I can manage." He put his seltzer down on your coffee table and held out his hand to you.

You rolled your eyes, but decided to humor him, placing a hand in his and the other on his shoulder. You hoped he couldn't hear the way your breathing quickened with his hand to your back and your chest pressed to his.

And it was nice, being held and swayed while the record spun. This was quickly becoming something other than what you imagined a one night stand to be. Perhaps a bit more romantic than you were explicitly comfortable with. Usually, by this point your pants were already off, but you thought maybe it was a symptom of his generation that he was taking his time.

As the song swelled and ebbed, you felt him press his face into your hair, then to the skin just below your ear. And suddenly you were tilting your head to fully expose your neck to him, like a dog rolling over onto its back in submission. He moved his mouth slowly and sensually along your neck, hands squeezing your hips gently as if to anchor you to him in case you were to pull away. He needn't worry about that, though, because you were on another plane of existence entirely, drowning yourself in the feel of his lips and tongue and teeth against your skin, the drag of his beard along your throat.

Until you couldn't take it anymore and you were pulling his face up to meet yours so you could kiss him properly. He kissed slowly and purposefully, like there was no rush, like he didn't want to waste a single second. When he slid his tongue against yours, he moaned into your mouth, and the sound sent a thrill through you. So much so, that you began kissing him harder, faster—

But he only brought his hands up to your cheeks, held your face firmly as he reasserted the pace, until it was devastatingly slow again. You whined, which was very unlike you, and you felt Robby smile against your mouth, "It's okay, baby," he said softly, "there'll be time for hard and fast later. Just humor me for a while."

Oh. Oh, you really liked the way he said that, the way he'd called you baby. Another thing you weren't used to, being directed, being told what was going to happen. It was usually you calling the shots and another man's poor attempt at dirty talking you. You once pressed a hand over a man's mouth to quiet him enough to allow you to come as you rode him into oblivion.

But Robby's voice was both rough and smooth, soothing. You thought he could probably murmur the most vulgar words in your ear and you'd still want him, badly.

You let him direct you, let him set the pace, let him slowly, agonizingly undress you until you were in just bra and underwear. And he pulled back slightly to look you over, eyes darkening with lust, "Take me to your bed?" he asked softly.

You took him by the hand and led him to your bedroom, licked your lips when he pushed you back onto the bed and began to undress.

When he was in just his boxers he crawled over you and you ran your hands eagerly over every inch of his skin you could. He leaned down to kiss your neck again, one of his hands trailing down your chest, your belly, until he was rubbing you over your underwear. Your hips lifted up and into his palm and he covered your mouth with his own when you moaned.

"You're soaked," he whispered, smug, "I've barely touched you."

You took his lip gently between your teeth and then released him, "I've been thinking about you while I touched myself the last few days," you whispered before you could think better of it, "I think it's sort of a weird Pavlovian response now."

The groan he made sounded pained as he slipped his hand fully into your underwear. "You were thinking about me, huh? When you were getting yourself off?"

You nodded, unable to form words as his fingers slid up and down your folds, denying you the friction you really needed.

"And what was I doing in your head, hm?" You sighed when his finger circled your puffy clit, "Was it this?"

"Something like that, yeah." Your back arched when he slipped a finger inside you, so much thicker and longer than your own, he reached the deep spot inside you that had your toes curling effortlessly.

You sighed into his mouth as he curled his finger up just slightly, slowly thrusting in and out. His pace was so languid you began moving your own hips, trying to encourage him to quicken, but he placed his free hand on your stomach, "So impatient," he tutted, "is it always a race with you to come?"

Yes. It was, in fact. You were always trying to come as fast as possible so whoever you were with wouldn't lose interest. Even with Robby, you worried he might get you close to the precipice and then decide he couldn't wait anymore, that he needed to come first.

And then, what the fuck would be the point of all this? You took this man into your home, let him meet your cat, let him into your bed, and what? No orgasm in return?

But you couldn't say any of this, worried you'd come across as a greedy bitch and also it was difficult to form coherent sentences once he added a second finger.

So instead, your stupid, dumb, pleasure addled brain decided to just beg, "Please."

He pulled his face back marginally so you got a full view of him, perched above you. His eyes were black pits of desire, but beneath that, there was something else. A gentleness, a fondness, a tenderness. Directed at you.

You didn't think anyone had ever looked at you with such adoration. He didn't even really know you. The intimacy of his gaze embarrassed you and so you closed your eyes so you wouldn't have to see it.

Eyes closed, you felt him kiss up your jaw to your ear, fingers still moving at a snail's pace.

"You sound so pretty when you beg," he crooned, his hot breath on the shell of your ear, "wanna hear you do it again."

You hated the way your body responded to his voice, a fire low in your belly stoked by his words, and still you could only whimper in response, tears collecting at the corners of your eyes. You couldn't recall a time a man had ever had you like this, that you had allowed a man to have you like this, so vulnerable and desperate for him.

"You can do it," he cooed, all condescension as he pulled his fingers out of you. Before you had a chance to complain about that he slapped your pussy lightly and it sent shockwaves through your clit, "Beg me to come."

You groaned, pushed your face up and into his neck, "Please, Robby."

He covered your mouth with his own again, kissed you hard, teeth dragging over your lower lip, "Good girl," he murmured and kissed you again, his praise sending chills up your arms.

He kissed his way down your body until he was between your legs and he pressed his mouth to the damp spots on the fabric of your underwear. He kissed you thoroughly through the fabric, his moan vibrating off you. He was such a fucking tease but you absolutely would not beg him again.

"Robby," you said again, but this time in warning.

He laughed, "Alright, alright," he pulled the waistband of your underwear down, allowed you to lift your hips so he could pull them off you, "message received."

When he lowered his mouth to you, his tongue expertly working you, a stray, fleeting thought passed to the front of your mind that maybe this was why people got married. Maybe if you found someone who could make you feel this good, that made you think this must be why people believed in heaven, in God. Maybe that was enough reason to tie yourself to someone forever.

The thought was there and gone like a passing shower, almost as if your brain was too afraid to acknowledge why you would be experiencing that specific sentiment. And then Robby focused his mouth on your clit and slipped his fingers back inside you and there was no room to think anything at all.

Your walls tightened around his fingers as his tongue flicked against your clit until your climax ripped through you. Your body writhed against his mouth as you rode out the waves until they crested and receded.

You were breathing hard, eyelids fluttering open, when you felt him pull his fingers out of you. He sucked your juices from his fingers and even after finishing, your stomach tightened in response.

It shocked you how easily everything he did turned you on. Your eyes trailed down his chest, catalogued his Star of David necklace, his freckles, the smattering of chest hair, down to his belly, the hair that grew there and disappeared beneath the waistband of his boxers, you filed it all away.

His erection was obvious in his boxers as his mouth came back up to meet yours, "you doing okay, sweetheart?" he murmured into your mouth.

You felt yourself melt. With every passing moment you started to wonder if this man was ruining you for sex with anyone else ever again. You managed a nod and kissed him back. Part of you wondered if he had realized just how undone you were by him. Still, you wanted more. And this, like so much of this sexual experience, was foreign to you. You were used to going through the motions to make another man come. Most of the time, you resigned yourself to being a pillow princess, not really an active participant, more of a let's get this over with attitude.

But with Robby, you yearned to touch him, feel him, wanted to be filled to the brim with him. When you reached into his boxers to stroke his cock with your hand, it was his turn to moan. As he did, he reached for your face. He gently pressed fingers that were just inside of you to your lips, "Open."

His word was firm, meant to be a command, and yet there was a question in his eyes. You met his eyes, gave the smallest of nods as you opened your mouth. You took his fingers into your mouth, sucked on them obscenely while you pumped him with your hand. Each time you brought your fist up to his head, you noted the precum there and sucked on his fingers a little harder.

"Jesus Christ," he panted as he watched you, his hips involuntarily rutting into your hand.

When he pulled his fingers from your mouth, you rose up to meet his lips, needing to kiss him, to taste his tongue and feel the roughness of his beard against you. You needed more of him, sucked on his tongue as if it were oxygen after resurfacing from the ocean. He made needy noises, grinding down on your soaked pussy still with the fabric of his boxers between you.

You pulled on them impatiently, no longer able to disguise your neediness, not caring if you seemed desperate anymore. He met your desperation, quickly pulled them down and off, "Do you have a condom?" He asked, breathless.

You did, but for a moment you considered asking him to fuck you raw. You felt crazed, reckless in a way you had never been before. You couldn't fathom the idea of creating another barrier between you. But you blinked, reminded yourself you didn't really know him. You had an IUD, it wasn't pregnancy you were worried about. You knew you were clean, but who could say that he was? He was a doctor, so you'd hope he wouldn't lie about that sort of thing, but again, you didn't know him.

You cursed the rational side of your brain and reached for your nightstand. You hastily ripped open the condom wrapper, hushed his laughing at your impatience with a kiss and worked the condom onto him.

He cradled the back of your neck as he kissed you, guided you back onto the pillow, and then you felt him poking, first at your leg, then he nudged your entrance and inhaled sharply.

You locked eyes with him as he slowly pushed himself inside you, the two of you sighing collectively as he filled you to the brim. You whined at the stretch, immediately wanting him to move, "Please," you begged again, wiggling your hips in a useless attempt to create friction.

He gave you a lopsided grin, pressed his face into your sweaty neck, "It's not a race, sweetheart." He chided again, took your earlobe between his teeth as he finally started to move his hips. He moved slow, but his thrusts were so deep and strong, he pushed you up until your head hit the bedpost.

It didn't hurt, and you barely noticed it for the stars you were seeing every time he pushed into you, but after a moment you registered that your head was hitting his hand instead. He had placed his hand between your head and the bedpost, kissed your forehead as he rutted into you, "sorry, sweetheart," he murmured.

Oh, it was dizzying the way you felt delusional with lust one second and the next wondering if this is what it felt like to be in love. You had thought you'd been in love before, but it had never felt like this, all consuming. You had only known him a few days but you wondered how anyone he slept with didn't fall in love with him. Maybe they did. Maybe he was just that legendary a lay.

It was close to being over, you could tell. He was moving faster, he'd buried his face in your shoulder, bit down to muffle his moans. When he came, you stroked his head, didn't mind the way his sweat mingled with yours, damp skin sticking to you.

And with his orgasm, your head began to clear of the lust laden fog. Breathless, his mouth searched for yours, sucked your bottom lip between his own. Suddenly, you felt terrified of your own want. There was an ache so deep inside you, reserved just for him, that you felt tears burn the backs of your eyes as he kissed you.

Gently, you pushed him off of you, murmured something about going to take a shower, and ran out of the room.

You turned on the shower with a shaky hand, felt the onset of a panic attack impending in your chest. You sat on the floor of the tub, let the warm spray of the water regulate your breathing.

This was supposed to be a one night stand. You were supposed to fuck him and forget him, like you always did. And like what always happened, you would get out of this shower, walk back to your bedroom, and he would be gone. You always used the shower after sex to provide your guests with a good excuse to leave. That way there were no awkward goodbyes and you could go to sleep having cleaned them off you.

It didn't matter that, actually, if you weren't so tired you thought you'd probably like to fuck him again. Maybe this time, you'd count each freckle underneath his eyes and watch the fucked out expression on his face while you rode him.

You scrubbed at your face, stood up and turned off the shower. There wouldn't be a next time, you reminded yourself. One and done, that was your rule. You liked your life the way it was, clean and neat, just you and Zelda. Relationships were messy. Love was messy. Unnecessary.

You wrapped a towel around your body and headed back to the bedroom. Walking through the open door, you started when you saw him, still sprawled out on the bed. He had put his boxers back on and a pair of readers was perched on his nose as he read the book in his hand, Psychological Evaluations for the Courts: A Handbook for Mental Health Professionals and Lawyers.

This was all surprising enough, but what really threw you for a loop, was Zelda curled up on his bare shoulder, her face smushed into his as he used a free hand to scratch under her chin. Zelda always stayed away from your guests.

"Hey, can I borrow this?" He asked, nodding towards the book.

You blinked, "You're still here," you said softly.

"Oh," he pushed his glasses up onto his head, "did you want me to go?"

You opened and closed your mouth, "N-no. I just, um," at that moment, Zelda meowed and jumped off the bed to your feet, "Usually, it's just that while I'm in the shower usually my… guests… leave."

He smirked at you, "I don't have to stay—"

"I want you to stay," you blurted, "but I should tell you that I get nightmares. Sometimes."

"Yeah, okay. Me too." He shrugged and looked back at the book, "Seriously, can I borrow this?"

You smirked and dropped your towel, grabbed a clean t-shirt to throw on. You felt his eyes rove over your body until you pulled the t-shirt over your head, "You want to borrow one of my reference books?"

You crawled back onto the bed, tried to ignore the gnawing thought in your head that you shouldn't be doing this. This broke the rules. You should've sent him home.

He shrugged, "It's interesting."

Zelda hopped back on the bed and settled on top of the place where your body connected to Robby's. And Robby looked down at her and smiled, scratched the spot under her chin again. Fuck. If he could win Zelda over, a feat only ever achieved by you, it was over for you.

"Yeah, sure," you said, "you can borrow it. But that means you have to see me again."

He hummed and lightly stroked his knuckles across your cheekbone, "Was already planning on that."

***

You follow them home, watch Liam walk her to the door. There's a chill to the night air that comes at summer's end when the greens and blues of the season begin to dull.

You can hear the friendship bracelets bounce against one another as they walk. There's a moment, when they stand on the stoop, where Liam leans his head towards Chloe— and she steps back.

They're speaking, but you can't hear them. Liam's hands are balled into fists at his side and you feel that ice cold dread again. You want to go to him, pull him away from her, but your feet seem glued to the ground.

There's nothing you can do but watch as Chloe turns away from Liam and to her door and Liam picks up the aluminum baseball bat abandoned by the stairs—

You resurfaced from the dream as if clawing yourself from your own grave having forgotten how to breathe, cheeks wet and chest heaving.

"What—what's wrong?"

Robby's voice was rough with sleep as he fumbled for the lamp on the bedside table. You couldn't pull enough air into your lungs to speak, but even if you could you weren't sure what you'd say. You had forgotten you had fallen asleep with him, limbs entangled.

If you had the wherewithal to care, you'd probably be embarrassed about the fact that he kept seeing you like this, falling apart. Something no one else had ever had the privilege of seeing. You kept having to remind yourself you had only known him for three days. That eventually he would leave, would grow tired of you, of this. Likely sooner rather than later. The infatuation would fade and so would he.

But when the lamp switched on and his eyes landed on you, heaving for air, you saw nothing but soft concern, "C'mere," he said and opened his arms to you.

You hesitated for only a moment before you collapsed against his chest, pressed your ear to his skin so you could hear the steady beat of his heart.

He held you silently while your breathing leveled and your sobs reduced to hiccups.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" He asked finally, mouth pressed to your hair.

You shook your head and watched the moon from your window, "Can we take a ride on your bike?"

"Now?" He asked, surprise heavy in his voice, "It's 3AM."

You took a shaky breath, "Need some air."

He seemed to ponder this silently for a moment before sighing, "Yeah, okay. If that'll make you feel better."

The two of you got up from bed and dressed quickly and quietly. The silence of the nighttime and the cool crisp air immediately had you feeling more like yourself.

Robby grabbed his extra helmet and before he went to place it on your head, hovered above it, "Is it gonna make you claustrophobic?"

It was sweet that he even thought it, that it would trigger your panic attack again having to put something over your face. But that wasn't the sort of anxiety you had. In fact, being in enclosed spaces (like his arms), was comforting. So you shook your head.

He put the helmet on your head like you were a child, made sure it was buckled properly, and then he was climbing onto the bike, putting his own helmet on.

You pushed the windshield on your helmet up so you could feel the wind against your face as he drove through Pittsburgh. Your arms were clasped firmly around his waist and just like the first time, whenever he stopped he stroked his hand gently atop yours.

It took you a while, but you recognized when he was driving out of the city where he was taking you.

His headlights lit the road into West End Overlook Park, the lights from the city lit up the skyline even at this hour. Robby parked and turned off the engine, held your hand as you dismounted.

After taking off your helmets, you walked to the railing so you could see the city fully. Robby twined his arms around your waist from behind and rested his head on top of yours, "You feel any better?"

"Yeah," You grabbed at his arms and pulled them tighter around you, "Thank you. Sorry I woke you."

"Nothing to be sorry for, I don't sleep well anyway."

You closed your eyes while he kissed down your cheek to your jawbone, reveled in the feel of him wrapped around you like this. And you ignored the voice in the back of your head that reminded you it couldn't last.

***

The next weeks and months passed in a blur. On all of your spare days and nights you were either at Robby's or he was at yours.

You expected for the infatuation the wear off, for the high of the sex to fade, but the sex only got better as you learned each other's preferences and you still had a dopey smile on your face whenever you opened the door to see him on the other side.

He spent hours sitting in the chair by your window reading with Zelda in his lap while she watched the birds fly by the window. Robby became so enamored by her, he bought her a harness and leash, said he wanted to train her to go outside so the two of you could take her on hikes.

But still, there remained a wall between you. You both occasionally had nightmares and though you were both willing to provide physical comfort, neither of you ever raised the topics of your demons. Not explicitly. Robby had asked you that first time, but that had seemed to be only because he felt like that's what was expected of him. And the second you said you didn't want to talk about it, he took it as permission to never bring it up again.

At first, you thought this was a win. You had no desire to be more vulnerable with him than you already were. The sex was good, the company was nice, why complicate things unnecessarily?

But then things started to take a turn when he'd come over miserable and wrecked from work and refuse to talk about it.

After one particularly lousy day, he'd snapped at you when you asked him one too many times if he was okay.

"I've told you at least three separate times now that I'm fine, so could you please fucking drop it?"

You swallowed, tried to ignore his tone, "Well it's just that what you're saying doesn't match your whole attitude so I'm trying to give you a chance to tell me what the problem is—"

"Why? So you can fucking psychoanalyze me? I'm not one of your clients."

You bristled at that, "You know I'm not a therapist."

He huffed out a breath through his nose, "Right. Could've fooled me."

You nodded slowly to yourself, tried not to let the hurt show on your face as you headed to the entryway, "You know, I just remembered I have this evaluation I really should be working on so—"

"Hey, come on," You heard him sigh, his steps following after you, "I'm sorry, don't go."

You were grabbing your coat from the hooks by his door, but he snatched it out of your hand and rehung it before stepping in front of you and walking you backwards until your back hit the wall, "I'm sorry, I don't know why—" He cut himself off and sighed, took your face in his hands and started kissing your cheeks, your jaw, down your neck, "I'm sorry," he repeated against your skin.

And you hated yourself because your eyelids fluttered closed at his touch, like they always did. You allowed him to make you forget, or alternatively, make you remember why you kept coming back. He picked you up, hoisted your legs around his waist as he still pressed your back firmly to the wall. With every stroke of his tongue against yours, you couldn't remember why you ever wanted to leave in the first place.

It became a pattern with you both. One of you pissed off or hurting and refusing to tell the other why, the other deciding they were sick of the bullshit and wanted to leave, until the clothes started to come off.

But even then, you couldn't keep the emotions and the sex separate. They began to bleed into one another, frustration coming out in rough and hard sex, devastation occasionally leading to crying after orgasms, and steadily it became more and more of a mess.

You both began to withdraw, and though you felt yourself doing the same thing to him, you felt heartbroken and devastated when you invited him over and he said he was too busy. Then you were angry at him, but more angry with yourself for allowing yourself to do the very thing you swore you wouldn't; fall in love. Because there was no fucking denying it now.

Not when he ghosted you and you felt like you couldn't breathe. When you woke up from a nightmare and he wasn't there, so you had to picture his arms around you instead to calm yourself down. Only to then start crying and wish you could call him, just to hear his voice. It was excruciating. You would have tried anything to get rid of the feeling. If you believed in the Devil, you may have attempted to summon him to strike up a deal.

The day he left your reference book in your mailbox without ringing the doorbell, no note, no text, you decided you hated him. But it wasn't the truth. It was just survival. There was nowhere else to put all the love you had for him, the ache in your chest when you heard a motorcycle go by. You always checked to see if it was him, but it never was.

It was over, you thought. The first and last time you had fallen in love. You wouldn't be this stupid ever again.

***

Robby was miserable. Had been since he stopped answering your texts. The day he left your book in your mailbox, he had intended to ring the doorbell, to see your face one last time. But he couldn't do it. He thought he didn't deserve to. And you didn't want him and his baggage anyway. He had been hurting you consistently for weeks. He felt it. He knew you felt it too by the way you had started pulling away.

Before, work had been miserable, but at least he had you for a while to go home to. But now, it was just work and home alone. He tortured himself with the thought of you. Jerked off in the shower thinking about your tits in his mouth and the way you used to beg for him. If before he had been occasionally moody at work, he was now insufferable, snapping at everyone.

When there was a Code Tan called after Jack had just arrived for shift change, he thought nothing of it.

"You go home, brother," Jack said, lightly tapping him on the chest as he passed, "I got this."

And so, he had begun to pack up his things, had his backpack over his shoulder and his helmet in his hand when he turned for the exit—

Only to see you walk in from chairs, eyes red rimmed and a cold compress pressed to your cheek. You looked tired and frankly more resigned than he could ever recall seeing you.

He didn't give himself time to think when he dropped his backpack and helmet at the hub and walked towards you.

"What're you doing here?" He asked sharply and on instinct, brought his hands up to check your injury, but you reeled away from him. He frowned at that. He knew he had hurt you in the days and weeks leading up to when he disappeared, but he had thought when he Houdini'd out of your life he was doing you a favor. And it had been at least a month since then so he thought you'd be fine. You were always fine. But there was an inferno in your eyes now.

"I'm the code tan," you said, "a client got in a good punch while I was upstairs."

He clenched his jaw, "They don't have security with you in there?"

"I asked them to wait outside," you said, "it helps with rapport to let them think that I trust them. Backfired on me this time, though."

He decided not to reprimand you on that, "Let me take a look—"

You pulled back again, "I don't want you, I want a different doctor."

Before Robby even had time to properly register the venom in your voice, Jack joined you, "Hey, is this our code tan? Thought I told you to beat it, Robinavitch."

"I can handle this one—"

"No, I'd prefer it if Dr.—" You looked towards Jack, waiting for him to give his name.

"Abbot."

"—Dr. Abbot. I want Dr. Abbot to look me over."

Robby's chest tightened, "Sweetheart—"

"Don't call me that."

Jack looked between the two of you in mild confusion, "Okay…" He said, stretching out the word, "why don't you follow me? Robby, go home."

"Jack—"

"It's what the patient wants!" He called over his shoulder as he ushered you away from Robby.

Jack took you to an open bed, had you sit down, and you saw that you had a clear line of sight to the hub. Robby was now sitting at a workspace, eyes zeroed in on you.

"Would you mind closing the curtains?" You asked.

Jack turned his head back toward the hub, saw Robby and sighed before drawing the curtains around the two of you. Then he raised two gloved hands, "May I take a look?"

You nodded, pulled the compress from your face. Jack didn't betray any opinion. Whether or not he thought the injury was bad, his face remained neutral.

"How'd you get this?"

"I was punched by a psych patient upstairs."

His eyes darted from the injury to your eyes, then back again, "You're the psychologist Robby was seeing?"

Now it was your turn to eye him, "I didn't think he told anyone. It wasn't… It wasn't anything, really."

"Well," Jack shined a light in your eyes, watched your pupils react, "Whatever it was, it fucked him up. More fucked up than he was to begin with."

It went against everything you had presumed in the last few weeks, that Robby was mourning you. He could've texted, he could've called, he could've showed up at your door in the middle of the night and you likely would have forgiven him.

"Yeah, well. He's not the only one it fucked up."

He sighed, "It might help if you talk to him."

You snorted, "Right, yeah. Is that your recommended treatment plan?"

He shook his head and took off his gloves, "No. I want you to get a CT just to make sure nothing's broken, which I don't think anything is. Then when you go home I want you to ice it for about ten to twenty minutes at a time for the first 24-48 hours. Swelling should go down after that. You'll probably have some bruising for the next two or three weeks."

"Thank you."

He looked you over again as he stood, "He's been fucked up since it ended, but when it was going on, I'd never seen him that happy. If you were even a third as happy as he was… I think you should talk to him."

And then he was gone and you were grateful that he kept the curtain closed around you so Robby couldn't see it when you started crying.

***

The CT came back clean and you gathered your things to head home, but as soon as you walked back into central, there was Robby. Waiting for you.

He matched your stride, walked with you towards the exit, "Let me take you home."

"No thank you."

"I don't understand why you're so upset with me, could you just talk to me—"

It was so ridiculous, you barked out a laugh, "Now you wanna talk? After you ignored my messages and dropped off my book without even ringing the fucking doorbell? Too much of a fucking coward to face me?"

You had walked outside now and he grabbed your wrist, spun you to face him, "I thought it was what you wanted. I didn't ring the doorbell because I knew if I saw you I'd beg you to let me back in again and I didn't think that was fair to you."

You were so frustrated, so appalled by the idea that after reaching out to him with no response that you didn't want to hear from him, that you couldn't form words. You pulled your wrist from him, placed your hands on his chest, and shoved.

"Hey—Stop—" You shoved him again, "Stop that—" This time, when you went to shove him again, he grabbed your wrists and backed you against the wall of the hospital, "Enough."

This close to him, looking into those warm brown eyes again, your anger began to slip replaced by the seemingly unending devastation you had been trying to dampen since he disappeared, "I hate you," you said, chin wobbling, "You made me fall in love with you and then you left."

You watched his face transform with your admission, both soften and sadden, "You never told me you loved me."

You laughed, a tear escaping to carve a path down your cheek, "And would it have made a difference?"

"Maybe!" He said fiercely, "Maybe if you ever let me in fully it would have been different, not this half in half out bullshit."

"Oh, okay, so it's all my fault then."

He shook his head and released your wrists, looked down at the ground, "I didn't say that."

"What about you, huh? Every time I asked you to tell me what you were feeling you'd bite my fucking head off."

He looked back up at you, "You didn't really want to know, I was following your lead. You never fucking shared anything with me unless you were fully breaking down and even then it was like you were so careful about what you did tell me. I didn't think you wanted anything deeper so I kept it to myself."

You bit your lip, let the silence fall between the two of you and leaned your back against the wall. After a moment you dug into your pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, "Do you have a light?" You asked, voice rough and flat from the shouting and crying.

You watched him out of the corner of your eye dig a lighter from his pocket. You put a cigarette between your lips and leaned into him, tried not to notice the warmth of his hand as he cupped a hand around the light to keep the breeze from blowing it out. After you leaned back and took a couple of drags, you passed the cigarette to him, which he accepted.

"Did you love me?" You asked, staring off into the distance, not capable of looking at him in case he gave you the devastating answer. You felt him watch you for a moment before he looked forward again.

"I still love you," he said softly, passing the cigarette back to you.

You tried to calm the rapid beating of your heart, took a long drag from the cigarette, "Zelda misses you. She makes me sit in that chair by the window you used to sit in and watch the birds with her, but I don't think she enjoys my company as much as yours."

He chuckled, "I miss her too."

You inhaled a shaky breath, "I don't know how to do this. How to be in a relationship and be… emotionally available. But I think I want to try. With you."

When you looked over at him he had a small smile on his face, "I would really like that."

You put out your cigarette and finally let him touch you. His hands coming up to cradle your face, he carefully avoided your injury. And then his lips were on yours and you thought your knees might buckle with the relief.

"I'm sorry I left, for snapping at you, for not ringing the doorbell, all of it," he said frantically in your mouth, "I was stupid, I was scared, and I didn't think you felt the same."

"I forgive you," you murmured, "And I'm sorry too. For all of it."

He pulled away from you slightly, gently ran his knuckles across your cheek, "We'll figure it out."

You nodded, nudged your nose against his, "Do you think you could take me home now?"

He smiled against you, "Absolutely."

He led you by the hand to his bike, kissed your forehead before pulling the helmet over your head and buckling it beneath your chin.

It likely would never be easy between the two of you. There would inevitably be more fighting, more silence. But you thought it might be okay now, knowing that the love was there. Knowing that neither of you would leave like that again. You were hopeful and you were done denying yourself what you wanted. You thought Robby might be done with it too.

You held onto him tightly as he rode through the streets of Pittsburgh, towards the sunset, towards home.

[anxietyobsessedyetdepressed]

Cruise

WC: 7.6K

Summary: What was supposed to start as the happiest day of your life ends with being the worst and to top things off you're stuck with your dad's good friend for a little over a week where understandings are made and a line is crossed, leaving you both to make a choice

Warnings: insecurities, age gap (reader is like late 20’s) taboo-ish relationship (reader is daughter of Robby's good friend)

AN: This is a longer one ! I hope you guys enjoy and let me know what you think ! Any feedback is encouraged whether it's a comment, an ask or reblog with some tags ! Likes are amazing too but interaction is what makes us writers happy 💙

The first sign something was wrong was the silence. It wasn’t the peaceful kind but the horrible kind that gave you the worst kind of feeling in your stomach. The kind that settled over the bridal suite after your maid of honor checked her phone for the fifth time and stopped pretending everything was fine

Your wedding planner had slipped out to “make a call.” Your mother was pacing so hard her heels clicked dents into the hotel floor. And outside the closed door, guests were arriving downstairs in soft waves of chatter and clinking glasses….and your fiancé was nowhere to be found

You sat perfectly still in front of the vanity mirror, still in your white satin robe, makeup and hair all done as you looked down at phone when it buzzed, it wasn’t your fiance but your dad

Honey, I’m coming upstairs.

Then another text immediately after

Robby’s with me.

Robby had been your dad’s best friend since his med school years. He was an ER doctor who practically lived at the hospital and showed up at every family event looking exhausted and vaguely irritated to be there. He was in his early 50’s now, rough around the edges, permanently tired-looking and rather broad in a way that doctors got when they forgot to take care of themselves. He wasn’t comforting and he wasn’t emotional ever. You actually still remembered when you were in college and he had given you a card that was simply signed with his signature for your graduation gift. He was the kind of man who you met once and then happened to see at every holiday 

Your father stepped in first, already looking furious in that way dads did when they wanted to kill someone. Robby followed behind him and the second he looked at your face, he knew. You saw it happen in real time and almost lost it right there in front of him. His expression shifted instantly, not pity exactly, but you didn’t like it either way. It was like his brain had already entered crisis mode as if he were back in the ER

“Where is he ?” your dad asked someone sharply behind him 

Nobody answered but of course your best friend and maid of honor started crying instead, you were kind of glad. At least someone was being vulnerable with you at the moment.

Robby looked around the room once and pointed toward one of the bridesmaids “Has she eaten ?”

“What ?” one of your bridesmaids asked

“Today. Has she eaten ? Come on let’s listen” he repeated

“…I don’t know.” she sniffled

“Water ?”

Nobody answered again and he shook his head “Jesus Christ”, he walked over and crouched in front of you “Hey,” he said carefully

You stared at him blankly without saying a word, still in shock

“Can you look at me for a second ?”

You met his eyes

“You feel dizzy ?” his voice stayed calm

You nodded once “Like I’m on a neverending carousel”

“Chest pain ?”

“No.” you whispered “Not like that at least”

“Okay, nausea ?” Robby asked 

“…A little.”

Your father started to say something angry about the groom, but Robby cut him off without even looking away from you “None of that please, not now.”

Your dad actually stopped talking and it shocked you to your core, you moved your eyes to Robby who grabbed one of the untouched water bottles from the makeup table and unscrewed it for you, holding it to your mouth “Drink.”

You took a sip mostly because arguing felt impossible, you felt too weak to even talk back at this point 

“More than that please” he sighed

You glared weakly at him “I just got stood up and you want me to drink this cheap bottle of water ?”

“There she is,” he muttered “Okay. Good sign.”

The next few hours blurred together horribly. Word spread downstairs quickly and suddenly everyone was gone. Your best friend and bridesmaids canceled the music and catering, your mother cried in the bathroom thinking for some reason you couldn’t hear her and your father disappeared for twenty minutes and came back looking like he had considered committing a felony

And through all of it, Robby stayed with you. He had taken off his tie you knew he hated wearing given how badly it had been tied in the first place, and had spent the last hour calling the hotel staff and making sure nobody bothered you. When he saw you try to stand he gently walked you over to the bed in the room and laid you down himself the best he could

At one point he appeared with fries from room service and shoved them toward you “You need salt.”

“I’m not hungry Michael.” you snapped “I just got stood up, last thing I want are some nasty salty fries”

“That wasn’t a question, you need salt before you dehydrate then you’ll have a real issue” he said simply “Your little crying best friend told me through sobs you haven’t had a thing to eat since lunch yesterday, eat.” You sighed and took the basked and watched as he left the room to give you privacy and finally you lost it. You sobbed and screamed into your pillow until you felt your eyes go dry and your voice go hoarse eventually falling asleep

It was later that night, after everyone finally left and your parents had exhausted themselves finally into sleep in the adjoining suite, that there was a knock at your hotel door. You stood up and opened it still wearing your ruined wedding makeup and now an oversized sweatshirt with the ironic words “Bride To Be” on the front

Robby stood there holding a small plastic pharmacy bag and two coffees “Figured you needed these”

“You don’t have to do this,” you told him quietly

“I know.” he walked inside anyway

The room felt smaller suddenly, a little too intimate. You had known him for years, but always as your dad’s friend. The gruff doctor who showed up late to barbecues or thanksgivings and always spoke to your parents about the most boring of things. Now he was standing in your hotel room at midnight looking at you like he genuinely didn’t know how to help but was trying anyway

“I brought electrolyte packets,” he said, setting the bag down “And ibuprofen.”

“You think I’m dehydrated ?” you scoffed

“I think you cried for six hours, threatened to commit murder, shoved a bridesmaid against the wall when she wouldn’t give you your phone and told your mom and dad and I quote, fuck all the way off.”

“Fair.” you muttered 

He hesitated then nodded toward the bed “Sit down for a minute.”

You obeyed mostly because exhaustion had hollowed you out “Now what”

Robby sat in the chair across from you, elbows on his knees “You having palpitations ?”

You snorted softly “Michael, are you seriously doing a full intake right now ?”

“Yes.”

“You’re unbelievable, of course I feel like shit” you sniffled “I just got stood up on my wedding day, 6 years down the drain just like that and he didn’t even have the balls to tell me in person. I feel like shit !”

“You’d be surprised how many people end up in my ER after stuff like this.”

That quieted you down a little and his expression softened, not much, but enough “You don’t have to act okay tonight.”

Your throat tightened instantly so instead of crying again, you met his eyes “Is this the part where you tell me he didn’t deserve me ?”

“No.”

You blinked shocked “No ?”

“I didn’t know the guy well enough to determine that.” he shrugged

A startled laugh escaped you and he grinned weakly, “Good” he nodded

“What ?”

“That sound. Keep doing that instead.” 

You shook your head “You’re terrible at comfort.”

“I’m very aware unfortunately” he admitted, leaning back in his chair and rubbing at his jaw “My mother left me at my grandmother’s house when I was eight,” he said suddenly

You stared at him confused “What ?”

“She said she was going to the store.” he shrugged awkwardly “Never came back.”

Your face softened immediately “Robby…”

“So technically,” he continued seriously with a nod “I also got abandoned before a major life event.”

You blinked at him “That is not the same thing.”

“I know that now….clearly” Robby sipped his coffee

A laugh burst out of you before you could stop it and he looked relieved immediately with a chuckle of his own “I realized halfway through saying it that it was a bad comparison,” he admitted with a slight blush

“You think ?” you wiped your eyes “That’s still horrible, my god”

“She didn’t leave me at the altar at least. I wasn’t dressed up. She did leave me with my asthma inhaler though. Which was considerate.” he nodded 

“Stop—”

“I’m just saying there are different levels of abandonment and I think I take the win here” he put his hands up

You were fully laughing now, the ugly crying kind that turned into breathless hysteria and soon once again sobs. You covered your face with your hands as the sobs ran through your shaking body 

“Oh come on” he said softly “Listen, it’s gonna be okay” “No it’s not !” you screeched “My life is over ! It’s over ! This was humiliating !” “You life is not over” Robby whispered “It feels like it is but it isn’t, this is just a hurdle you have to go through. I know for a fact you’re gonna be fine. You’re strong.” “I don’t wanna be strong” you whimpered, meeting his eyes with your mascara stained face “I wanna be in love,  I wanna be married…..I wanna start a new chapter of live and now-now I’m gonna be the girl who wasn’t even good enough to marry and wasn’t even good enough to be told face to face. That’s how worthless I was to him” “Oh man, I should call your dad” he stood up slightly taken back “I’ll wake him up” “Are you seriously this bad at giving basic comfort ?” you snapped suddenly “My parents are sleeping Michael ! My mother cried herself to sleep, my dad had to get them a room next to mine to keep an eye on me because he thinks I’m gonna kill myself ! They took my shaving razors and eyebrow scissors and pens because they genuinely think I’m gonna try something ! You’re a doctor, do something !” you screamed at him

He put his hands up to his chest in surrender and let out a shaky breath “I specialize in saving lives at crucial points in time….I don’t specialize in…in tantrums” “Tantrums…” you looked at him and scoffed getting up from the bed “You think this is a tantrum ? I’ll show you a fucking tantrum !” you looked over at your wedding bouquet and threw it at him with just enough time that he quickly ducked it “You need to calm down” Robby said gently “Sit down” “Don’t fucking tell me to sit down !” you screeched grabbing your wedding dress that was still on hanger and taking it out as you walked over to your hotel balcony “Hey no !” he widened his eyes following after you and pulling you back just before you threw the dress over His eyes looked over you as he sat down on the balcony next to you and held you, his arms wrapped around your shoulders as sobs ripped through you. He knew he should say nothing and kept it that way “I’m sorry” you hiccupped “I’m so sorry. Are you okay ?” “I’m good” he nodded “Just….just try to breathe for now” You shook your head “I-I c-can’t”

“Come on kid…” the nickname should’ve annoyed you but instead it made you cry harder “You gotta breathe for me.”

“I can’t” you repeated 

“Yes you can.”

“It hurts.” you pressed both hands against your face “I feel so stupid.”

“You’re not stupid.” he shook his head

“He left me.” you murmured “He left me just before we got married…not even an explanation”

“That makes him stupid.” Robby corrected as he gently tugged the dress out of your grip before you accidentally launched yourself over the railing with it “There we go,” he murmured “Dress is under arrest.”

For a while neither of you spoke. You could hear cars move far below somewhere in the distance, music drifting faintly through downtown. Gently Robby cleared his throat, “You know what happens in the ER after somebody gets hurt really bad ?”

You sniffled “What ?”

“We stabilize first.”

You looked over at him “Okay ?”

“We don’t immediately start asking how they’re gonna rebuild their life or whether they’ll trust again or any of that dramatic nonsense people say in stupid medical tv shows.” he leaned his arms on his knees “First thing we do is stop the bleeding, we stop the biggest hurdle and we did that so now, your only job is getting through tonight.”

“I can do tonight,” you whispered

“Yeah,” he said “You can.”

“You really are terrible at comfort.” you wiped at your face

“I’m crushing it actually.” he smirked a bit

“Horribly.”

“I got you laughing twice. Statistically that’s a medical miracle.”

A small smile tugged at your mouth again and Robby noticed immediately but pretended not to. There was a knock at the suite door before your dad poked his head in cautiously “Everything okay ?”

“She attempted homicide via Oscar De La Renta,” Robby answered with a thumbs up getting up from the floor offering you his hand

“I hate both of you,” you muttered standing up

Your father’s expression softened when he saw you calmer then he sighed heavily and rubbed the back of his neck “There’s… another thing.”

“What now ?” your stomach immediately your stomach dropped

“Honey, I couldn’t cancel the honeymoon.” your dad looked genuinely apologetic

You stared at him blankly “The cruise ?” 

He nodded once “The cancellation policy was brutal. It leaves tomorrow afternoon.”

A hollow laugh escaped you “Fantastic, well I guess I’m going.”

“I know honey, I’m sorry.”

“Somewhere out there is a romantic honeymoon suite just waiting to mock me specifically. Fucking amazing” you shook your head “Bring on the tequila and endless room service”

Your dad winced but you didn’t care one bit, this was hell as far as you were concerned and it couldn't get any much worse at all at this point

It was Robby who looked between the two of you and stepped in “How long ?”

“Week and a half,” your father answered

You groaned and covered your face again “This is humiliating.”

“You don’t have to go.” your dad said softly “I don’t care about the money”

Yet somehow the thought of staying sounded and felt much worse, staying meant everyone whispering and random people calling wanting the gossip. It meant having to handle the pity and the never ending questions. Suddenly it felt like you couldn’t breathe inside the room anymore and of course Robby noticed

“You wanna disappear for a little while,” he said quietly

You looked at him, and because you were exhausted and past pretending, you nodded

“Your mother wanted to go with you but—”

“No,” you said instantly, a little too instantly and guilt flashed across your face “Sorry dad it’s just…I just… I can’t be taken care of anymore tonight.”

Before the silence could get awkward, Robby spoke up with a shrug “I’ll go.”

Both you and your dad looked at him confused as he shrugged again like he hadn’t just said something mildly insane “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“You’re offering to come on my honeymoon cruise ?” you asked shocked

“Well when you say it like that it sounds weird.” he rubbed the back of his neck

“Because it is weird.” you looked at him “Really weird Michael, like super weird”

“You’d do that ?” your dad suddenly interrupted 

“She’s not getting on a boat alone in the middle of the ocean while half dissociated.” Robby gave him a look “She should be sedated but given I don’t carry those kinds of medications we can settle for her a chaperone of some sort until it’s determined she can in fact be alone”

“I’m sitting right here,” you muttered with an eyeroll

“And you tried to throw a wedding dress off a balcony an hour ago.” he reminded you “And you threw a bouquet towards my head”

“A very valid emotional response considering you said I was having a tantrum as if I’m some child and not an adult Michael” you scoffed

Robby glanced at you carefully then looked back toward your dad “I’ve got vacation days I never use anyway.”

“You hate vacations,” your dad said with a chuckle “I’ve known you since we were in our 20’s and you literally have never taken a vacation in your entire life man”

“No” Robby shook his head “I hate resorts, humid places, ugly hotels and amusement parks…you invited me to all of those and I kindly declined” he answered and looked at you, his voice softening again in that quiet, steady way that somehow helped you a lot more “You don’t have to decide tonight, but if you don’t wanna be alone, you won’t be.”

Your throat tightened painfully, nobody had said it like that yet. Not fixed, not cheered up and suddenly that felt like the first solid thing you had to hold onto all day.

By four in the morning the hotel had finally gone quiet, your mother was asleep and your father had gone home to shower and change after promising to come back in the morning and Robby was still awake

You had found him sitting at the small dining table near the suite kitchenette wearing reading glasses you had literally never seen before, scrolling through something on his phone with a half-finished coffee beside him

The sight almost startled you. Robby had always existed in your mind as this permanent, immovable figure, your dad’s sarcastic good friend, the ER doctor who never slowed down long enough to look human but right now he looked exhausted

His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, his tie was gone, his dark hair was slightly messy from running his hands through it all night and for a second you just stood there watching him. You looked him up and down and cleared your throat “Okay.”

He looked up immediately “Okay….what ?”

You swallowed once “It’s a deal.”

For a moment he just blinked at you, almost in his own little Robby world as he stared at you and mentally tried to remind himself what exactly you were saying okay to

“The cruise,” you clarified softly “If you’re still serious.”

“Oh, yeah,” he nodded “I’m serious.”

You crossed your arms loosely against yourself “You know everyone’s going to think this is weird.”

“Everyone already thinks I’m weird.” he stated “And frankly after today I’m comfortable letting society down.”

A small laugh escaped your lips and he noticed again but pretended not to, “You sure ?” he asked after a moment “No pressure.”

You thought about the alternative, about going home and facing the calls. The humiliation of it all waiting for you, sleeping in the apartment still full of unopened wedding gifts and waking up to the nightmare of it all over and over again like some neverending horror movie. You then looked at Robby who was awkwardly trying his best

“I don’t wanna be alone right now,” you finally admitted quietly

His face softened in a way that made your chest ache for whatever reason “Okay,” he said again, quieter this time, he rubbed a hand over his jaw and sighed “I should probably call Jack.”

“Who’s Jack ?”

“My best friend from residency.” he stood and grabbed his phone off the table “He owes me three favors and one emotional support conversation.”

You smiled faintly and nodded toward the balcony “I’ll give you privacy.”

“You don’t have to.”

“You’re about to explain to another adult man why you’re going on your best friend’s daughter’s honeymoon cruise.” you reminded him

“Good point.” Robby nodded 

You snorted softly and slipped back toward the bedroom area while he headed out onto the balcony giving him some space but still eavesdropping a bit

“Hey man” Jack answered on the first ring “I had a feeling you’d have a wild night, one night stand ?” “She got left at the altar” Robby said quietly “No fucking way” Jack said on the other line “Wait, this is your friends kid right ? She’s really really good looking, who’d leave her ? She’s a total bombshell, all respect of course” He rubbed his forehead “Seriously not the time right now but yes she’s very….pretty” “I’m just saying” Jack shrugged “I was at that christmas party you invited me to 3 years ago, she was a 10/10….so you’re saying she’s single ?” “You’re sick” Robby shook his head “But aside from that….I won’t be at the hospital for a bit, I uh….I’m going on a cruise…with her…her honeymoon cruise because it’s nonrefundable and she can’t be alone” “Holy shit you like her….you like your friends daughter” Jack smirked “Kinky” “It’s not like that, how could you even think that ? That’s-That’s not what this is” he said quickly “You stuttered” Jack pointed out “You know I kinda assumed you were into her considering when her dad stopped by the hospital to hand you the invite a few months ago, you looked like a kicked puppy your whole shift”

Robby pinched the bridge of his nose “I’m hanging up now, just wanted to give you a heads up.”, he stayed facing the city for another moment before finally turning around

You were still sitting curled up on the bed trying very hard not to smile as you overheard, “You called me pretty.” you chuckled

“I was making a medical observation.” he pointed out

You laughed softly again and this time he didn’t even try to hide the fact that hearing it made him relax, you looked at him standing there in the dim balcony light, tired, kind and completely out of his depth and still staying anyway

“You okay ?” he asked after a bit

“Yeah,” you answered honestly

Robby nodded once “Good.”

The next day after goodbyes and constant reassurements to your parents, you and Robby headed to the cruise terminal, to say it was chaos was an understatement. From families hauling luggage to annoying couples in matching sunglasses and little kids sprinting across polished floors while exhausted parents yelled after them, you were more than entertained

You stood beside Robby in oversized sunglasses and a hoodie, trying not to feel like everyone somehow knew you were supposed to be here with someone else meanwhile Robby looked deeply offended by the entire concept of cruises as a whole

“This many people should not be on one moving object in the ocean,” he muttered as he took both of your suitcases automatically “Is there healthcare onboard in case anyone has an emergency ?”

“You’re the one who agreed to this.” you murmured walking next to him

“I agreed to emotional support. Nobody mentioned little ones and annoying old people” he said back

Despite yourself, you smiled genuinely. You both walked to the makeshift front desk and gave your name. The process went surprisingly smoothly until the employee behind the desk beamed at both of you “Congratulations to the newlyweds !”

You physically choked and Robby froze mid signature

“Oh,” you started awkwardly “We’re not—”

“At all,” Robby finished immediately 

The employee blinked once, smile faltering “Oh” , the other woman behind the desk looked ready to climb into the ocean herself and quickly typed something on her computer to buy time

Robby finally cleared his throat and gave her a tilted smile  “Anyway, cabin with balcony view and protective railing preferably ?”

Still grinning, you followed him down the long hallway toward your suite until the cabin door opened and both of you stopped dead in your tracks

“Oh no,” you whispered

The room looked like Valentine’s Day had exploded all over. Rose petals were scattered across the bed in the shape of a heart and a bottle of champagne sat on top of a bucket chilling on ice. There were towels folded into swans kissing each other and a giant gold sign above the bed that read

CONGRATULATIONS NEWLYWEDS

Robby stared at it for a long moment and shook his head, his face and neck bright red “I’m gonna fight your father.”

You burst out laughing at his tone, “I don’t think he arranged this.”

“Holy fuck, it’s like a bad porn setting.” he rubbed both hands down his face “Jesus Christ.”

You laughed harder as he immediately went into problem solving mode “Okay. Alright. We can fix this.”

“This is not fixable.” you shook your head as you walked over and popped the champagne open “But I will be enjoying this overpriced beverage” You watched, bewildered, as Robby looked around and got to work. Within minutes he had removed the sign, dismantled the towel swans and swept the rose petals into the trash using a room service menu as a dustpan. At one point he held up a chocolate covered strawberry with visible annoyance “Why are these so…. sensual ?”

“You’re taking this so personally.” you took a seat on the couch 

“Because your father has accidentally put me inside a honeymoon fantasy.” he muttered looking around “I became a doctor to avoid situations exactly like this.”

“You became a doctor to avoid romance ?” you asked confused

“I became a doctor to avoid feelings in general.” he nodded

“That seems healthy.”

“It’s worked terribly.”

By the time he was done, the room looked mostly normal, the bed remained the problem. You both stared at it for a beat too long before Robby cleared his throat aggressively “I can-I can take the couch.”

“It barely fits you.” you shook your head 

“I’ve slept in hospital chairs.” he shrugged

Tilting your head, you looked at him and frowned “That’s….deeply concerning.”

“It’s called residency.” he rolled his eyes “Long shifts, too long to get home so lots of us would crash at the hospital” he said as he grabbed one of the extra blankets “Seriously, it’s fine.”

You watched him for a moment and shook your head no again “We can share it.”

Robby looked at you so fast it was almost comical, his face was once again red and you were sure he was about to break into hives seeing how his chest was rising and falling at a fast speed

“Not like that !” you rushed to clarify, “Normal human sharing. Not weird sharing.”

“There are multiple categories ?” he raised his brow

“You know what I mean Michael” you muttered

He looked deeply unconvinced but listened "Explain then ?”

“You take one side with a blanket” you pointed to the side by the door “And I’ll stay under the covers. You stay over them.”

“Like some kind of Victorian arrangement from the 1800’s, nice” he nodded

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet here we are kid, here we are.” Robby sighed “But your rules, I’m just here for the ride. I’m gonna read on the balcony. You should relax, we’re gonna take off in an hour or so”

The first night on the ship passed strangely peacefully after that. You had dinner together overlooking the water, walked the deck at sunset and talked about nothing important. For the first time in days, you almost felt normal again

Then nighttime came. You were curled under the blankets facing the balcony while Robby laid stiffly on top of the comforter beside you like a man awaiting execution. He wasn’t moving and if it wasn’t for his loud nose breathing you probably would’ve assumed he was holding his breath

“Robby, just relax,” you mumbled sleepily “It’s fine, we’re fine”

“I am relaxed.” he said back 

“You’re lying like Dracula.”

“I don’t know how to exist in this situation.” he admitted

You smiled faintly into your pillow before letting out a small sigh “Can I ask you something ?”

“Depends.” he shrugged

“Why didn’t you like me ?” you finally asked

Robby immediately turned his head toward you “What ?”

“When I was younger.” you stared at the ceiling “You always acted like I annoyed you.”

“That’s not true.” he shook his head “It wasn’t annoyance.”

You rolled over slightly to look at him “Then what was it ?”

Robby went quiet and for the first time since this trip had started, he actually looked uncomfortable. Genuinely uncomfortable. Slowly he sat up and sighed “You remember when you came to the hospital in college.”

Of course you did, you were 20 and pre-med. You were excited,  hopeful and desperate for academic approval. You had visited him during one of his shifts because your dad had arranged it and afterward, when you told Robby you wanted to become a doctor he had completely shut you down. You still remembered it vividly.

You’re not cut out for this kid, you should be a teacher. Teachers are cute for people like you, it’s easier.

It had crushed you entirely, you left the hospital that day and cried in your dorm the whole night, “You told me I wasn’t good enough,” you said quietly

Robby closed his eyes briefly “Yeah.”

“Why ?”

He stared up at the dark ceiling for a long moment before answering “Because by then I’d already been doing ER work almost fifteen years. I had no life, I was sleeping four hours a night with nothing to do on my days off because my life was fully dedicated to that job. I watched people die every single day, multiple times a day and it ate me up. And then you showed up,” he continued, “All excited and smart and hopeful and talking about wanting to save people and—” he laughed once under his breath “You looked too good for that life.”

Your expression softened immediately “Oh.”

“I didn’t want you becoming me,” he admitted 

The honesty in his voice hit harder than you expected,“So you hurt my feelings instead ?”

“I thought if I scared you enough, maybe you’d choose something easier.” Robby shrugged 

You studied him quietly in the dim light. He looked exhausted suddenly, older somehow. Like the weight of years in emergency rooms sat permanently across his shoulders. “You know what the worst part is ?” you asked softly

“What’s that ?”

“I still wanted your approval afterward.”

Robby’s face changed instantly, “Why ?” he murmured

“You were and are very important to my dad” you answered “I don’t think you realize how much he looks up to you. I know he’s only 3 years younger but he said when you guys met in med school you helped him, you were there for him no matter what and when he left because my mom got pregnant with me….you were the one to tell him to be with his family. He left to work for my grandpa’s company in New York and made money but you’re the one he always talked about being better. I wanted to be like you, I wanted him to be proud of me like he was of you.”

That seemed to genuinely wreck him for a second and his jaw tightened slightly before he looked away “I’m sorry,” he said finally “For all of it.”

“Do you still think I wouldn’t make a good doctor ?” you whispered

Robby looked back at you “No,” he said quietly “I think you’d care too much.”

With that nothing else was said as you drifted off to sleep as he stayed awake thinking, thinking on how he was gaining feelings he had never felt before. He knew the next few days would be different but at least now the tension was gone.

By the next afternoon, something between you and Robby had shifted, it was just easier and lighter. The horrible raw ache from the wedding was still there, but now it came in waves instead of drowning you whole. And somehow Robby had figured out exactly how to keep your head above water without making you feel pitied. Mostly through distraction.

“You’re aggressively competitive for a man in his 50’s,” you informed him as he crushed you at ping pong for the 10th time 

“You’re just slow for a woman in her late 20’s” he teased You laughed as he grinned for what felt like the first genuine time since the trip began. It changed his whole face when he smiled and you noticed that accidentally. Robby was….handsome, really handsome

The day passed surprisingly well after that. You wandered the upper decks with iced drinks neither of you particularly liked but drank for the sake of having the drink package. Robby forced you to eat lunch instead of surviving entirely on coffee and chips and you spent almost an hour sitting in deck chairs watching the ocean while he told you horrifying residency stories that somehow became funny coming from him

At one point you caught yourself forgetting, just enough to laugh without it hurting afterward and Robby noticed it too. You were leaning against the ship railing near sunset when your phone rang. The sound alone made your stomach drop and Robby looked over immediately from beside you as you stared at the screen, it was your fiance. Your chest tightened so fast it physically hurt.

“You don’t have to answer,” he said quietly, but your thumb had already hit accept

“Hello ?”

“Hey.”

Your throat closed and Robby straightened beside you subtly, watching your face

“I know you probably hate me—”

“You left me at the altar you asshole !” you snapped

“I panicked ! I got scared and nervous and I ran, I fucked up okay ? I fucked up and I just want you back. I need you back babe. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’ll do whatever it takes, I’ll pay for everything. I’ll-I’ll pay your dad back whatever he spent, please just-” Robby held his hand out silently and you looked at him, confused, “Phone,” he said calmly

Your ex was still talking, “Please answer me, please just hear me out so we can fix this baby. I love you, you know I love you”

Robby kept his hand extended as you hesitated then slowly handed him the phone “Robby…what are you gonna do”

He said nothing and lifted the phone to his ear “You do not get to do this to her. You lost the right to ask for anything when you abandoned her on her wedding day so stop calling her, get your shit out of her apartment and fuck all the way off.” he hung up and looked back at you before throwing the phone over the railing 

“Robby !”

“I’ll buy you a new one.” he said calmly

“You just threw my phone into the Pacific Ocean !”

“Atlantic.” he corrected you 

“That’s not the point !” you looked down at the ocean in front of you “What the fuck ?”

“You were about to let him manipulate you.”

“I was not—” you defended quickly

“He says he loves you after humiliating you publicly and disappearing without explanation ?” Robby shook his head once “No.”

You stared at him, stunned, passengers nearby were openly watching now but Robby didn’t care even slightly

“You don’t get it,” you said shakily “I was with him for 6 years.”

“Yeah ? He still left you.” he said back stepping closer as he lowered his voice “Listen to me, I may not know anything about love or romance but I do know he doesn’t get to come back now because he’s lonely or guilty or scared. Someone who loves you doesn’t do that kind of thing. He doesn’t get to change his mind while you’re still hurt. You deserve someone who doesn’t ever have to second guess how they feel about you….you deserve someone who knows…who knows that they want to be with you and who likes you, genuinely likes you”

“Hopefully that day comes soon” you said softly

By the 6th night of the cruise, the honeymoon suite had started to feel strangely normal and somehow you and Robby had fallen into a rhythm that felt dangerously easy. Dinner in crowded restaurants had become exhausting after people kept smiling knowingly at you both, so that night you ordered room service instead. Robby claimed it was because he was socially fatigued and you went right along with it

Now the two of you sat cross-legged on opposite sides of the bed with room service trays between you, breaking his rule of no eating on the bed. You were halfway through stealing fries off his plate when you noticed him staring out toward the dark ocean quietly

“What’s up ?” you asked

“Hm ?”

“I’m reflecting.” he answered you “And eating this greasy burger that’s gonna make me fatter than what I already am”

You chuckled “You’re so annoying”

Comfortable silence took over, the kind that had slowly started happening between you without either of you noticing. After a bit you looked over at him “Can I ask you something ?”

“That depends how invasive it is.” Robby said back 

“It’s invasive.”

“Hmm” he took a sip of his drink “Proceed.”

You hesitated briefly and went for it, “Why didn’t you ever get married ?”

The question landed harder than you expected and you saw it immediately in the way his expression shifted. He didn’t look defensive, just surprised. Like nobody had asked him that in a very long time

Robby leaned back slightly against the headboard, his eyes dropping toward the untouched fries in his lap, “I almost did once,” he admitted quietly

Your eyebrows lifted a little “Oh ?

 “Residency.” he shrugged “Years and years ago”

“What happened ?”

“She got tired of waiting for me to come home.” he looked at you “She wasn’t wrong, I missed everything. Birthdays. Dinners. Holidays.” a faint humorless laugh escaped him “One year I slept through Christmas entirely in an on-call room.”

You frowned “That’s horrible”

“I kept thinking things would calm down eventually,” he explained “That once I became an attending I’d suddenly become a normal person.”

“But you didn’t.” you whispered

“No.” he answered tired, absentmindedly rubbing his wrist “After a while it just became easier not to try.”

“What about kids ?” you finally asked and for the first time since you had known him, he looked genuinely vulnerable. 

“I wanted them.” his answer came quietly, he looked down at his hands “When I was younger I thought I’d have all of it eventually.” he smiled faintly to himself “House. Wife. Kids yelling somewhere in the background.”

You could practically picture it and suddenly it hurt to imagine him never getting any of those things. It was such a basic thing that most men took for granted and here he was still yearning for that

“But after enough years,” he continued softly “you kinda accept maybe that life just isn’t for you.”

“Robby…”

He shrugged again, trying to play it off “It’s fine.”

But it clearly wasn’t, you reached across the blankets without really thinking and rested your hand over his. He went completely still and your fingers curled lightly around his larger hand.

“You don’t know that,” you said quietly, his eyes lifted to yours slowly “Anything is possible.”

Robby’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes and suddenly the air in the room felt different. Your heartbeat stumbled and he looked like he was actively trying not to cross some line in his head

“You should be careful saying things like that to me,” he said softly

“Why ?” you whispered

His thumb shifted slightly beneath your hand “Because I’m starting to think about things I shouldn’t.”

One hand came up carefully to your cheek, rough fingertips brushing softly against your skin like he was giving you time to stop him but you didn’t so he kissed you. It was nothing like you expected. It was nice, intentional. Like a man who had spent years holding himself back and had finally allowed himself one thing he wanted 

Your fingers tightened instinctively around his hand as he kissed you slowly,  like he still couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to. When he pulled back slightly, his forehead rested briefly against yours

“Tell me if this is a bad idea.”

“It doesn’t feel like one.” you answered with a grin

Something in his expression softened and this time when he kissed you again, he smiled against your mouth first.

The next morning felt different immediately, softer. You woke slowly to sunlight spilling through the balcony curtains and the low hum of the ocean waves beneath the ship. For one disorienting second, you forgot where you were, then you felt warmth beside you, Robby

Memory came back all at once after that. From the kiss to another kiss…to a desperate makeout session to the both of you fucking the whole night. Your stomach flipped and carefully, you rolled slightly onto your side. Robby was already awake, he was sitting near the edge of the bed in gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt, elbows resting on his knees, coffee in hand while staring out toward the balcony

You could always tell when he was thinking too hard. His shoulders got tense in a very specific way and his eyes had this dazed look in them

“Morning,” you said quietly

He looked back immediately “Hey”, his voice sounding rough from sleep

You pushed yourself up slowly against the pillows and held the bedsheet up to your chest “How long have you been awake ?”

“Hour maybe.” he nodded and set his coffee down “We should probably talk.”

Your stomach dropped a little “Oh.”

“No, not in a bad way.” he chuckled “I mean, I don’t see it that way”

“That sentence is always followed by something terrible.” you scooted closer to him, your arms wrapping around his neck from behind “It better not be terrible Michael”

“I’m a doctor. We deliver bad news professionally, don’t you worry” he leaned his back towards you “I meant what I said,I like you. You know that, right ?”

You nodded “Duh ! I mean look at me ?”

Robby chuckled  “But…” he looked down at his hands for a second before continuing “But I’m also 52 and I’m your dad’s good friend and you just got abandoned by someone you were supposed to marry.”

“Robby—”

“Ah, Ah…listen.” he looked at you again “I don’t want you waking up in a month realizing this happened because you were hurt and lonely and I was just… there.”

“You weren’t just there,” you said quietly 

His jaw tightened slightly like hearing that made it harder instead of easier, “Maybe not,” he admitted “But this is still complicated.”

You watched him carefully and suddenly you realized what this actually was, it was fear. Robby was trying to give you an out before you could regret him.

“Last night mattered to me,” he spoke again “Probably more than it should’ve.”

Your heart stumbled painfully at that and you did your best to keep cool because inside your heart, it mattered to you too

“But when this cruise ends…” he exhaled slowly “If you decide you want things to go back to normal, they can.”

“Normal ?”

“You know what I mean kid” he rolled his eyes

You laughed at him because nothing about this felt normal anymore. Not the way your chest felt like butterflies every time he looked at you, not the way he instinctively reached for your hand whenever a crowd was around and definitely not the fact that he had become the safest place you had in less than a week

Robby stared out toward the balcony again briefly adding his final say “Honestly, maybe it’s better that way.”

Grabbing a shirt on the floor you put it on and moved to sit next to him, taking his hand in yours “Can you honestly believe that ?”

His eyes flicked back to yours and a long silence followed and then finally, with the usual Robinavitch exhausting honesty he carried with him, came his answer “No.”

Your breath caught slightly and you raised your brow “See ?”

Robby rubbed a hand over his face “I think about this going badly and your father never speaking to me again. He’s been my best friend for over twenty years. And if I hurt you, he’d kill me.”

Despite the sudden low mood, you smiled faintly “He absolutely would.”

“Violently.” he added 

“I would to” you winked at him

That earned a quiet laugh from him but it faded quickly “And you also deserve stability right now, not some complicated situation with an emotionally constipated ER doctor.”

“You’re not emotionally constipated.” you shook your head “Just guarded”

Robby gave you a look “Is that what you call it ?”

“You threw my phone into the ocean because you were upset for me, that was emotional clarity.”

“Oh now say that ?” he chuckled

You snorted softly and shook your head and the tension eased for exactly one second before he looked at you again, serious now “I just need you to understand something. If this ends here,” he said carefully, “I’ll respect it.”

“But ?” you asked looking in his eyes

“But I’m not pretending I don’t want more.” he held your gaze

The room suddenly felt very small. You could hear the ocean outside the sounds of the ship waking up for the morning and sitting beside you, Robby looked almost painfully sincere

“I dreamed about this kind of life once,” he admitted quietly “About having someone.” His eyes searched yours carefully “I just never thought it would happen like this.”

You reached for his hand again instinctively and the second your fingers touched his, he relaxed, enough for you to notice.

“You know,” you murmured “For someone who claims he’s bad at comfort, you spend a lot of time trying to protect me.”

Robby looked down at your joined hands, then back at you with a grin “That’s because I’m already in too deep not to.”

[mimi-iscrazy]

Those fics where yn is with a mmc who is misogynistic is so nasty. Women die from these type of men daily, have their lived ruined cause of such mentality and you turn it into some fetish for your smut fanfics? Imagine all the women who died fighting for our rights only for yall to romanticising misogynistic men and enable their behaviours.

[sweetestcowboy]

The Slippage in the System.

୨ৎ pairing .ᐟ.ᐟ michael robinavitch x psych fellow!reader

୨ৎ summary .ᐟ.ᐟ needing control was michael’s biggest flaw. control of his department, especially. when a new psych fellow comes to challenge that control—he’s not intimated—he’s infuriated. he should know better than to go toe-to-toe with dr. jefferson’s new protegee.

୨ৎ tags/warnings .ᐟ.ᐟ female reader, no physical description, no use of y/n, reader is desribed as a glasses user, angst, workplace enemies, enemies to lovers, slowburn (working our way to it), cursing, potential medical inaccuracies, law enforcement presence, potential legislative inaccuracies, assault on a healthcare worker, violence & assault (outside a healthcare setting), workplace stress & trauma, mental health depictions, mentions of alcohol & drug use

୨ৎ authors note .ᐟ.ᐟ i did a jack fic & now i need a micheal fic. when writing this, i thought of reader being the brendon park of the psychiatric department. does that sound crazy?

anyway, the ending does leave room for a part two, which i am strongly considering drafting. if all goes well, you may see it coming...

this is the full version of this snippet!

୨ৎ word count .ᐟ.ᐟ 13.6k

When the restroom door closed behind Robby, he let out the biggest exhale. Head thrown back, hands on his hips, trying to relieve the weight of this shift. What a shit show.

Between the overflow of patients and the pure exhaustion he has felt in the past couple of months, Robby’s resolve was cracking. He was losing sleep and dwindling like a candlewick at its final strands. If there was something left for him, he couldn’t see it. But despite that, today's shift, the usual, felt like his smallest problems.

Apparently, he should’ve worried about something greater than a full, understaffed department.

In reality, he wasn't hiding in the restroom from his responsibility (even if he felt he was drowning in it). He slipped away to dissolve the simmering boil in the pits of his guts.

Every time he closed his eyes, trying to maintain a peaceful attitude with deep breathing and steady concentration, the scene played over in his head.

You stood across from him while he sat at the work station, looking over a chart. A 23-year-old patient who suffered fall injuries from climbing over his neighbor’s backyard fence. Dr. Santos had put in the consultation, and when you went to speak with the patient, the Lorazepam administered had already taken effect.

“I’m just here to tell you I have no intentions of evaluating an unconscious patient. The next time you need a consult, page once the patient is available for an eval.” You coldly remarked, eyes hooded as you stared at him.

You had searched for him to deliver the message personally. Who did you think you were?

The initial shock he had came from the surprise of Dr. Jefferson not being on-call. Robby had warmed up to Caleb Jefferson, who, in the wake of the PittFest shooting, had taken a personal interest in Robby’s well-being. Robby had intended to take his recommendations, but he hadn't wrapped his mind around therapy, as Jack had.

So, when he found a young woman asking around for the attending physician of the emergency department, he certainly didn’t expect that confrontation.

And to really top it off, he didn’t even get your name.

You, a nameless psychiatrist, had been arrogant enough to approach him and remind him of protocol, as if he were your resident. He assumed you felt entitled to purposefully not introduce yourself. As quickly as you came, you slipped away, claiming to have more patients to check in with.

That was two hours ago.

And here he was, still reeling from it.

He shouldn’t have let it get under his skin so much. He had dealt with worse from administration once he became the chief attending physician of the department.

But he had had enough of the different surgical departments. Garcia questioning his judgment or Park imposing his ‘shark’ demeanor over his students. Even Shamsi came down a time or two to remind them they were ‘fixing’ their butch surgical jobs.

The last thing he needed was a psychiatrist imposing herself in a department she wasn’t familiar with.

Walking out of the restroom, only slightly calmer than before, he headed straight for the central hub. There were still six hours left of the shift, and he was sure the rest of his staff was feeling it.

When he saw Santos, he knew. Her temple rested against her fist, dictating notes. He slowly approached, craning his head to catch her attention. Lifting her sights, she sighed, pausing her notations. Her hand fell onto the desk, resigned and visibly flustered. “How can I help you?”

Robby furrowed both his brows, hands stuffing into the pockets of his jacket. He shook his head, a small chuckle of endearment escaping him. “You sound peachy.”

“Don't ever say that again,” Santos warned, twisting her neck from side to side. She grimaced, with tense muscles and an achy back. “I’m just ready for today to be over.”

“Well, you still have half your shift left and patients to see. I’m sure your charts can wait a moment.” Robby pointed out, glancing around the ED, where everyone was bustling in a chaotic rhythm.

Santos held in the groan she wanted to let out, opting to throw her head back, leaning further in the chair. Robby noticed the tick in her jaw. “Hey, are you doing alright?”

A scoff left Santos’ mouth, amused by the question. ‘Understatement of the century‘ was starting to become her motto. She flashed her boss a tight-lipped smile, “Yup, just waiting for this day to be over.”

Wheeling back, Santos lazily stood from the chair to walk over to the patient board. She let out a heavy sigh, arms crossing over her chest.

Robby followed her, staring up at the board. That was when he was awfully reminded of the patient. He saw the name on the board, still occupying South 20. He bowed his head, sighing. “Question: How come you ordered a psych eval on an unconscious patient?”

Santos scrunched her face, turning slowly to look at Robby. He turned his body to face her, expectantly waiting for an answer. He lifted a finger to the board, “You gave South 20 Lorazepam, which knocked him out, and then ordered a psych consultation for a patient unable to answer any questions.”

Santos silently cursed under her breath, glancing around as if her psych consult would come around. She had totally forgotten to check in on that. “I just wanted to make sure psych was included. Mohan thought he had some other issues that caused him to jump into his neighbor’s backyard.”

She was no stranger to corrections. It felt like, since she joined, she was on a straight, narrow path of constantly being told what she was doing wrong. He saw the pressure get to her sometimes. Her first day as an intern proved to be a test of her will, and since then, he felt she was grasping at straws sometimes.

Robby crossed his arms, leaning forward a bit. “I appreciate the proactivity, but not when I have psych down my throat about it.”

Santos raised her eyebrows, eyes wide. Robby didn’t look pissed, but he would sure get there if another attending had to call him out for her incompetence. “Dr. Jefferson ripped you a new one?”

“No, the new psychiatrist the hospital hired. She made it clear she doesn’t like wasting her time.” Robby groaned, running a hand down his face. That was putting it lightly. With an audience consisting of Perlah and Princess overhearing your injunction, he felt it was an attempt to demean him.

With much relief, Santos snickered, approaching the nursing station to take one of the charts. She slowly scrolled through to find the patient’s chart. “Ironic considering she’s in psychiatry.”

“Just make sure the patient is alert and oriented when you put in the next consultation request.” Robby gave her a nod, to which she silently agreed.

Before he could walk away, he found Dr. Mohan walking alongside someone. A young woman not dressed in scrubs, but in professional office attire consisting of slacks and some blue blouse. You were staring ahead, listening to Mohan rattle off about something, possibly about a patient.

Santos had turned, her small ponytail swinging with her. When she caught wind of Mohan turning a corner with someone obviously not from the ED, she knew. Clumsily, Santos subconsciously handed the tablet to Robby, who took it. With slight embarrassment, she followed the two of you towards the South rooms.

Despite his better judgment, Robby trailed Santos' steps. He coolly looked around, as if he were doing mid-day rounds. He stopped at the nearby workstation, leaning forward to watch. He saw you sit on the patient's bedside, a chart in your hand as you carefully explained intelligible information. Mohan and Santos stood behind, letting you take the reins.

You sat with the patient for ten minutes, smiling at him before standing from the stool. With your body facing his direction, he saw your relaxed demeanor change. Your face went stoic, lips pressed into a thin line.

Santos tried to hide herself behind Mohan, with the seniority, taking over the patient's care. All three of you approached Robby's direction, and he pretended to be reading a chart.

“Dr. Santos, I appreciate your effort to be involved with your patient.”

Was the first thing Robby overheard you say dryly. He glanced over and saw Santos freeze, hands in her pocket. Your back now turned to Robby, your head cocked to one side. “Need I remind you we all value time, and I can’t respond to consultation appropriately when patients are predisposed.

“Yeah, of course.” Santos fumbled, mustering up a polite smile. The blood had rushed from her face, leaving her staring at something she suddenly feared.

Before she could utter anything close to an apology, you stuck the chart out. “I’ll have a bed ready in an hour. Don’t stall the transfer any longer than necessary, Dr Santos.”

You briskly stepped away, leaving Mohan staring at Santos apologetically. Robby was now shamelessly watching the scene unfold. Comfortingly, Mohan placed a hand on Santos' shoulder, whispering something before continuing with her work.

Santos stood in front of the South rooms, chewing the inside of her cheek. Robby watched as she internally beat herself up before walking away with a huff.

Without hesitation, Robby followed your direction. He was a man on a mission, and when Jesse caught him passing by, he knew it from the look on his face.

Robby found you speaking with the police, posted by the nursing station. You were giving them a report of their detainee’s state. The police didn’t seem pleased by what you were telling them, and you didn’t seem to mind. Your aloofness ignored the restrained objections from the officers. Your candid shrugs and head shakes did little to lighten the tensions in the small pocket of the department.

He only approached you once you had excused yourself, turning away from the officers. Meticulously, Robby had swiftly spun to walk in tandem beside you. With a mere glance, you noticed him. He bowed his head so you could hear him, “Did you do the eval for our patient in South 20?”

“I did, and he presents concerning signs of acute psychosis.” Your steps continued with precision, and Robby felt like he couldn’t keep up the same pace. “I spoke with him twice, and the second time he appeared more apprehensive. We’re moving him upstairs for further observation.”

“The police didn’t like that?” Robby pushed, glancing back once to see the two officers speaking in hushed voices.

You shrugged, making your way around corners and staff like you were made for the bustling crowds. “They never like it when an arrest isn’t simple. More paperwork.”

Robby hadn’t realized he had followed you straight to the elevators till he saw the sleek doors. You stopped abruptly to press the up button. When stepping back, Robby looked around to ensure privacy. “No one likes more paperwork.”

He saw the menial shrug of your shoulders, your gaze barely registering your attention to his words. You kept looking ahead, waiting for the doors to open. He shook his head, hiding the same boil he tried to alleviate in the safety of the private restroom. “The same way my residents don’t appreciate being belittled in front of their peers.”

Your head finally turned to him. Your eyes had squinted at him, like you were reading in between really fine lines. He cocked his head, “This is a teaching hospital, and I'm not sure of your teaching methods, but insulting my residents will provide little educational value.”

You stood there, unfazed by his obvious irritation. Robby wasn't sure if he should be more ticked off by how calm you were or the fact that you looked at him like it mattered little what he said. He squared his shoulders, expectantly waiting for a verbal response.

The elevator dinged, and as you were heading to step in, Robby interfered. Casually sidestepping, his taller frame stood in your way. His height left you craning your head to look at his face. He pressed his lips into a thin line, shaking his head in disapproval. “Look, we can be civilized about this matter. I don't want to zealously escalate this. I just want to know if you understand.”

“I heard you loud and clear, Dr. Robinavitch.” Your head had cocked to one side, an eyebrow raised.

With one-step, your path was clear. Gracefully, you stepped towards the elevator, stopping on the threshold. “If you feel other appropriate measures are necessary, you can speak to Dr. Jefferson. I’m sure he’d welcome criticism about his fellow.”

You wasted no time watching Robby’s dumbstruck expression. With the click of a button, the elevator doors swiftly closed, and he saw his reflection in the sleek metal. One hand dragged down his face, the disbelief hitting him like a freight train—a fellow.

He had let an insufferable fellow under his skin. A psychiatric one at that. The concept felt ironic, as if the universe had planted you in his department to screw with him. If the past few years had felt like being stuck in a labyrinth of self-wallow and despair, you were starting to feel like the Minotaur.

“What are you looking at, Cap’?”

Robby’s head whipped to see Dana approaching him, hands rubbing together. He looked back at the elevator, sparing his reflection one more look before letting out an irritated laugh. “Dr. Jefferson’s new fellow, know anything about her?”

Dana hummed, positioning herself beside Robby as the two walked casually. “I’ve met her a couple of times. She’s pleasant."

“That’s not what I would call her.”

The corner of Dana’s mouth curled upward. She looked him up and down, taking in his edged look. As of late, that was the only appearance he had, but she’d describe this current phase as worse. “What makes you say that?”

“Oh, maybe the fact that she dug into Santos about not wasting her time.” Robby huffed out, a strained and sarcastic smile on his face. Dana's eyes widened in response, “And me, as a matter of fact.”

“You?” Dana questioned, seemingly impressed by that information. Robby gave her a look, which only made her chuckle. “You aren’t the type to let anyone give you a piece of their mind, let alone a psych fellow.”

“What are you trying to tell me?” Robby’s dry laugh made Dana cheese harder. She did enjoy being particularly punchy, especially at this moment.

Dana shrugged, feigning innocence. “You doctors get your panties in a bunch when something sounds remotely offensive. The girl has other patients to see, too, you know?”

Robby appeared bewildered as they continued strolling beside each other. “Since when do you take the side of a psychiatrist?”

Dana joked while shrugging, before bumping her arm against his. “Full of surprises.”

After walking a lap around the Pitt, they ended up back at the central hub. Robby stared up at the patient board, measuring how much worse the shift could get. He wouldn’t have walked out the restroom if he knew another moment of you was waiting for him. It somehow was worse than the first and he didn’t like you anymore than the first time you spoke to him.

“You should speak to Jefferson. There has to be a reason she’s still around.” Dana insinuated, putting on her glasses to grab a tablet.

Robby shrugged his shoulders, uninterested in the suggestion. There couldn’t possibly be a reasonable explanation for Caleb allowing you to continue your fellowship. The two didn’t match.

Caleb had immeasurable patience. It was the only reason he hadn’t given up on pushing therapy options to Robby. However, the longer he got to know you, the more it felt like you were the complete opposite. You didn’t fit the bill to even potentially fill in Caleb’s shoes. Naïve and arrogant was one way Robby would describe you. He couldn’t imagine working with you upstairs in the behavioral health department. There was no hesitation on your part to act conceitedly for the sake of the ‘job.’

It might not be his place to tell Caleb how to manage his department or his fellows, but Caleb was bound to sniff you out if he hadn’t yet. Robby was sure.

A few days had passed, and Robby was keeping an eye on you. The way you strolled into the ED relaxed and stoic. He thought the conversation you two had would strike some nerve, but you appeared very normal. During his shift, you answered consultations promptly, and you’d disappear just as quickly.

You definitely didn’t like to waste time.

The few times he did see you in the week, you were with Mohan or Collins. From the windows or open curtains, he noticed you in your natural habitat, like some animal in an exhibit. You cared about the patients, but the minute you walked out of the rooms, you were clinical. It was as if you had trained to detach yourself. You gave the imitation of a smile and brief ‘hello’s’ when necessary, but he wasn’t sure he had seen you crack a joke or be nice.

Today there was radio silence on your end. He was on the last two hours of his shift, and you hadn’t brushed by with your cold shoulder. The atmosphere didn’t feel as tight or charged, even if Robby felt that way almost every shift.

When he turned to the corner to where the central hub was, he saw Dr. Jefferson wheeling in the opposite direction. Robby smiled, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Caleb, it is very good to see you.”

Caleb laughed, removing the glasses from his face. “Why’s that? Have you finally considered my offer to meet some good friends of mine?”

Robby shrugged, looking away. Dr. Jefferson had been around long enough to meet Dr. Adamson, and Robby, for that matter. Therefore, when the department unfortunately lost him, he kept closer tabs on Robby. Everyone knew the late Chief’s protégée would take up the pedestal, even if he felt himself inadequate for the title. 

They’ve been friendly since then, and with the aftermath of the PittFest shooting, Dr. Jefferson hung around the ED more often than not. He wasn’t personally treating most of the staff, but he connected them with trusted professionals in the field. He had yet to succeed with Robby.

“Still working on that, but I did want to talk to you about something else,” Robby mentioned quietly, walking in the direction Caleb was heading. 

Attempting to hide a grin, he nodded. “Shoot.”

Robby tried to word it lightly, but the strain in his voice gave away enough for Caleb to reach his own conclusion. “There’s a new fellow you failed to mention, and we might have got off on the wrong start.”

Caleb humorously said your name, stopping off to the side of where the elevator was. Robby froze, processing that name; which he hadn’t exactly heard of till now. Labeling the face with a name, the way he did when patients were wheeled in unconscious and unidentified. He’d humanize them and reason with the idea that someone knows and loves the person he’s treating. 

He couldn’t find it in himself to empathize with the likes of you, even with your name.

Caleb placed his hands in his lap, breaking through Robby’s absorbed thoughts. “She’s here for an emergency psychiatry fellowship. I’m glad you two finally met since you’ll see her around more often.”

“About that,” Robby pointed out, with obvious discomfort from the idea. He didn’t want you around. “I don’t know if she’s a good team player.”

“What makes you say that?” Caleb questioned, intrigued by the sudden concern. You must have been different around Caleb for this to pique his interest. You were a psychiatrist after all, how hard would it be to hide your true nature?

Robby sighed, head bowed. “She had no problem reminding me how to consult psychiatry when she found a patient sedated for an eval.”

Caleb made an ‘ah’ noise, relaxing in his wheelchair. When Robby really looked down at him, there was an indistinguishable amusement. The type that felt wrong for the moment. Robby furrowed his brows at the psychiatrist, who returned it with an easy expression. “That’s it?”

What? Robby’s arms crossed over his chest, hands gripping onto his bicep to restrain from acting erratically in front of a psychiatrist. He sputtered a bit, trying to find some other observation of his to alarm Caleb of this new fellow he was gleaning over.

“For someone training to work alongside my department, she seems indifferent to my staff.” Robby rattled off. If he hadn’t noticed, Caleb would have described what he was seeing as behavior from a five-year-old in school. “She insulted an intern in front of a third-year resident.”

Caleb casually rolled himself in front of the elevator. Robby stepped beside him, pressing the up arrow button. “I don’t know of her plans after this fellowship. She is still exploring her options, but have you noticed any other interactions?”

Robby shook his head, lips pursed. He could ramble about how you never cracked a smile or bothered to greet the other doctors when responding to a consultation. You show up, speak with the patient, debrief with his staff, and leave. Simple and efficient, but robotic. He had noticed the weird looks from his residents, unsure if they watched the interactions transcribed correctly.

“Well, maybe it was just a bad day.” Caleb shrugged. He sat pensively staring at Robby. He never liked it when Caleb did that. “She’s working the night shift tonight.”

The elevator dinged with the doors sliding open smoothly. Robby pressed his hand against the slot to keep it from closing. Caleb wheeled inside, spinning gracefully to face Robby again. “Test your theory. Ask the night shift attending if he finds anything of concern, and I’ll follow up with her.”

With a tight-lipped smile, Robby gave Caleb a stiff nod while taking a reluctant step back. The sleek doors slid closed, and the last thing he saw was Caleb chuckling to himself.

That was the opposite of how he expected it to go. Caleb treated the matter as if he expected it to happen. Was this a cruel joke? Was the universe mocking him with an immature, presumptuous fellow? Exasperated, Robby stalked off towards the central hub, looking for a worthy distraction of his time.

Collins was sitting at one of the workstations in front of their behavioral rooms.  He browsed around the ER, checking his surroundings for anything needing immediate attention. His senior resident hadn’t bothered to lift her head as she continued typing and his shadow casted over the desk.

Robby leaned against the workstation, eyes fixated ahead as he lowered his mouth to a level that let them talk privately. “Can I get your opinion on something?”

Collins smiled softly, a tad entertained by the idea. “Depends. As long as it has nothing to do with trying whatever dish you plan to bring for the Thanksgiving party.”

Robby shook his head, catching the small look she gave him from the corner of her eye. He cleared his throat, “No, but thanks for the brutal honesty. It’s about the new psych fellow.”

Collins hummed, the tapping of the keyboard filling the silence of her thoughts. “What about her?”

“Have you seen her interact with any of the other residents or med students?” Robby questioned, eyes narrowing at her as he tried to phrase the question casually. No matter how he put it, she knew he was looking for something implicating. 

Collins furrowed her brows, pursing her lips. “A few times. She’s been responding to most of our consultation requests.”

“And what are your professional thoughts about her?”

Collins paused for a moment, hesitant to answer the question. Robby expectantly looked at her, and Collins knew whatever she said would have weight over his opinion of you. Collins straightened her back, “I think she’s professional. Doesn’t tend to make small talk with us, but then again, that’s not really necessary for patient care.”

“And with patients?” The question came out quickly, like a planned interrogation to find an answer from his earnest resident.

“I don’t tend to stick around to see her interact with them. Mohan seems to think she’s good.” Collins commented. She watched Robby’s reaction from the corner of her eye. She knew he respected her opinion, but he was also fixed in his opinions at times.

“Mohan’s too soft.” Robby offhandedly commented, glancing away as he chuckled more to himself.

Collins shook her head, a teasing look on her face. “Ouch. Tell me how you really feel.”

Robby inhaled sharply, recollecting his thoughts. “I mean, Mohan sees the good in everyone. I’m sure she was impressed by her approach.”

“So you agree she’s good?” Collin’s fingers were moving over the keyboard, logging off. She spun in her chair, facing her attending. He took a step back, letting Collins stand comfortably. 

Looking down at his feet, Robby shook the jab off. Collins meant well, but she could sense there was something more. Maybe he truly didn’t trust you, but she got the idea he was blinded by something out of your control. “My unprofessional opinion? I think if she were a man, you wouldn’t scrutinize her so much.”

Robby scrunched his face, a displeased smile on his face. He made an effort; he was sure Collins recognized that, but even when he was wrong, she always stopped to remind him. Before he could counter, she raised her hands in retaliation. 

“I’m just saying. Anyone can be driven and patient-centered without wanting to be friends with everyone.” Collin reminded, “You do.”

Collins saw a refutation in his eyes. He had been living on the edge as of late. Between Langdon's sudden hiatus and whatever else he was dealing with silently, he was sparking a reputation of a man haunted. She hated to say she spared herself the grief of witnessing what occurred a couple of months ago, but if it saved her from looking like Robby? She was relieved. 

“Robby, incoming trauma. 5 minutes out!”

The attempt was futile. He knew just as much as he did the day before, which was nothing. He should’ve known better than to bet against odds with a psychiatrist. He was beginning to feel confident in the idea that this was an orchestrated, cruel joke.

Coming in for shift change, Robby was antsy to know he was right. He wasn’t opposed to you due to your gender, as Collins suggested, or because he felt emasculated, as Dana inferred. There was something inherently wrong. He had to believe in his instinct about you. 

He had missed the substance abuse signs from Langdon, whom he spent countless shifts and cases working with. His mission was to nip the problem before it spiraled out of his control again. It was for the benefit of the department, he reminded himself

Therefore, when Jack told him nothing imperative of a self-absorbed psychiatrist, he silently cursed under his breath. That doesn’t mean your reclusive persona didn’t go unnoticed. Jack didn’t mind it per se, but he did find it odd when the only person you made small talk with was Shen.

From then on, Robby made sure to keep track of all the cases you assessed. His resident may have noticed their attending hovering more than usual during cases that required psych consults. He was sure you were aware of the new vigilance over his department–because of you.

Robby was walking out of the breakroom when he bumped into you. The two of you were heading in the same direction, and your brisk walk had startled him. You had turned over your shoulder, catching the polite smile on his face. Halting your step, you turned to him. “Dr. Robinavitch, just the person I was looking for.”

“Is that so?” Robby asked with an amused tone. He pumped hand sanitizer, rubbing it into his hands. “What can I do for you?”

The phrasing of his words must have been humorous, because for once, the corner of your lips curled upwards. You didn't let him bask on that reaction for long, shaking your head. “I have an update on your patient in Central 12.” 

Stuffing his hands in his jacket pocket, he shrugged. “Isn’t that Dr. Collins patient?”

“Yes, but I know you have a special interest in the case.” You teased. The relaxed expression on your face didn’t resemble that of the comment, but you were testing the waters. Better put, you were testing him. 

Considering this was one of the few times the two of you had spoken, he was impressed by your professional demeanor. He scoffed, shaking his head. “I am especially interested in all the patients that come into my department.”

“Well, isn’t it strange that you tend to linger and question those that require my consultation?” You cocked your head to the side, eyes narrowed at him. He didnt miss the satisfaction in your eyes. A small triumphant glimmer in your eyes, seeing him crack a little, the center of his forehead creasing.

Robby opened his mouth, finding some cool and respectable way to deflect the accusation. You glanced away, watching nurses pass you both by. “That’s beside the point. I’m putting the patient on a psych hold. He will have to stay down here for the meantime.”

“May I ask why?” Robby posed, eyebrows furrowed deeply.

From what he recalled of the patient, a 28-year-old male who came in reeking of booze with a head laceration after some drunk and disorderly pick up from officers. The patient had come in slightly combative and agitated, which, after looking at his tox report, was explained by alcohol and drugs in his system. How could it have escalated enough to validate a psych hold?

“He’s a danger to others. Presents grave disability.” 

Robby stared at you with wide brown eyes. He was expecting more than eight words to justify keeping a patient with substance abuse. He pressed his lips firmly, “Which would be what exactly?”

“I spoke with Mr. Romano’s family, and he has a history of schizophrenia. Apparently, he’s been off his medications for months.” You directed him away from the break room, moving over to the corner by pedes, where a small kitchenette was. Robby had his back to the rest of the ER. “When I spoke with the patient, he endorsed auditory hallucinations.”

“And you’re sure that is not a result of the drugs and alcohol in his system?” Robby questioned.

The prompted mistrust in your judgment must have rubbed you the wrong way since you cringed, nose twitching subtly. “EMS report supports what I heard from the family. The patient all but confirmed it when he kept rambling about ‘demon in walls.’”

A hand rubbed the back of Robby’s neck. He was almost done with the shift. He didn’t need to deal with the added luggage of another occupied bed. “I also overheard from Dr. Collins that he was walking, talking, and demanding discharge.”

“And I’m telling you, if you discharge him, he will decompensate on the streets.” Your firm voice was one he had yet to hear. Typically, you spoke with little cadence, but now, he knew he had pushed your buttons.

The sentiment of your voice left no doubt in Robby that you were offended by his objections. Robby had obvious authority over the department, over his residents' actions, and the ultimate say in many of their decisions. You were the gray area. Working in the emergency room required Robby’s involvement, but he wasn't your boss. 

Robby crossed his arms, a displeased smile on his face. “We don't have the availability to hold him.”

“Put him in one of the behavioral rooms.” You suggested, waving off his obvious irritation. “All he needs is routine medication dispensing and soft restraints, if necessary.”

Robby shook his head, the idea hitting deaf ears. “I don't have enough nurses to spare to dispense meds on a schedule. Why can't you take him upstairs in behavioral health, where he’ll actually receive the proper treatment?” 

“We don't have availability. Current bed wait time is at least 24 hours.” 

“Fuck me.” Robby groaned out loud enough for the surrounding staff to hear. His hand dragged down his face, lazily shaking his head.

You noticed the sideways glances. The staff noticed the tension between the two. Robby’s reluctance to give in and your reluctance to compromise. Besides the chief’s tight face, you were internally seething, evident in the way your hands tightened, crossed over your chest. 

You shook your head, scoffing, “That hardly seems like appropriate language, Dr. Robinavitch.”

Robby’s cold-stone stare didn’t go unnoticed by you. He should’ve admired your dedication to proper patient care, but he couldn’t help but feel this was all deliberate. “I can start the patient on his first dose of meds and put it into his chart for the next dispense.”

Right as you were going to brush past him, you stopped, craning your head to look at his side profile. “I appreciate your due diligence, but I am capable of doing my job without you breathing down my neck. You can at least show me that respect.”

When he felt the cold air hit him, he turned around, barely catching your back disappearing around the corner. He couldn't distinguish whether you leaving with the last word, or him letting you walk away at all, frustrated him more. He let out a heavy sigh, hands on his hips. It was just luck when he turned his head to see Caleb approaching him. 

Wheeling away from a patient in the north rooms, he warily looked in the direction you headed. “Do I want to know what that was about?”

“I told you. I don’t think your fellow plays well with others.” Robby groveled, stalking past Caleb.

Without missing a beat, Caleb maneuvered his wheelchair, strolling closely behind Robby. He heard the rolling of the wheels behind him, but did not intend to turn back to explain himself. Caleb chuckled, “Well, I have a minute if you’d like to voice your concerns.”

“I don’t think that’ll do much.” Robby offhandedly commented, wanting to strike a chord in Caleb. Maybe you were picking up since transferring this ugly habit. You had to have learned it from somewhere. 

“You could give me the benefit of the doubt by talking to me,” Caleb emphasized, which halted Robby’s steps.

The two had somehow made it to the lockers, where Robby found himself practically gridlocked between the double doors and Caleb. With slight shame, he turned to face Caleb who patiently waited for the right moment to speak again. 

“Look, I’m sorry if you felt dismissed the last time.” Caleb initiated genuine sincerity in his apology. “I liked to believe my favorite fellow and ER physician can learn to get along on their own in a perfect world.”

The smile threatened to cross his lips. Caleb’s grin certainly didn’t help Robby hold the stoic expression. Robby shook his head, “Flattery? Is that something new you’re trying in your practice?”

“I’m still workshopping it. You’ll have to let me know if it’s effective or not.” Caleb joked, smiling up wider at Robby.

With easier breathing, Robby crossed his arms, shouldering his words with some dignity. If he was going to grovel about a colleague, he wanted to sound like the situation warranted it. “She seems to go out of her way to make my job difficult. I find it hard to believe she isn’t doing it out of enjoyment.”

“Funny. She told me the same thing about you.” Caleb responded, watchful eyes on Robby’s reactions.

Furrowed brows and a displeased frown told Caleb everything. Robby had been holding on to moments where he felt you ruined the ‘harmony’ of the ER. If he was on edge, everyone else was walking on eggshells. Robby narrowed his eyes at Caleb, “Considering the one time I saw her work with my residents, she insulted them, I wasn’t pleased. It warranted taking another look at her work ethic.”

“She thinks you're scrutinizing her every move, which doesn’t help her treat patients properly, if that is the case.” Caleb pointed out respectfully. His response was diplomatic, even if he knew more than he let on.

Considering how much effort Caleb put in defending you, Robby should’ve assumed you’d share your observations of his rather egregious behavior. You had just called him out about. There must be more discourteous observations you had made known to your superior in the privacy of your shared office.

“Maybe I don’t want some overly confident psychiatrist disrespecting my staff.” Robby scoffed, offering Caleb a tight-lipped smile. He no longer needed to pretend to be nice. They were close enough for Caleb not to be offended and for Robby to be blunt.

“You mean you?”

Robby stood dumbfounded by the question. Everyone seemed to misinterpret his message. Collins, Dana, and now Caleb. He had made his bed, totally approaching the situation of you with little bias, he thought. If he did it all for the sake of the department, no one could question his judgment over you.

“If your residents have a problem with her, let them come to you,” Caleb suggested, friendlier intentions than when you told him to back off. Robby stood with his hands on his hips, still unsure. “If this is about you feeling disrespected, find a way to work it out.”

“She’s not malicious. She just has a hard time letting people in. You should identify with that.” Caleb gave Robby a firm nod.

Reluctantly, Robby agreed. Caleb wheeled backwards before turning and disappearing in the chaos of the department. There couldn’t possibly be anything the two of you shared in common. Robby refuted the idea that the two of you could find a comfortable middle ground to become friends or friendly.

You probably would’ve made it your mission, so it wouldn’t be so easy if Robby dared to attempt. Your cocky attitude was an enigma eating away at him, and if he let it go longer, his department would suffer for it. He’d head Caleb’s words, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to waste his energy on a lost cause.

Pretending to be civil must be a hidden talent of yours. A superpower reserved to further dig yourself under Robby’s skin. Whether intentional or not, it was working. 

In the last couple of weeks, you’ve kept your dialogue with him minimal. He knew you sought him out regarding all your cases, and neither of you made any comment on the fact. You’d give him your thoughts on a patient, any patient-care requirement from the psychiatric side, and disappear without so much as a farewell.

Robby didn’t expect it whatsoever. He didn’t assume you’d recover from the heated encounter with pleasantries and fake niceties. Robby couldn’t say the same about himself. He did attempt to compliment your efforts, but before he could get a word out, you’d wander away, abruptly ending his chances.

He stopped after the third attempt.

“Someone called for a psych consult.” Robby overheard as he was passing by the nursing station. He had recognized the sound of your voice by this point, from the rare times he heard it.

Robby halted his steps, peering over the brim of his glasses. You leaned against the central hub, speaking with Perlah, covering Dana while she (undoubtedly) took a smoke break. It was almost surreal to see you more comfortable than ever. You were sporting dark tortoise shell glasses, and the cardigan over your button-up was cozy. Maybe the holiday spirit was warming you up.

“I’ve got it, Perlah,” Robby called out from behind, making his way around the circular station. Perlah smiled politely before stepping away.

Robby glanced knowingly at you through the top of his glasses. He scrolled through a device in his hands while you stood around, bored almost. “I assume Dr. Jefferson is currently unavailable?” 

“That is a safe assumption to make.” Your vague response had his finger freeze, hovering over the screen. If you were amused by the scrunch on his face, you kept it to yourself. With a sigh, you nodded. “He stuck with a patient upstairs. I was available.”

Robby’s sights landed on the middle-aged man sitting in BH-1, hands on his head, and elbows resting on his knees. The room was empty and cold, for necessary precautions. Your eyes followed the direction he was looking at, examining the patient from afar. 

“Escorted by police, brought in by ambulance, after he threw acid on a pedestrian's face,” Robby informed in a low and serious tone. Standing beside him, his head craned down to be closer to your ear, defined the gravity of the situation.

“Right before Christmas.” You scoffed, shaking your head. Business was particularly busier with the change in whether and the usual holiday injuries that brought more people to the ER; which only meant more work for Robby and his staff. 

“Why was he brought in and not immediately detained?” You questioned, lips pursed in deep thought. 

Robby made the mistake of glancing at you. He saw the pensive expression, watching the man rock back and forth on the cold mattress top. The subtle rise of your chest was evident. You weren’t rattled or shaken yet. If he could describe the fleeting look in your eyes, he would see something human. The case was already personal for you, as all the others once you took them on.

“He suffered bruising and other surface wounds from bystanders attempting to stop him from fleeing.” Robby chuckled dryly at the irony of the situation. You reap what you sow. “He has proven defiant to treat, but police won’t allow us to discharge him until we at least do a tox-screen.”

You hum, nodding as you digest all the information. Craning your head, you looked up at Robby, who was staring at the man. “And why page psych? Because he chose a bizarre way to assault someone?”

Robby scratched the side of his beard, admittedly humored by your statement. He shrugged. “Witness statements claim he was aggravated but unprovoked before the attack. They want to make sure there is some legitimacy to those claims.

“So, sniff out the crazy?” You joked, gracing him with a crooked smile. It was a crude joke, but it also appeared like you had made it countless times before. 

Robby awkwardly chuckled, unsure how to properly react to the remark. You simply shrugged, “Dr. Jefferson would’ve thought it was funny.”

You straightened your back, hands digging into your pockets as you pulled out a couple of pens, tossing them onto the counter. “Considering this patient is high-risk, I’ll need security and a nurse on standby outside the room.”

“Wouldn’t it be best to have two physicians in the room?” Robby questioned. He took off his glasses, stuffing them into the pocket of his scrub top. 

You began to take off your jewelry, consisting of dainty necklaces and small hooped earrings, as if it were second nature.  “I’ll be fine on my own. Since this is your department, I’ll have you assign a nurse.”

“I assign what nurses work in what cases.” Dana casually strolled up behind you, pressing a tablet into her chest. 

Her eyes shifted from Robby, then to you. When she looked back at Robby, she was watching his posture and grip on the tablet. You spun around, nodding in understanding. Dana peered at Robby from over your shoulder. He stood there silently, too silent for comfort. 

Dana slowly looked around, noticing Jesse passing by. “Jesse! You’re with me!”

Jesse halted, staring among Dana, you, and Robby. Dana pointed her head toward the behavioral rooms. “Stand watch with me while psych does their eval.”

“Great.” You clapped your hands with little enthusiasm. Looking at Robby one more time, it was obvious he had reservations about the entire operation. “You’re welcome to observe, Dr. Robinavitch, but I understand you’re busy here. I can find you once I’m done. Wish me luck.”

Without waiting for his response, you walked over to the officer, calmly explaining the approach you were going to take. Robby leaned back into the nursing station, carefully gazing over your soft movements. When the door unlocked, you walked into the room, calm and collected. Robby held his breath when the door closed, and he saw you position yourself by the right wall. 

“She’s ballsy for wanting to go in there on her own,” Dana muttered, scooting closer to Robby. When her arm brushed his, she felt the tense muscles in his shoulder. With concern, she turned to head to get a better look at the rest of him—on edge and skeptical.

Jesse scoffed beside the charge nurse, shaking his head as he casually leaned against the nursing station. “I wouldn’t want to be stuck in a room with a man like that.”

“Robby,” McKay came around Robby’s other side, hands in her jacket pocket. She came to a halt when she noticed the small crowd watching in the behavioral room. “Is that the guy?”

Robby pensively nodded his head. From the window, you were lowering yourself onto the ground, disappearing from behind the door. He teared his eyes away to look at his second-year resident, gawking at the scene. “I can’t believe they brought him here instead of arresting him.”

“Did you need something?” Robby posed the question, hands on his hips. 

With his back turned towards Dana, she was positive something was bothering him. She knew he was on the cusp of crawling towards a hole no one could pull him out of. Whether it was drilling himself in the work or not allowing himself a second to breathe, it was all slowly drowning him. 

What she didn’t expect was for you to enter the behavioral room to elicit such a response in him as it did. Sure, he grovels a bit about protocol. Last thing she suspected he wanted was for you to break the rules right under his nose, but she sensed it went beyond that. It was like when the door closed, separating you from the safety of outside the behavioral room, an odd, doom-like chill ran through him.

McKay gave him a tight-lipped smile, turning away from the gallery, observing the interaction. The last thing Dana and Jesse heard was her motioning to a patient in one of the central rooms. The small glance Robby threw towards your direction over his shoulder didn’t go undetected by Dana or McKay as he was pulled away.

The air was uneasy, or so Robby thought. It felt thick and opaque as he jumped around the ER from patient to patient. The unsettledness tended to appear when an apprehended patient came in, especially one known as violent. 

Everyone kept a watchful eye when passing by the behavioral room. Apart for Dana and Jesse, who were the assigned nurses to the case, as well as the officers and Ahmad, everyone still felt inclined to check in. When Robby answered a trauma, luckily passing by BH-2, he caught your eye through the glass. One firm nod, and he stalked the ambulance bay. 

Almost two hours had passed by, and you were still in the room with the detainee.

Dana and Jesse had gone in a few times. The room had somehow felt chillier than outside, and you were comfortable in it. Administering meds or checking vital signs made the detainee flinch. You had easily distracted him. Although he hid his face under his long, dark hair, he engaged with little grunts and noises that you could coherently interpret.

“How is she still in there?” McKay questioned, leaning one arm on the nursing station. She turned to Dana, who was writing away on the device. “I thought she convinced him to do the blood test already.”

“She did,” Dana responded, partly focused on checking in with their current available room. There were four hours left of the day shift, and the tension was still on the roof. “Apparently, she hasn’t finished her eval. Have you discharged the patient in Central 15 yet?”

“Still waiting on her CT results,” McKay answered, her head still turned to the behavioral room. She furrowed her brows, watching you through the glass. 

“Good news! It came in a few minutes ago, and I need a bed. Get to it, Missy.” Dana grinned, shooing away McKay from continuing her staring, like they were in a zoo.

McKay begrudgingly walked in the direction of the patient, pulling Javadi with her as they crossed paths. Dana shook her head, muttering something about kids. With her head down, she didn’t notice Robby walking up behind her, but she did sense his large presence. 

“How are we doing?” Robby questioned, arms crossed as he stopped beside Dana. It was the first time in the past couple of hours that he could do a proper analysis of the current standing of his department. He appreciated the split second to breathe properly.

“Four hours left. I’ve got a couple of beds opening.” Dana informed, peering at the attending through her eyelashes. 

Robby rubbed the back of his neck, the bags under his eyes sunken in and darker than before. He exhaled heavily, shaking himself awake. “Okay, good, the more patients we can move out, the better. We still have two patients—“

“Hula-hoop!”

All the staff in the vicinity turned their heads in the direction of the call. Robby felt the dread in him at the term thrown. It wasn’t used loosely, and everyone knew to react quickly. When his sight landed on the behavioral rooms, the wave of staff rushing in alarmed him. 

With a burst of adrenaline, Robby rushed over to the room, weaving around the nurses watching. Pushing through to the doorway, the scene played out in chaos. Ahmad was already on the patient, with Jesse pulling him off and tossing him onto the bed. 

A couple of nurses rushed over, beginning to hold him down, putting on soft restraints. When Robby looked down at the ground, you were sitting up, nursing the left side of your face. There was blood dripping down your nose. The crimson red stained the front of your blouse. The hardened look on your face made it clear it was hurting.

Tipping your head back, he heard your labored and uneven breathing. Robby approached you on the ground, examining for other superficial wounds. “What the hell happened?”

When Robby brought up his hands, flashlight pen clicking on, you brushed him off. Maneuvering your head to watch the detainee instead of treating your current wounds. “Push 6mg of Ketamine.”

Your voice was raspy and hoarse, and when Robby’s eyes landed on your neck, he saw the bright red mark. The imprints resembled those of hands, and your skin was raw. He firmly stated your name, “Did he choke you?”

“He punched her before pushing her onto the ground and strangling her,” Jesse informed while stepping away from the patient as the medication was administered. 

Robby looked over his shoulder, watching as the patient succumbed to the medication, no longer thrashing or screaming profanities. Looking back at you, he saw the fresh bruising around your eye, blood surfacing under the skin.  His pen light came up to your face, checking your pupils for reactions.

In an instant, you swatted the light away, cringing at its brightness of the light. You scooted back, providing space to slowly stand. Dana immediately came up to your side, arms hovering under your elbows. “Honey, you need to let Robby check you. You can have a concussion.”

“Occupational hazard. “ You choked out, the strain in your face evident from the pain of suckered in the face and pushed to the ground.

Everyone in the doorway cleared out as you cautiously made your way out. The nurses debated on stopping you, pushing you into a wheelchair, and immediately taking you into a room. They opted not to once they saw you glaring at everyone staring at you. 

Dana trailed your tail, and Robby followed her. One of the arresting officers approached Robby, “Is she alright?”

“I don’t know yet.” Robby sighed, his eyes stuck on you. Dana pulled up an office chair, sitting you down with reluctance on your part. “Your detainee assaulted a physician and is currently sedated. We will have another psychiatrist assigned to no longer waste your or our time.”

The officer scoffed in Robby’s face. The sudden distaste as he looked at you fueled Robby’s current temperament. Shaking his head, the officer tightened his jaw. “We offered our services to the shrink. She thought she could handle hardball.”

Robby let out a sour laugh, his eyes squinting at the heavy-set officer. Before he could boil things over further, Dana called out his name. “We need you over here!”

With one more glare, Robby turned away, approaching the scene of nurses surrounding you and Dana like hawks. Even some of his residents had huddled into the group. Whispering of questions and concerns barely made their way to his ear,

“Okay, everyone, give her space!” Dana instructed, imitating a boundary as she pushed her hands outwards to provide a greater space between you and the ED staff.

“How does your head feel?” Robby started crouching slightly to get a better look at the bruising around your eye.

“I’m fine, Dr. Robinavitch.” You mumbled, pulling your face away from his grasp. 

The incredulous stare he gave you only opposed you more to treatment. Against your wishes, the pad of Robby’s thumbs began to press against your cheekbone, under your eye. He continued this until he reached the side of your nose, where you cringed harder from the pain. 

“You don’t seem fine,” Robby mumbled back, quiet enough for you to hear. You rolled your eyes at him, turning your head.

His examination travelled down to your neck, the swelling going down gradually. Pulling on his stethoscope, he pressed the chest piece to your back. Without much instruction or previous reluctance, you took in deep breaths, holding it, before letting go.

“O2 stats look good,” Jesse informed, lifting the pocket-sized meter. Robby nodded subconsciously, still listening to the sound of your lungs. 

With the proximity, he could smell the subtle hints of vanilla and fruit. The warmth of your skin radiated onto him, and the scent grew bolder. From behind you, he saw the flushed skin on the back of your neck. He safely assumed it was from the manual strangulation, but he wondered if you thought about the little distance between you, too. 

Robby had to remember to focus when he felt you start to sit taller. He removed the chest piece, throwing the instrument around his neck. “Clear lung sounds.”

“We can stick her in North 5.” Dana grabbed your cardigan, still on the desk, and threw it over your shoulders. Your skin may have felt warm, but you were shivering in your seat.

“I don’t need to be coddled.” You looked around at the nurses. The statement was firm, almost self-assured, but you gratefully stuck your arms through the sleeve.

“Pupils were reactive, but I want to rule out a concussion. CT head and maxillofacial.” Robby spoke to Dana, standing at full height. He was no longer focused on your previous disagreements or blow-up; he was acting as the attending physician, now having to care for a colleague hurt on the job. 

“Top of the line for CT,” Dana affirmed, beginning to write you down.

“Page Dr. Jefferson. I’ll talk to him about finishing the evaluation.”

“I can finish it.” You interrupted, standing up with little stability. Your hand immediately grabbed the back of the chair, gripping tightly. “I built rapport with him.”

“And he assaulted you as a result,” Robby argued, stepping closer to you. If you were uncomfortable with the public confrontation, you didn’t let it show. 

He knew the adrenaline was keeping you up, eyes flickering around like a lamb amongst wolves. He did not intend to hound you, but you certainly weren’t thinking logistically. It was probably foolish on his part to assume presumptuously that you’d go down without a fight. If your history had taught him anything was that you were stubborn. Fighting was in your DNA.

“I can do my job, Dr. Robinavitch.” You seethed, fired up by the extra boost coursing in your body.

To the other watching, you seem infuriated from being actively booted from the case. It didn’t make sense why you were fighting so hard if it wasn’t to protect your ego. Yet, Robby wasn’t convinced that was the reason. Your forehead creased, and your lips transitioned downward. A frown? 

“What happened?”

The voice echoed loudly over the ruckus you two created. Dr. Jefferson wheeled around Perlah and Princess, coming up behind you. Closing your eyes and turning your head to hide the masterpiece on your face.

Robby cleared his throat, still staring down at you like a child acting defiantly. “Your fellow was just assaulted by a patient while conducting an evaluation.”

Jefferson called your name, wheeling closer beside you. Jesse had stepped away, and Dana had shooed the rest of the nurses glued to the situation. You knew you couldn’t hide it, so you turned around, looking down at Jefferson. 

He stayed quiet while he looked from the swelling under your eye, to your neck, to the blood drying up. Silently, he evaluated the rest of you, intact but shaken up, even while you tried to hide it.

“Are you okay?” Caleb asked concernedly, which surpassed that of his role as an attending. He asked as a friend or even something fatherly.

You let out an agitated breath, glaring at Robby from the corner of your eye. “I don’t understand all the fanfare. I’m not concussed, and I am competent enough to do my job.”

Caleb, taken aback, looked over at Robby, who disapprovingly shook his head. The environment felt hostile, and if it wasn’t before, it was sure now. Caleb scooted back, “That wasn’t my question.”

Your hands fell to your sides. While the two of you held strained eye contact, your body depleted, the weight of confronting your current dilemma weighing on your chest. All Robby saw was the subtle shake of your head, and Caleb's face contorted.

“Do you have a room for her?” Caleb directed the question to Robby.

“North 5. She’s next in line for a CT.” Dana cut in, offering empathetic smiles all around.

Caleb jerked his head to the side, hands on his wheels as he led the way towards the north rooms. Jesse pulled up smoothly with a wheelchair behind you. Without much thought, you carefully lowered yourself onto the chair, slumping down, your body caving into itself. Once Caleb stepped in to take the reins of the situation, you succumbed to his direction. Robby furrowed his brows, watching Jesse wheel you away, disappear with Caleb into a hallway.

Dana sighed, shaking her head. “Poor girl. She looks confused.”

She turned to Robby for him to respond with some quip about her arrogance or inflated ego, but all Dana saw was an appeal to nurture. Robby saw a deer in the headlights, frightened by the incoming danger. He thought he had you all figured out. Now, he was more confused than ever about what Jefferson saw in you.

Dana expectantly raised her eyebrows at him, and once the silence registered, he faced her with an exasperated sigh. “Right. Alert me when the patient wakes up. We’re going to need the police to take a statement after the CT results.”

Without waiting for Dana’s reply, he stalked in the direction of North 5. Maybe he should know better than to beat a dead horse. You weren’t going to be okay with passing on the case. After three hours with the patient, he would assume not. Yet, he incorrectly thought that if he acted civilly, he might change the outcome.

He slowed down as he approached the North 5 room. The curtain had been pulled closed, appropriately to provide you privacy after the dramatic show in the middle of the ER. Glancing around once, he prepared to announce his presence, his curled fist lifting to the door, until he heard voices.

“No one will think less of you if you drop the case. You were beaten and almost choked to death, for crying out loud.”

Caleb sounded almost infuriated. The man abandoned his patience, and it sounded like a different person to Robby. Even when Robby tested the waters, making comments, passing jokes, and warranting worry, Caleb never faltered.

“I told myself that too once, but I can’t risk dropping from another program.”

Robby furrowed his brows. He knew eavesdropping on a conversation between two psychiatrists was ironically improper, but now he was hooked. He stepped back to obscure the shadow on the curtain, hiding his presence a bit longer.

“The two are hardly comparable.” The exasperation in Caleb’s voice was evident through his sigh.

“Aren’t they?” Your dry, bitter laugh was oddly familiar to Robby. He was starting to feel the same way about this department. “First, this fucking disease, and now this patient? What more do I have to give up until I can just be a good fucking doctor?” 

“Nothing else.” Caleb sighed, and Robby held his breath as the silence settled between you two. “No one is kicking you out of this program, but you can’t tire yourself out with this job either.”

“Caleb, you’ve got a minute?” Robby spontaneously asked, feigning no knowledge of the conversation the two were having in there. 

He heard you mumble something, probably egging him to leave with Robby. After a beat, the curtain pulled back, and Robby caught a glimpse of you. Hands covered your face as you lay back on the gurney; you didn’t bother to lift your head and acknowledge him.

Caleb let the curtain drop, containing you back to the room. Robby stepped aside as Caleb passed the threshold. He motioned to Robby off to the side, putting distance between the two attendings to talk. “What did you need, Michael?”

Robby peculiarly watched Caleb’s expression. The lingering remnants of the heavy conversation settled in Caleb’s eyes as he looked into an abyss. You had an effect on people, Robby thought.

“We need to reassign the case to another psychiatrist,” Robby stated, more as a demand than a suggestion. “The sooner we finish that up and get the report to the police, the better for everyone.”

Caleb nodded with little indifference to Robby’s authoritative stance. Robby casually slipped into the break room, walking over to the coffee pot. Caleb positioned himself by the doorway, leaving the entrance open.

“I agree.” Caleb folded his hands in his lap, he glanced down at his watch. “I’ll debrief later about the patient. I’m sure we have enough.”

Caleb saw Robby nod in silent agreement, hands busy pouring himself coffee in a mug. He fiddled around with sugar packets, the rustling of the packaging clear to Caleb. He bowed his head, inhaling softly. “So, how much of our conversation did you overhear?”

Robby hummed, nonchalantly shaking his head. His nervous smile definitely gave him away when he turned back to look at Caleb. The knowing smirk on his face told him so much. “I’m going to assume you heard enough to have more questions about my fellow.”

Leaning back against the counter, Robby nursed the mug in one hand. He stared expectantly at Caleb. He certainly didn’t owe him anything about you; but if you two were bound to work together for the next year of your fellowship, he should know pertinent information.

Caleb shrugged his head over to the table, inviting Robby to take the moment to listen. Without argument, Robby silently slumped into the plastic chair, mug on the table. Caleb slotted his wheelchair in a space. “Psychiatry wasn’t her first choice. Better yet, a choice at all.”

“She used to be a surgical resident in California.” Caleb laughed earnestly, “I’ve been having a hard time shaking that icy demeanor.”

That must have been a drastic change, Robby assumed. Surgery provided an exhilaration that boosted their egos. He could see a hint of that attitude left, considering how the two of you met. If what he heard was correlated with what Caleb said now, there was something complex with your case. Dropping out of a residency program to join another drastically different program didn’t seem rational.

“How come she’s not a surgeon?”

Caleb paused, and Robby thought he instantly regretted speaking of the topic. It was somewhat invasive of Robby to ask your supervisor why you were different. He should’ve stopped it before it got too far. The coy smile told him the opposite: “You should ask her that.”

Robby bowed his head, laughing to himself. Of course, it was a ploy. Some way to get him hooked enough to push him in your direction. “Well played, Dr. Jefferson.”

With shameless pride, Caleb shrugged his shoulder, feigning humility. When Robby lifted his head, he took a hasty sip of his coffee. “Does this have anything to do with you trying to get us to bond?”

“I think you'll have a much different lens on her if you do try to get to know her,” Caleb suggested, almost certain that his attempts and theories would work. He was occasionally hopeful in his line of work, which sometimes was dangerous. But these weren't his patients; these were his colleagues. Something told him now was the right moment to be optimistic. “Who knows. Maybe you’ll like the person behind the curtain.”

“If you ask me, it sounds like you’re playing matchmaker.” Robby joked, a small nervous chuckle following.

Pushing him to get to know you as physicians working in the same environment was one thing. Caleb didn’t appeal to Robby as the type to be a wingman for either party. Besides, there would need to be a lot of work done for either party to remotely agree to those terms.

Caleb shook his head, a joyous laugh echoing in the breakroom. “No. I just think there’s a lot for me to learn about her as well. But what I do know is she is more human than you make her out to be.”

Before Robby can formulate a response, sneakers squeaked against the linoleum floors outside the breakroom. Robby turned his head towards the door, finding Whitaker stopping at the threshold. Robby sat up straighter. “Did you need anything?”

Whitaker nodded, eyeing Dr. Jefferson, who only offered a polite smile. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Don't worry, we were just finishing up.” Caleb shook his head, hands on the wheels of his chair. He teetered back and forth, looking at Robby. “Promise me you’ll think about what I said?”

Robby gave him a curt nod, sighing as he stood from the chair. Satisfied, Caleb excused himself, wheeling out of the room as Whitaker stepped aside. Bracing himself to finish the shift with the little strength he had, he followed behind Whitaker as he debriefed him. Passing by the north rooms, particularly the one you were occupying, he couldn't help but look in.

The curtain was still pulled closed, providing little view of how you were doing, but Robby imagined this was the biggest inconvenience. His head continued to play the conversation between him and Caleb. A former surgical resident, dedicating herself to Psychiatry, enough so to agree to a fellowship in an emergency room setting. 

It did intrigue him. Enough so, he might note Caleb’s observance. 

It wasn’t news to anyone that the ED staff loved to decompress with alcohol and camaraderie. With winter rolling in with lower temperatures at night, they traded in the outdoor park benches for an indoor, rugged bar. The lights were severely dimmed compared to the fluorescence of the hospital. The antiseptics sticking to their clothes were succumbing to the stench of beer and fried food.

The group that decided to stop by after their shift collectively sat around a booth. Their laughs may have been the loudest in the establishment, tucked away in a corner, but no one made any complaints.

Robby felt the weight of the shift leaving his shoulders. It was rare nowadays that he didn’t take the baggage of his job back home. Lying under the covers, staring at some rerun playing on T.V. had become his way of forgetting. He was trying to convince himself that it was working. 

While in the presence of his staff off-duty, he leaned back in the padded bench, listening to Santos and Javadi lead the conversation. It ranged from reality television to the weird patients they had that day. While Princess was talking about the third patient with a foreign object found inside them, Robby heard the wind come in from the front door.

Sitting at the corner of the booth, he noticed a patron come in, hugging a black wool coat. You had made your way over to the bar, slumping into a stool. The bartender came up to you, taking your order, and when he left, you exhaled the deepest sigh.

From the side profile, he could see you wince as you removed your coat. You were internally intact after the CT. No concussions or breaks in your nose or cheekbone. Simple fractures and soreness that would have to heal on their own. It didn’t mean the exciting shift didn’t leave you wiped. 

He wasn’t able to check in with you during handoff since he didn’t see you leave. Once Dr. Jefferson finished the evaluation for you, resulting in the detainee transferring to a state psychiatric hospital, you had disappeared since then. Mohan had been the one to clear you, and when he came around North 5 for the last time, the bed was empty and cleaned.

Robby didn’t realize he had been staring until Donnie called out his name. Focusing back on the group, they all stared at him, expectantly waiting for a reply. He hummed, raised eyebrows, before his eyes turned back to you.

Most of the group in a position to look in the direction of the bar craned their necks. Their advantage gave them a view of your back, but it was like they all shared the knowing feeling.

“Do you think that was her first time?” Javadi asked, readjusting in her seat beside Whitaker and Perlah. 

“Something tells me this isn’t her first rodeo,” Whitaker mumbled beside Javadi, eyeing you carefully.

You were nursing some dark liquor, taking careful sips while scrolling on your phone. Robby gnawed on the inside of his cheek. Despite the occasional shifting in your seat, you seemed perfectly fine as you could be. The bartender had given you a look when he noticed the bruise, and a few others around the bar had done double takes.

Robby wasn’t sure what his intention was when he excused himself from the group, wandering to the empty seat at the bar beside you. When you turned your head at the sound of the glass bottle hitting the wooden counter, he re-imagined his approach.

He said your professional title politely, while he sat down carefully. His pace allowed a moment for you to object or ask him to leave; yet, when he looked up from the ground, he saw the hint of a smirk. A name came out of your mouth, which wasn’t your surname. He stopped, curiously looking at you.

“I don’t like being called by my professional title outside of work.” You shrugged, taking another sip of your drink.

Robby chuckled, letting the name sit comfortably in his tongue. It rolled out with a smoothness he didn’t expect. Baby steps. “Maybe you should call me what everyone else calls me. ‘Robinavitch’ is a bit of a mouthful, don’t you think?”

You shrugged, turning halfway to face him. Your knees brush his, and he couldn’t help the reflex to flinch away. “I don’t like to get too comfortable with colleagues.”

“You seem not to like a lot of things.” Robby pointed out, resting his arms on the bar. The reverb of his chuckle extended to his arms, which jumped with him. 

“I have a system,” Your eyes darted around the bar methodically, while thinking to yourself. “I don’t like straying away from that.”

“And that means not making any friends?” Robby dragged out his words. While his head was slightly bowed, he looked up at you through his eyelashes. 

Your shirt was different, some grey cable-knit sweater. Surely you had changed after the last blouse was ruined with your blood. Apart from the bruising around your eye, you were still as cleanly maintained as usual. Maybe it was the lighting that hid the dark undereyes they all had from work exhaustion and lack of sleep; but he found it hard to notice a fault in your appearance.

He wouldn’t say he was a lightweight—far from it, actually. After an hour of hanging around at the bar and sipping on beer, he didn’t feel as uptight when he left the PTMC, that was certain. You had looked down at him, the same hooded eyes that had reminded him how to do his job properly when you first met. Even when he felt there could be a turning of a new leaf, you were strict in your program of self-development.

“I prefer to see it as prioritizing the patient’s needs first. I shouldn’t have to make friends to do that properly,” You deadpanned. This hadn’t been the first time you explained yourself, and Robby wandered back to the conversation he had with Caleb.

Your defensive and offensive style of communicating did resemble the type of banter he and Garcia had, except you pushed further than you pulled. A former surgical resident must have been an offensive strike on your record. Especially if the reason was humiliating enough for you to want to hide it.

“There have to be some exceptions.” Robby probed, leaning back into the chair, “How about Shem? I’ve heard you two are pretty friendly.”

The blank expression on your face gave him little notion of what to think. You weren’t visibly taken back from the question, but you didn’t think he had noticed enough to ask. Your eyes then narrowed; more displeased, he had voiced the observation as if there was something more to it.

Lying on the side of your head on a curled fist, you stared at Robby. “I met Shen when he was in med school at UCSF. He did a few rotations while I was a resident.”

“In psychiatry?” Robby followed up easily, now facing you. One elbow propped on the back of the chair, while the other rested on the counter.

You furrowed your brows, eyes hardening to something like a glare. You were skeptical. Robby wasn’t exactly discreet with his line of questioning, and his expectant body language gave away exactly what he was asking for. 

“Did Caleb tell you?”

Your voice sounded strained, and one could’ve assumed it was from the exhaustion. What Robby saw as he examined your face was displeasure. Maybe you were angry with Caleb for sharing your information or Robby for faking pleasantries to dig into your life. Regardless, your tense muscles told him he was entering territory you had marked away as ‘dangerous.’

“He may have mentioned that psychiatry wasn’t your plan A.” Robby’s voice softened, and he almost sensed your disgust from the change of tone. He should've known that you hated pity or anything remotely sympathetic. 

The way you reacted when he and Dana were attempting to examine you made it clear. You were protecting yourself, the way an injured animal may act defensively in the presence of something more intimidating. Robby understood the instinct. 

You dryly chuckled, shaking your head. Apart from that, you crossed your arms. When Robby noticed the grinding of your jaw, he had prepared to excuse himself from the conversation. The tension was palpable, and the stakes were too high to bet. Caleb failed once more on changing Robby’s mind, and he should’ve heeded his own words before tempting fate.

“I was a surgical resident.” You calmly spoke, and Robby felt a shiver from the shift. You had managed to relax the contorted muscles in your shoulder, slumping in the seat once more. “After my third year, I withdrew and joined Psychiatry.”

Robby, who was stunned silent, nodded aimlessly. He offered a tight-lipped smile, “Caleb didn’t mention anything more than that.”

The slow nod brought Robby an odd relief. He finally figured it wouldn’t be the brightest idea to push his luck. Your shaky sigh released the icy resolve you had before this moment. Your eyes shifted quicker, and your foot had started thumping up and down. “It’s not exactly his place to.”

When you turned your face away, the discoloration looked brighter under the overhead lamp. He was forced to look into your glassy eyes. “He seems to think we are more alike than we think.”

“So he thinks we can be friends? He is a sucker for lost causes.” You stated, reaching for your coat hanging on the back of your chair.

Robby's mouth fell agape. Lost causes? His patience was withering, and that might’ve been the last straw. He wanted to give Caleb the benefit of the doubt. He was actively finding reasons to change his point of view about his life, his work, and his relationships. He didn’t need to get along with you, nor did he want it, but he attempted to desire it. 

Lost causes, right?

“So, that’s it?” Robby said with disdain. He noticed the same disinterest in your face from the time you two spoke in front of the elevator. His reflection from that moment came up in his mind, and he wondered why he bothered with all of it in the first place. 

You didn’t bother to look up as you pulled your wallet out of your coat. Slipping cash out of one of the pockets, you drop it on the counter. A twenty. “What more do you want, Dr. Robinavitch?”

Chugging down the rest of your drink, you stepped down from the stool, shrugging on your coat. “You’ve made it pretty clear to me and my superior of your indifference towards me. How can we ever be friends after that?”

“Well, I can admit when I’m wrong.”

“Except, you think you aren’t.” You quickly retorted, giving him a sideways glance while you fixed your coat. You eventually shoved your hands into your pockets, “I don’t mind that whatsoever, but I don’t need you to befriend me to make up for it.”

Despite preparing yourself to leave, you were rooted in your position. He didnt know what you wanted, and he was left with no cards to play with. Pretending to be nice didnt work, nor did actually showing a sincere interest in getting to know you. With the jarring agitation, he was comfortable in believing you were the lost cause. Maybe the universe was fated to make the professional relationship challenging for as long as you were at the PTMC.

“You may think no one notices your devolving behavior, but you’re not doing as good a job as you think you are at hiding it.” 

Robby’s body stiffened. You barely flinched from how stone-cold his face became. Chin raised, and eyes narrowed on him, you were sniffing him out like a dog. He had tried to gracefully push you to open up, even if it meant disclosing he had some insider information. The impression he got was that you made sure to puncture the wound with your words, leaving no confusion.

“You’re not my fucking shrink,” Robby warned, shaking his head as he stood from the bar. In any other scenario, it would be alarming to see a tall man like him go toe-to-toe with a woman at a bar. Especially one already sporting a bruise. 

“And we’re not friends.” You retorted back, head cocking to one side. “Remember that.”

You took a measured step back, letting yourself breathe away from Robby’s frustrations against you. “I’ll let Dr. Jefferson believe that, though–to get off both our backs. But, there’s nothing more you and I need to be doing outside of treating patients.”

Turning away, Robby was forced to stare at your back, once again awarding you the rights og having the last words. It was like every time he was ready to take steps forward, he was pushed back several hundred feet. You were certainly making it impossible for him to make some sort of personal development, if that was in the cards for him at his age.

Time was escaping him, and his hope of turning things around was diminishing with it as well. Caleb had him believing there was a chance to fix something in both of you by mending the tense atmosphere that lived with you both in the same room. 

Robby didn’t need a shrink to fix his problems, and he didn’t need to waste his time fixing whatever was wrong with you, too. So, he’d agree to work in whatever conditions you’d want to live in. So long as you didn’t pretend to know what was wrong with him, and he wouldn’t naively assume anyone could be friends with you.

taglist: @duchesz @thesandbeneathmytoes

[anxietyobsessedyetdepressed]

More Than Temporary

Word Count: 7.6K

Summary: Robby decides to take in Baby Jane but realizes he needs help, he hires you and what starts as just helping slowly turns into something more he doesn't even know he wants which leads to him doing the one thing he always does, hurting others

Warnings: LARGE age gap (reader is in her mind 20's !)

AN: this is my first ever fic and I truly hope you guys enjoy it and let me know what you think :)

Dr.Michael Robinavitch was not made for lullabies and late night feedings. He was made for controlled chaos, for delivering bad news in a calm manner and for hating himself at the end of every shift when he rode his motorcycle home. But there was something about that sweet little baby that just tore his heart out. She was found alone in the waiting room, just a tiny little thing in blankets not aware her mother had left her there. He didn’t understand how a mother could do such a thing to an innocent child despite living it himself at 8 years old By the end of his shift he couldn’t help but go over and check on her, grinning when he picked her up and swaddled her in his arms “I wish someone would swaddle me too little one” he murmured softly, rubbing her back “You sure are a cute one” “You know you can handle it, it’d be good for you,” Dana said gently interrupting the moment “I’ve asked around and no one’s able to, it’s either foster care, you or Jack actually” “Jack ? Abbott wants her ?” he asked with a scoff “No way he’d take her with him, he’d return her the next morning claiming she didn’t enjoy his weird yoga music medley”

“He said he’d do it” she shrugged “He was asking Crus if he still had a bassinet and some baby clothes he could borrow, seemed pretty sure to me considering I saw him adding random baby toys on amazon on his phone with Mohan next to him reading carseat reviews”

Robby shook his head “He….He wouldn’t be able to handle it for more than a week” he rasped out “I’ll take her….she’ll come with me and-and we’ll see how things go. It’s only 3 months and…I don’t want her to go those homes when she’s so little” Dana grinned “I’ve got faith in you” Hours later baby Jane Doe, as everyone lovingly referred to her as, was in his house out like a light after receiving a bath from the nurses before he left along with a fresh new onesie on her. Kinship placement is what they called it, it was temporary. Just until something more permanent could be arranged for her. He had signed the paperwork with Dana by his side who was smiling from ear to ear along with the other day shift crew who looked at him like he was doing the most insane thing in his life

He knew it’d be work but what he hadn’t accounted for were the nights that followed. Her first night was smooth sailing, she had a bottle and was sleeping perfectly all swaddled up in the crib he had asked Crus for….but that didn’t last long at all. The next few nights were hell, actually worse than hell. In the hospital, his exhaustion came with adrenaline, rapid care and purpose. At home, it came with silence broken only by crying he couldn’t quite soothe fast enough despite all his best efforts

After a week Robby knew he needed to be at work, he knew he needed to be back in a space he was comfortable and had control so that’s exactly what he did after dropping off baby Jane with some of the nurses

“You look like hell, Robby.”

He didn’t look up from the chart and chuckled “Thank you, Dana. Insightful as always.”

She leaned against the nurses’ station, arms crossed, studying him with some concern she tried to disguise as sarcasm “You’ve got that thousand-yard stare. Either you’re about to finally quit and live your life or you’ve taken on something you shouldn’t have.”

“Neither.” he shook his head, sighing and finally setting the chart down “I need a night nanny. I need someone qualified,” he continued “Infant experience with overnight availability and who’s reliable.”

 “I might know someone” Dana thought for a second “Actually on second thought, she’d be perfect”

“I don’t want might” Robby said back “A baby can’t have someone that might be good, they need someone who will be good.”

“She’s not a professional nanny,” Dana added quickly, “But she’s good. Really good. My kids use her all the time. She’s out of school and taking a gap year before going back so she’s perfect for the day while you’re at work and she can handle nights. She's incredibly sweet and patient”

His jaw slightly tightened as he typed away on the computer “I don’t need sweet. I need competent.”

“She’s both,” Dana clarified “And she won’t be intimidated by you, which is honestly the biggest requirement here.”

“I’m not intimidating.” he looked at her

Dana just stared at him and raised her brow 

“…Fine,” he muttered “Set it up for me please.”

It was finally later in the day when he got home with the baby and set her down when he heard a knock on his door and went to open it. Slightly staring when you stood in front him, smile on your face, tote bag on your shoulder and covered plate of chocolate chip cookies in your hands He expected someone older, at least mid 30’s or even 40’s. Someone with a resume and proper certifications. Someone who had it together at least with the presence that matched the gravity of what he was entrusting them with. He didn’t expect someone bright-eyed, max in their mid 20’s, offering him cookies of all things. His first instinct was to immediately syay no but given how he could feel the sleep catching up to him he stepped aside and allowed you in “You’re early,” he said 

“By ten minutes,” you replied with a smile “Always better to be early than on time, Michael right ? Nice to meet you” you introduced yourself 

“Likewise” he nodded stepping aside

He watched as you walked in like the space didn’t intimidate you, even though most people felt it immediately. Jack had once joked that his space was as if he purchased an already decorated room from those ikea show rooms. Robby’s apartment was neat to the point of severity, everything in its place, no softness to it except for the small bassinet set up awkwardly in the living room and a record player in the corner by his bookshelf “That’s her ?” you asked, voice lowering instinctively “She’s so cute oh my goodness, look at her cheeks. Can I—?”

“No.”, the word came out sharper than he intended

“Okay,” you said simply, setting your bag down “Maybe after we talk, then.”

He studied you more closely now. There were no visible nerves on you, just steady warmth that felt almost out of place against the hard edges of his life, something that made him feel like his stomach was churning 

“How much experience do you have?” he asked straight to the point

“About ten years, unofficially,” you grinned “I helped raise my twin brothers from the time they were born, they’re ten now. I’ve also babysat for a few families consistently over the last couple of years, Dana’s kids especially. I watch their kids all the time.”

“Infants aren’t the same as children.” Robby nodded “She’s only a few months old”

“I’m aware,” you agreed easily “They’re harder and quieter, except when they’re not.”

That almost earned a reaction from him but he proceeded, “Do you know CPR ?”

“Yes” you nodded “Of course I do”

“Sleep training methods ?”

“Well that depends on what you’re comfortable with. At her age, though, it’s more about rhythm than training.” you nodded “Can’t really force a baby to sleep when they’re still figuring out if they’re crying because they’re hungry or just wanna be held”

He crossed his arms “You’re very confident.”

“I just try to be prepared” you smiled 

“That’s not the same thing.” he shook his head

“No,” you said again, unbothered “But it sure does help”

Breaking the awkward moment a small cry came from the bassinet making them both turn their heads 

“She’s waking up,” you smiled “Oh my gosh that little duck onesie is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen !”

“I’m aware.”

The sound escalated small at first, then building into a cry that immediately tightened something in his chest. Robby let out a small deep breath and stood up as he grabbed a pacifier and blanket from the couch

“I can get her,” you offered gently

“I said no.” he shook his head “Let’s listen please miss”

He was already moving, walking towards the bassinet as he lifted the baby into his still too stiff arms and attempted to give her the pacifier only for her to cry louder

“Hungry,maybe ?” you suggested softly “I fed her an hour ago.” Robby responded as he attempted a bounce technique “She had more than usual with no complaints”

“Another burp ? A different hold ?” you suggested standing up and walking towards him 

“I know how to hold a baby kid” he rolled his eyes slightly annoyed

“I didn’t say you didn’t,” you replied with a chuckle “Clearly you do Michael”

“Robby” he nodded meeting your eyes as the baby’s crying got louder “Call me Robby please” You nodded “Got it, Robby it is”

Something in him was about to snap, not outwardly, but enough that his grip shifted, tension creeping into his shoulders as he felt the familiar feeling of anxiety creep up on him every time she wailed like this 

“May I try ?” you asked, this time more gently

He hesitated, he didn’t trust easily not with patients, not with colleagues, and certainly not with someone this fragile. But the crying was too much and all he wanted was for her to finally stop and be okay “Fine,” he said abruptly, handing the baby over like it was a test “Let’s see how you do”

You took her without hesitation and everything changed in about three seconds. Baby Jane settled almost immediately, not completely, but enough that her cries softened into small, hiccuping sounds. You adjusted her hold, one hand supporting the head, the other rubbing slow, rhythmic circles along her back as she began to coo against your chest

“It’s okay,” you murmured, mostly to the baby but partly to him “You’re alright honey.”

Robby watched, something unfamiliar and uncomfortable tightening in his chest “How did you—”

“Sometimes they just need a different energy,” you said quietly “She may have felt your stress” “Stress,” he repeated, skeptical

You glanced up at him, a hint of a smile returning “Or a different pair of arms. Try not to take it personally Robby.”

He almost chuckled, just almost. Baby Jane was calmer now, not crying and just blinking up, tiny fingers curling against your shirt 

“You see ?” you added softly “She’s all better, aren’t we sweet girl ?”

He unfortunately did see and that was the problem. He hired you that same evening, not because he trusted you, not yet at least. But because when he imagined the night ahead without you there,  he knew exactly how it would go.

The first night you stayed over, he didn’t go to bed, he said he would every time you saw him make his rounds by the living room but he didn’t. Instead, Robby sat at the kitchen counter with a book open in front of him he hadn’t actually read in twenty minutes, listening and monitoring. Waiting for you to make a mistake.

“You can sleep,” you told him at one point, not even looking up from where you were standing near the bassinet. The baby was tucked against your shoulder, half-asleep, her small hand fisted in the fabric of your shirt

“I’m fine.” he flipped through some pages

“You’re hovering.” you mentioned

“I’m supervising.” he responded

You hummed softly, you didn’t agree but you weren’t going to argue just yet “She’s already been fed. I changed her about fifteen minutes ago. She’s just settling.”

“I know.” Robby nodded taking off his glasses

“Then go to bed.” you looked at him “It’s late you hired me to help remember ?” 

“I hired you to assist.” he corrected “That’s different”

You rolled your eyes and let out a sigh “Right.”

The baby made a soft sound, shifting, and she instinctively adjusted her hold again on you again with a little whine that made you smile. He hated how easily you did it, he hated how baby Jane was so calm and peaceful in your hold and constantly crying in his 

“You’re holding her too loosely,” he said after a moment

“I’m not.” you shook your head

“You are. Her neck—”

“Is supported,” you cut in calmly “See ?” you tilted slightly so he could see the angle. It was correct, he knew it was correct but he still didn’t like it

“She should be swaddled tighter.” he nodded putting his book away on a shelf “Makes her feel safe”

“She was. She fussed more so I took her out of it.” you responded 

“She needs consistency.” he said slightly annoyed “We talked about this, she needs to be swaddled every time she sleeps. It’s what gives her that safe feeling”

You shook her head, already reaching levels of annoyance you didn’t know were possible “She doesn’t need consistency Robby, she needs comfort. She’s just a baby.”

“That is comfort.” he threw his hands up “It’s the only comfort a baby knows, Jesus this is what I get for hiring some unqualified kid.”

Somehow you stayed calm, you let out a deep breath and met his eyes “No,” you spoke “That’s control.”

The comment landed harder than it should have, Robby sighed and walked over to you “You’re overstepping big time, let’s not do that.”

“I’m taking care of her.” you sighed “Robby, she-

“I am taking care of her.” he pointed a finger to his chest “Me.” “I didn’t say you weren’t, you just took it that way” you sighed

“Then stop correcting me in my own home.” he snapped 

The baby stirred again, sensing the shift in tone, a small whimper escaping her causing him to quickly calm down and take a seat on the couch 

You immediately softened, swaying slightly “Hey, hey… it’s okay honey”

Robby dragged a hand down his face “This isn’t how this works,” he muttered

“How what works ? Me soothing her when she’s upset ?”

“You don’t come in here and—” he stopped, exhaling sharply “There are procedures, okay ? Structure. You need to follow them.”

“I am following them,” you sighed “Just not all of yours, it’s too much. It’s too…..it’s like she’s still at the hospital and she’s not. She’s here, in your home. In a space where you should feel more at ease and where she should feel secure.”

“See there you go again, that’s the problem.” Robby shook his head “There it is”

“No,” you countered “That’s the difference.”

Silence stretched between you two, thick and uncomfortable. You on one side holding baby Jane in your arms and he on the other looking at you then her, finally deciding to speak

“You’re here on a trial basis,” he said, voice colder now “If this isn’t a good fit—”

“It’s not about me Robby, It’s about her.” you looked down in your arms “She matters, her well being matters. It’s not just feeding her and putting her to sleep, she’s a couple months old. She needs that connection, she needs to know a constant.”

He looked at you then, really looked. He looked at the way you held baby Jane like she mattered, like she wasn’t just temporary and like this wasn’t just a job. It unsettled him deeply because at the end of the day this was temporary “I’m gonna head to bed, call me if anything” he said simply and walked away leaving you in standing there in silence It was a few hours later when you heard him open his bedroom door, he was dressed in a tshirt and sweatpants and those glasses in his hand, he had clearly not slept at all and was about to make it his mission to once again stress out “Robby, go to sleep” you shook your head “I know she’s crying but she’s fine”

But it was no use, he walked past you and settled by the bassinet as he picked her up “I’ve got her”

He checked her diaper despite you telling him it was fresh, her temperature even though you made sure the ac was on a neutral setting, he tried feeding her and the pacifier as well but nothing worked. If anything it actually got worse

“Come on,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “You’re fine. There’s nothing wrong sweetheart, nothing. It’s just us, you know me…you like me”

You couldn’t help but grin and his gentle tone, looking him over you rubbed your lips together. His build was strong but his eyes were the best part. They were like chocolate buttons you wanted to melt into and somehow you knew despite that rough exterior he tried so hard to portray, he was just trying his best deep down Like bad luck baby Jane’s crying spiked again, cutting through whatever he was about to say next and you could see something in his expression crack. It wasn’t anger but frustration edged with something more raw, something that made you take the chance and put your hand on his shoulder reassuringly

“I’m doing everything right,” he whispered lowly, almost like he was trying to convince himself “There’s no reason for her to be this upset, she’s got everything she needs and she’s still wailing as if I’m hurting her or something.”

“There doesn’t have to be anything wrong,” you shrugged 

“That’s not how it works.” he shook his head

“It is with babies.”

“No,” he snapped, sharper now “There is always a cause. There’s always a trigger, a solution.”

“And sometimes,” you said quietly, looking at him “The solution is just being there while they feel it.”

He shook his head “That’s not—”

Like clockwork baby Jane cried harder, her tiny face scrunching, breaths hitching and just like that, his composure finally slipped all the way through

“Why won’t you stop ?” Robby said under his breath strained “I’m here with you, I got this kid to help us out too and you’re just not having it babe, come on. You’re okay, you’ve got me and you’ve got…her”

You smiled weakly, tracing her cheek with with your finger carefully “She likes when you talk to her, I can tell” “I’m not good at this” he shook his head “I don’t know what I was thinking when I signed on to accept this placement honestly, this is the most exhausting terrifying shit I’ve ever done in my life” “You are good at this” you assured “She recognizes your voice now, when you come home and you greet me she looks around for you whenever she hears you. You’re doing a great job Robby, you are. You just need to relax, I know it sounds easier said than done but just remember she feels energy.” “And I’m not good energy” Robby murmured quietly

Shaking your head you scooted a little closer to him, so close your thighs were touching “I don’t know what goes on at work but I can assume it’s devastating sometimes and it’s hard to forget all that horrible stuff. I’m not saying you can just flip the switch, I just think you should realize you have someone waiting for you at home. You might not realize it but you’re everything to her, she recognizes your voice. She looks for you when you’re not around, she knows you”

“It’s only temporary,” he stated flatly, like a shield “I’m just doing kinship fostering for 3 months and then she goes to an actual home and chances are she’ll be adopted pretty fast. Couples love babies and I mean she’s adorable, she’ll have a good stable home.” His demeanor made your stomach drop, you looked down at the baby girl in your arms and couldn’t believe he was so casual about it. Part of you knew it was fear, of what ? Who knew truly. But what you did know was that you’d soak every second with baby Jane no matter what

A month went by and things were better, Robby hovered way less and you found yourself actually having conversations with him that didn’t regard baby Jane. You had learned he enjoyed 70’s music and black coffee with a dash of cinnamon and cream and that he actually loved your baking skills. You also found out he pushed himself beyond limits. It was a day during the week where Robby felt himself feel off, he was sneezing, constantly blinking to get rid of his drowsiness and using endless tissues to blow his nose. He was sick and he was trying his hardest to pretend he wasn’t

He made it halfway through a shift before Dana physically blocked his path and told him to go home

“I’m fine.” he shook his head

“You’re sweating through your undershirt” she pointed out feeling his forehead “Robby you’re way too warm”

“It’s a warm day.” he shrugged

“It’s 68 degrees” she sighed “Look your nose is getting red too”

He opened his mouth and then closed it when he realized he in fact looked like dog shit in the reflection of window of a room “Go home, take a shower and get some sleep” she said softly “Before you infect the entire department.” “Fine” he sighed, he took out his phone and sent you a text I feel like dogshit, I’m heading home early. Keep baby girl out of my reach please.

A response from you came almost right away,

I knew it, I heard you sneeze like crazy last night and you went to bed without dinner. I knew it wasn’t like you

He chuckled as he looked down on his phone screen,

Are you calling me fat ?

Another response in less than 5 seconds,

I’d never Mr. eats 5 cookies just before bed to “settle down” :)

Suddenly he felt his cheeks warm up, he was blushing. He was in the middle of the wall way grinning down at his phone screen and blushing as if he were some teenager, the confirmation he in fact needed to get home "You look like you’re about to collapse.” you mentioned going up to him and helping him set his backpack down and feeling his forehead “Warm, a little too warm”

“Low grade fever, I’ll take some tylenol and it’ll all be fine” he nodded, swaying slightly

Your hand moved from his forehead to his arm, steadying him “Okay let’s get you to sit”

“I don’t need to—”

“Yes, you do.” you said sternly 

“I don’t need to be taken care of. I’m gonna take some tylenol, shower and go to bed. I’ll be all good for tomorrow.”

“Too bad.” you said simply “You take care of everyone else, let someone return the favor for five minutes.”

“I didn’t ask—”

“I know,” you said softly. “You don’t have to.”

Something in his chest tightened again, sharp, unfamiliar and he didn’t like it one bit, he didn’t trust it but he also didn’t have the energy to fight you the way he normally would in a moment like this

“That’s not necessary,” he muttered weakly as you guided him toward the couch

“Sit.”

He sat, not because you told him to but because his body gave out first. He let out a soft sigh as he let his head rest against a pillow behind him. Opening his eyes when you came back with a blanket, draping it over him before he could protest

“You’re shivering.” you said softly 

“I am not.”

“You are,” you nodded, adjusting it anyway “Stop fighting me Michael.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose but didn’t push it off, you had used his first name and he knew that was a warning

“Did you eat?” you asked

“I had coffee.” Robby nodded

“That’s not food and you know it. You barely ate a thing yesterday and it’s the afternoon and still nothing. You need food.”

Shaking his head he managed to sit up a bit “I’m not hungry.”

“You’re sick. You don’t get to decide that.”

His lips pressed into a thin line “You’re very comfortable giving orders.”

“Only when they’re necessary.” you said with a satisfied grin 

“And this is necessary ?” he chuckled

“Yes.”

“…Fine.”

“I’ll make you something light, and tea.” you nodded 

“I don’t drink tea.” he called as you walked away “It’s just flowers in hot water, it’s gross and does nothing for you actually”

“Too bad.” you called back

He huffed softly, too tired to argue and watched as you moved around the kitchen with the same quiet competence you had with the baby. Nothing rushed, nothing hesitant. Just calm and grounding. He watched you for a moment longer than he meant to actually, there was something about the way you managed to stay calm and handle things that he admired, so much so that he leaned back against the couch, his eyes closing despite himself fighting to stay awake and when he did wake up, there was a warm mug in front of him

“You fell asleep,” you said softly coming out of baby Jane’s room “I was making you lunch when I heard you snoring so I let you get some rest while I gave the little miss a bath and gave her a bottle.”

He blinked, disoriented “Oh man…I don’t usually do that”

“You do when you’re exhausted.”

He glanced down at the mug in front of him “What is this ?”

“Tea.”

“I said—”

“I know.”

He took a cautious sip and paused “…It’s not terrible.”

You smiled “High praise, I’ll take it”

Somehow he looked hotter than usual, the beard was scruffier, his hair slightly messy and the scrubs still on were a huge plus you were enjoying. More than anything it was him accepting you taking care of him that was attractive. Things were comfortably silent until baby Jane’s small cry came through the monitor you had placed in the living room

Robby looked over instinctively as he took the blanket off his lap

“She’s okay, she’s been good.” you nodded “Maybe after you eat and take a shower you can see here if you feel better. I figured she’d be better in her nursery than being here out in the open”

He nodded, some of the tension easing “Thank you,” he said after a moment, the words clearly unfamiliar

You didn’t make a big deal out of it, just nodded back “Get some more rest, I’ve got her. Go eat and shower and take a longer nap. I’ll check on you in a bit to make sure that fever stays down. I got it handled here.”

Your words didn’t feel like a challenge, instead they felt like something he could lean on and for the first time since this all started he did exactly that

“Wake me up in 3 hours” he nodded “Please ?” “Got it” you winked

It was the following month when things were rather okay at work that he gave in and asked you to come by and bring baby Jane to visit so a few of the nurses could see her again. They asked about her constantly, slipping it into conversation between cases despite him trying to get them to focus 

How’s she sleeping ?

 Is she eating well ?

 Does she still make that little snort noise ?

He had always answered in clipped updates, never quite knowing what to do with the warmth behind their questions but figured they deserved a visit at the very least. Now he was standing at the nurses’ station, watching as you walked in with the baby tucked against your chest, and something in his carefully structured world tilted. You looked beautiful and baby jane was adorable with her little pink bow headband and matching pink onesie he remembered you had bought for her

“Hi,” you greeted smiling as you approached him, baby Jane was awake, wide-eyed and calm, her tiny fingers curled into the strap of the carrier she was in, giving a gummy smile when she heard Robby’s voice “Hey cutie” he smiled softly as he spritzed some hand sanitizer on his hands “Come here, I didn’t even get to hold you this morning, you were sleeping so good I didn’t wanna disturb you”

But before he could even take her, someone behind him gasped 

“Oh my god, she’s here!” Dana smiled wide “Oh honey” she looked at you “You work miracles look at how absolutely adorable she looks, my god” That was all it took and within seconds, they were surrounded

“Look at her, she’s gotten bigger !”

 “She’s so alert now !”

 “Can I hold her ? Please tell me I can hold her”

You laughed softly, easing the baby out of the carrier gently “One at a time ladies, she’s still small.”

Robby stepped back, he didn’t mean to. But suddenly the space felt crowded in a way the ER never did. The lights were warm and the room too loud but not in the way he was used to. This wasn’t urgency, this was joy

“Doctor Robby, you didn’t tell us she’d be this cute,” one of the nurses teased, bouncing the baby gently

“She’s perfect,” another said “You’re doing a good job.”

He stiffened slightly with a shrug “Just doing what anyone else would do”

They waved him off like that didn’t matter “Still counts, she’s a lucky little baby girl”

His gaze shifted unwillingly, almost back to you. You were smiling again, softer this time, watching the baby with that same steady warmth that had unsettled him from the beginning

“You’re good with her,” a nurse said to you

“She makes it easy,” you replied

“She does,” the nurse agreed “You two make a good team.”

There was a murmur of agreement with the small group of them, “Total mom and dad energy.”

The words landed wrong. They were too close to something he hadn’t allowed himself to name and he felt it then, that tightening in his chest again, but sharper this time edged with something like panic. That wasn’t what this was at all. It wasn’t a family, it wasn’t permanent.

A patient passed by and paused, smiling at the scene. “Beautiful baby,” she said warmly. “Yours ?”

You opened your mouth to explain but Robby cut in quick “No.” his words cut through the moment like glass, “She’s a placement,” he continued, tone detached now “Temporary foster situation.”

The warmth shifted and you went still beside him but he didn’t looking in your direction

“Right,” the patient said awkwardly. “Well… she’s still beautiful.”

“Thanks,” he replied shortly

The nurses exchanged small, subtle glances and you didn’t say anything, you reached out to take the baby back your movements still gentle, still careful but quieter now. Like something had been pulled out from beneath you

Robby felt it, he recognized it and willingly ignored it. “You should get back,” he said abruptly “You’ve been here long enough.”

It hadn’t even been fifteen minutes but you nodded anyway “Okay.”

There was no argument and that should have made it easier but it didn’t. The walk to the exit was quieter than the way in. Baby Jane dozed against your shoulder, oblivious as he walked a step ahead, hands in his pockets, jaw so tight he was gonna feel that soreness later

He had told himself it was fine, that it was necessary. At the end of the day clarity mattered, boundaries mattered. This wasn’t a family and you knew that. You had to know that.

“You didn’t have to say it like that.” you spoke up 

He turned “What ?”

“The way you said it,” you clarified “I wasn’t going to tell them anything untrue.”

“I didn’t say you would.” he shrugged

“But you assumed I might” you shook your head “I understand things, I know the situation but that doesn’t mean you have to be rude”

“I clarified the situation.” 

“You shut it down,” you said gently “There’s a difference.”

“There isn’t.” he exhaled sharply, frustration rising again “You’re reading into this.”

“I don’t think I am.” you looked at him “And I think you know that as well Robby”

“It was a simple question that I gave a simple answer to” he rubbed his forehead

“You made it sound like—” you stopped yourself, shaking your head slightly

“Like what ?” he pushed “Say it”

“Like she didn’t matter.” you whispered “Like she’s just….a burden”

Something in him snapped again “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s how it felt.” you snapped

“Well, that’s not my responsibility,” he shot back 

The words landed the second they left his mouth but your expression didn’t shatter like he thought it would. Instead, it just dimmed, kind of like himself when he realized how cruel the world could be

“I know,” you responded quietly

There was no anger or accusation in your tone and somehow, that felt worse to him than anything ever had. He wasn’t good at this and he knew it would all come crashing down at some point 

“I didn’t mean—” he started, but the words stalled out. Because even he didn’t even know what he meant. He wasn’t lying, the situation was in fact temporary….but only because he couldn’t afford to let it become anything else only to lose it. That the idea of someone seeing them, seeing him as part of something like that made his chest feel like it was closing in within itself. He didn’t have language for that kind of thing so he fell back on the only thing he knew, distance.

“You should go,” he said again, more controlled now

“Yeah.” you nodded “Got it. See you later.”

Things were really awkward after that day, you two only spoke when absolutely needed and would pass off baby Jane who was now 5 months old, and very much enamored by Robby, like you were two divorcees exchanging physical custody with the threshold line being the living room. You’d pretend to be cleaning her bottle or folding her clothes but you’d be watching how he was so much more comfortable with her now He’d come home and quickly wash his hands and pick her up from the play pen and keep her on his lap or in his hold while he did his usual errands around the house. He’d listen to her babble and smile every time she’d give him one back, he was attached and you knew it so when one day you heard him on the phone sounding a little too serious you felt your stomach drop

It was a Tuesday afternoon, a little too late for him to be on the phone with that tone and you knew it wasn’t something good. You peeked from the hallway while he was in the kitchen and just knew before he said anything. There was something about the way his shoulders and stance looked. It was way too rigid and still and the way he was answering was too short.

“Yes, I understand. Of course” he nodded until he went silent for a bit, leaning on the counter top and gripping the edge tightly “Next week…already ?” he paused and cleared his throat “Yes. I’ll have her ready.”

Ready. The word echoed in your chest like something hollow and he hung up but didn’t turn around right away. You gave him a second.

“Robby ?”

He exhaled slowly before facing you, “They found a placement.”

There it was, blunt and straight out just like everything else he did

“When ?” you asked, even though you already knew

“End of the week.” he nodded

The baby blanket you were holding slipped from your fingers “That’s… soon.”

“It was always going to be soon.” he said back

“That’s not—” you stopped, swallowing the growing lump in your throat “That’s not the same thing as this soon.”

He didn’t respond and focused on washing his dinner dish, instead he stayed quiet for once and didn’t bother arguing

“They’re sure ?” you asked, quieter now “There’s no extension ? No…no option to keep her a little longer ?”

“No.” he moved then, picking up some papers he’d left on the counter like there was something in it worth looking at “There’s a foster family,” he nodded “Pre-approved, stable. It’s a good placement for her.”

“I’m not asking if it’s good,” you said, your voice tightening despite your effort to keep it steady. “I’m asking if it’s… necessary”

His jaw ticked slightly at the question “Yes.”

“Robby—”

“It was temporary,” he cut in

“I know that.” you spoke calmly trying your best to ground yourself

“Then this shouldn’t be a surprise.” he rolled his eyes

“It’s not a surprise,” you said, walking up to him “It’s just, it feels fast. It feels like-like we’re just handing her over and that’s it.”

“That’s how it works.” he responded

“That doesn’t mean it’s easy.” you shook your head “She’s almost 6 months old, she’s familiar with you. She looks for you when you’re not around, she whines for you to pick her up. She takes naps on your chest. Robby this isn’t easy.”

“It’s not supposed to be easy,” he snapped

The words hit harder than usual and you flinched just a little at his sudden harsh tone, he noticed but looked away

“She’s settled here,” you continued, softer now, trying again “She knows this place. She knows you.”

“She’ll adapt.” he said simply

“She’s a baby, not a chart you can just adjust—” you said desperately 

“She will adapt,” he repeated, more firmly “That’s what children do.”

Your eyes searched his face for something, anything “And what about you ?”

He scoffed lightly “This isn’t about me.”

“It feels like it is.”

“Well, it’s not,” he said sharply “It’s about her having a long-term placement, which this was never meant to be.”

There it was again. Temporary, always temporary

You took a step closer “That doesn’t mean you don’t have a say.”

“I won’t.”, the finality in that made something in your chest crack

“Why ?” you asked, barely above a whisper “You can, you have to”

He didn’t answer not because he couldn’t but because the real answer wasn’t something he knew how to say out loud. How was he supposed to say Because if I let this be permanent, I’ll lose it…and I won’t survive that pain twice.

So instead Robby defaulted once again to distance, to wanting to gain control. To pushing it away before it could take root any deeper

“You’re getting attached,” he said instead

“I’m already attached,” you admitted “I’m not gonna lie or bullshit you with that being lies”

“You shouldn’t be, that’s not how this works if you want to walk away from it intact.” he responded

“I don’t want to walk away from it,” you met his eyes, the words slipping out before you could stop them “I love her. I know she’s not biologically mine but I don’t care” you added quickly, voice shaking now “I know that. But that doesn’t mean I don’t—”

“Stop.” he said suddenly “You’re crossing a line,” he continued with a harsh tone “This is exactly why boundaries exist and why I said what I did at the beginning of this whole thing”

“Boundaries ?” you echoed, hurt flashing across your face “You think this is just me overstepping ?”

“I think you’re losing perspective.” he sighed 

“I think I’m being honest.” you whispered

“You’re being emotional.” he looked at you “It’s too much”

“And you’re not ?” you shot back, something breaking through “You think this isn’t affecting you ? That you can just, what ? Hand her over and go back to normal ?”

“Yes.” he lied a little too easily

You stared at him “No, you can’t.”

“You don’t know what I can do.” he pointed a finger to his chest angrily

“I know you,” you snapped 

“You don’t.” he shook his head “Don’t say that you do because you don’t”

“I do,” you insisted “I’ve seen you with her. I’ve seen how you—”

“This is temporary,” he snapped again, louder now “It was always temporary ! You knew that when you agreed to this job god dammit !”

“I know it started as a job,” you said in a trembling voice “But it’s not just that anymore and you know it. This has always felt like more than temporary and you know it”

“It’s not to me.” Robby met your eyes “So put your big girl pants on and get over it, okay ? Be an adult. Stop letting those emotions take over, you come off pathetic like a child and not like a grown woman.”

The words landed like a slap, you were sure even he felt it but it was too late to pull them back. You blinked, you weren’t expecting him to be that cruel at all

“Okay,” you said softly, the fight draining out of you all at once “Okay, then I guess I’m the only one who feels this way,” 

He didn’t respond, he didn’t correct you. He couldn’t do that because if he opened his mouth now, something real might come out and he couldn’t afford that. Not when the end was already set

You swallowed, steadying yourself knowing you needed to give him some final words before it all ended “I love her,” you repeated, quieter this time “I know I shouldn’t but I do and-and… I really like you too. And not as…not as just my boss or a friend. I…..I really like you.”

That made his head snap up almost instantly but still he said nothing

“I know you don’t want to hear that,” you went on quickly, before he could cut you off “But it’s true. And I think…. I know…you feel something too. Maybe not the same way yet, but it’s there.”

He shook his head immediately “You’re projecting.”

“I’m not,” you said firmly “You don’t look at people the way you look at me. You don’t trust people the way you’ve started to trust me. You don’t let people in like this unless it matters to you. You don’t let people in because you don’t….you don’t think you deserve to have someone care about you and treat you well”

His chest tightened “Stop.”

“Why ?” you asked, tears finally spilling over your cheek “Why are you so determined to shut this down before it even has a chance ?”

“Because it doesn’t have a chance.” he looked at you “I don’t have a chance, I’ve never had a chance at this whole thing”

“You do now, you do” you went up and held his hand in yours “Listen I know maybe we need to get to know each other just a bit more but that’s normal. It wouldn’t be hard, I know it could work. I don’t want you to be alone and come home to an empty house, I want to be here with you…with her. I want us to work on this Robby, please. Please” you pleaded

“This isn’t real,” he snapped removing his hand for your hand 

That did it, that was the thing that finally made you go still, “Not real ?” you repeated

“It was situational,” he said, doubling down now, even as something in him twisted violently in protest. “You were hired to help with the baby. That’s all this is. I never asked you to love her and I especially never asked you to like me or fall in love with me. Are you serious with that ?” he let out a sarcastic chuckle “Pleading and telling me you want to work on us ? There’s no us kid. You were paid help who thought you were in some romcom in your head. You’re the one who got things confused, not me.”

“Wow.” your laugh came out small and broken “Um okay then”

He didn’t move, he didn’t breathe. He didn’t bother trying to fix it because fixing it would mean undoing everything he’d just forced into place and he didn’t trust himself not to unravel completely if he did

You wiped at her face, nodding slowly “Okay, you’re right,” you added, even though you didn’t sound like you believed it “I knew it was temporary.”

He swallowed hard “Then you should’ve acted like it,” he said, quieter now

A long pause stretched between you two, then you nodded again more firmly this time, almost as if you were copying his behavior. You moved past him, toward the guest room where you kept your things 

“What are you doing?” he asked, something uneasy creeping in now

“My job ended the second you decided none of this was real,” you said, not looking at him “So I guess I’m just… adjusting to that.”

“That’s not what I said.” he said quickly

“It is,” you replied quietly disappearing into the room coming out a bit later with your bag, baby Jane suddenly stirring softly in her crib and rubbing her eyes with her fists. Still sleepy but smiling when she saw you again

You paused beside her, hand hovering for a second then gently brushing your fingers over her head “I’m going to miss you a lot sweetheart” you whispered 

Robby’s chest tightened so sharply it almost hurt “Her placement isn’t until the end of the week,” he said, more abruptly than he meant to “There’s no reason for you to leave before then.”

You looked at him finally, eyes glossy and red, guarded now in a way they’d never been before “I think there is.”

“You’re overreacting.” he said desperately “There’s 4 more days”

“No,” you said softly “I think I’m finally reacting the right amount, you said it yourself,” you added “It was temporary.”

And just like that you handed his words back to him and turned toward the door not bothering to look back as you left and gently shut the door, leaving him alone just as he was when he was 8 only this time he’d also have to leave someone he had grown to love too. 

[xoxo--grace]

"your sugar talkin' isn't workin' tonight."

a rabbot x female!reader fic

chapter three of "my man on willpower"

playlist - spotify

previous | next

cw: robby being a dick, reader tired of robby's shit, more medical jargon, samira not deserving to be yelled at 😢

a/n: this one's shorter than the others and will probably end up being the shortest of the bunch. but tysm for all the support ily. i have a ko-fi linked on my pinned post! not necessary to donate but very much appreciated.

Jack went home an hour or so later, insistent on getting some sleep before coming into work tonight. You hadn’t told him about the pain you were in, chalking it up to an ovarian cyst, maybe a torsion that you could check out later. The pain still came in waves, and once an hour was slowly turning into every thirty minutes. It was hot, burning like a sharp cramp in your abdomen that was taking longer to fade away and becoming more painful each time it came. It’d gotten to the point where you were just irritated as fuck, couldn’t talk to anyone without a hint of attitude, and were ready to take it out on whoever decided to poke the bear.

You’d dealt with countless patients since then and haven’t been able to catch a break since sitting down with Jack. He still believed you were upset about Robby and kissed you on the forehead before leaving. You weren’t sure whether they actually ended up having a conversation. 

Probably not, considering Jack’s hesitance toward the whole thing. 

A waterpark slide collapsed, sending at least four people who were injured and flown in. A kid with a shattered trachea and no airway, a guy with a degloved finger and chest wall pain, a girl with an amputated leg, and you were sure there were a few more. Samira had a panic attack violent enough to think she was having an MI, which had just caught your ear after coming back from a patient’s room. 

You’d made it to her room, Robby trailing behind you. 

“What’s going on…?” You ask, walking over to read the EKG over Langdon’s shoulder. Slightly tachy, but perfect otherwise. Samira was diaphoretic, tachypnic, and slightly ashen, but was speaking in full sentences. She seemed more flustered if anything. 

“EKG looks perfect,” He says, handing it to you for a closer look, which you nod and hand to Samira. 

“It’s normal. No MI here. Just take a breath–,” You pat her knee, which was pulled up closer to her chest. 

“It’s okay, I– I’m okay,” She nods as she reads it, reassuring herself more than anyone else. 

“You don’t look okay,” Robby says, taking the EKG from her and reading it over himself, making you purse your lips. 

“You look like shit.” Joy, the med student, chimes in, prompting Samira to nod. “I feel like shit.” 

“So, what happened?” You ask, sitting on the end of her bed and taking her wrist, feeling for her radial pulse. 

“I-I don't know,” She shakes her head, Robby taking his stethoscope off his neck to listen to her heart. “I just got really hot, and I started having trouble breathing.”

“We should send up some labs, just to be safe,” Robby says, nodding towards Langdon. “Any chance you’re pregnant?” He asks, listening to her lungs this time. 

Samira lets out a flustered chuckle, her aura growing uncomfortable. “I’m not sure if I feel comfortable answering that.” 

“Just answer, between you and me,” You say, smiling softly, in hopes of making her just the slightest bit more comfortable. 

“...No.” She looks off to the side, her lips pursing for a moment. 

“Tachycardia’s mostly resolved now,” Langdon says with a glance at the monitor. 

“Eating and staying hydrated?” You ask, acknowledging Langdon with a nod. 

“Both, one hundred percent.” She nods, still worked up. “I’m doing everything right. It’s everything around me that’s all fucked up.” She rants, her hands waving in gesture as she talks. 

“It’s just my mom calling me over and over again, and now me scrambling to find a job next year. I had it all planned out, and now it’s all just out the window–”

“Wait a minute–” Robby interrupts her with an almost mocking smile, his eyes riddled with irritation. “Is this a panic attack because of your mommy issues?” 

Samira falters, hesitating. “What? No.” 

“Robby–” You try to interject, but he speaks right over you. 

“Jesus. Do you need to go home? You should go home.” He asks in a mocking voice, his arms crossed as he laughs. You stand up from the bed, looking at him with anger. 

“No, I’m fine–” Samira stutters as Robby cuts her off again. 

“I don’t need the fucking liability– go home.” He turns, prepared to walk out. 

“Robby, that’s enough–” You say, before he looks at you with practical hatred. 

“As for you– for all of you, the last time I checked, the ED is a shit show. So let’s all get back to work, huh?” He promptly walks out, your jaw clenched tightly. 

Everyone in the room looks stunned, speechless, and Samira looks almost ashamed of herself. You want to follow him, but you don’t. You unclench your fists, letting out a breath. “Mohan– don’t worry about him. Especially not today. You’re allowed to get overwhelmed. Just– wait for your labs to come back, and I’ll be back when they do.” I tell her, patting her knee again and stepping out, but Robby was nowhere to be seen. 

You search for him, finding him at the nurses' station with an irritated expression that he wasn’t doing a great job at hiding, if he was even trying to. 

“Michael– what the hell was that?” You ask, walking up behind him. 

“Don’t,” He shakes his head, pursing his lips into that sarcastic, mocking smile once again, barely glancing at you. “Not right now.” 

“Don’t be a fucking hypocrite then.” You scoff. “Talking to your residents like that, who do you think you are? She’s hurting. Maybe you should take a closer look at someone else's, like before being a dick.” 

“She doesn’t need to be here if she can’t handle her personal life.” He says firmly, his jaw tense. 

“Like you’re one to talk. You do this all the fucking time, breaking down in the middle of a crisis. It’s not her fault that you refuse to get help and act like a hypocrite.”

He turns around to reply, a yell building up in his chest, but you’re already walking away. 

“And you can apologize to her whenever you grow a big enough pair to do it.” You call back, turning the corner.

“Christ almighty,” You mutter to yourself, quickly walking off to the locker room for a break. You close the door behind yourself, appreciating the cool temperature of the room. You wince, leaning on the lockers in front of you as you feel that cramp rise again, then fall a bit later. 

“Fuck.” You mutter, regaining the strength to walk to your locker. You search through it, pulling out a bottle of pepto-bismol and taking a swig from it. You set it down, letting out a pained breath. It was beginning to grow too painful to bear, and you tried to distract yourself. 

Samira probably was having a panic attack, but it wasn’t the first you’d ever seen from one of your coworkers. Hell, Robby had them too. He shouldn’t have even said something like that to her in the first place. You start to think back on the questions, just out of habit. Any chance you’re pregnant? 

The possibility flutters in your mind for a moment. You weren’t exactly out of your fertile window, yet your clock was ticking, and you weren’t as young as you used to be. There’s no way, you tell yourself, trying to reassure yourself. It wasn’t exactly working. 

Whatever. Maybe you’d end up taking a test later or something, but it wasn’t your concern–

“Dr. L/N?” You look up to the sound of your name being called by a nurse. “Pediatric trauma, coming in hot. All hands on deck.” 

“Yeah, be there in a second.” You tell her, and she nods and steps out.  You let out a shaky, pained breath as that feeling you had this morning rose in your gut once more. Something’s wrong.

umm yes!

also isn't it crazy how stories work? like i know the ending and how to solve the puzzle but u don't lol. i love writing

taglist:

@ellaneyt @barnes70stark @vicky066 @lacontroller1991 @xoxoloverb @slickfilled @the-kakawshi-bird @kamalymaly @shadowkl10 @maystyles @rufles2 @4ria790 @cartersway @aaltriaa @cassieslesboy @vaelyrians @ohh-to-be-rich-and-pretty @idontworkforshield @allenajade-ite @aloverofanything @kneelforloki @kathrinemelissa @fluxlux @staystrongsoa @momdancingtomcr @stardream14 @bethexo07 @beebeechaos @disappearintofanfiction @kitkatrina @amnatreal @longfulforlee @redhooduwu

© property of xoxo--grace. do not repost or use for ai training.

[broimdead1]

The Only Exception

  Chapter 2: Your POV

summary: after finding your bandmate (and occasional hookup) unconscious in the green room, you rush him to the ER, hoping the five months of sobriety he promised were real. when the toxicology results prove otherwise, years of lies finally push you to your breaking point—while one calm doctor becomes the only steady presence in the chaos.

pairing: dr. robby x reader

tags: fluff, angst, reader is in a band, loosely inspired by paramore/hayley williams, age difference, older man younger woman, drug use, addiction, flirting

author's note: heyyyy y'all! i was going to wait a little longer to post the next chapter, but i was too excited for you guys to read it. So here it is :). this one is from the reader's POV, so the pronouns will be "you" instead of "she". i hope this isn't too complicated. feel free to comment, like, or reblog if you're enjoying the story so far. love y'all <3

AO3

The lights of the trauma room were too bright. One of the nurses had pulled up a chair for you to sit at Luke’s bed. He had fallen asleep almost immediately after he was stabilized, his hand now weakly holding yours. He was breathing now, unlike when you found him collapsed on the floor of the green room. Memories of moments similar to that rushed back to you. Finding a spilled bottle of pills lying next to his unconscious body. His breath and heart rate were almost nonexistent. After the first time, you started carrying around Narcan with you wherever you went.   

He was almost five months sober after many fights. You begged him to go to rehab and get clean. He insisted that he didn’t need to. You tried to convince him that he needs to. That the band needed him. You needed him. He didn’t seem to care until he finally did. 

Your relationship was complicated from the very beginning. You met him and your other bandmates in high school. You made your music in your garage, posting it online for practically no one to hear. The summer before your senior year of college, you released a song, and it blew up. None of you could believe it until record companies started calling. You convinced your parents that this was worth it, and instead of finishing school, you started recording albums and touring for thousands of fans. Over the next eight years, your fanbase grew, and your success skyrocketed, and now you’re here, one of the most popular pop-punk bands.

You and Luke had an on-and-off fling. You hook up and have fun without strings. It’s easier than navigating the dating world when you’re famous. You were often approached by people in bars, developing what you thought was a real connection with a stranger, until they let it slip that they’re a fan. You would never hook up with a fan. It crossed a line that you had made early in your career. For Luke, it never phased him. At every tour stop, you’d find him making out or hooking up with a groupie in the Green Room or backstage, or one time, on the tour bus, which you would promptly tell him off for, and he never did it again. The rest of the band were not like Luke or you. They either had long-term girlfriends or were married. You were jealous of their success with partners. Every wedding you attended was another stake in your heart, making you more and more sure you’d never find someone. You’d be stuck hooking up with your guitarist forever. 

You come out of your daze when Luke stirs. His eyes flutter open, unfocused at first, then sharply land on the ceiling, the IVs, the monitors.

“What the—” he gasped, struggling to sit up.

“Easy,” you said quickly, standing and placing a hand lightly on his arm. “You’re okay. Just stay still.”

He yanked the oxygen mask from his face, coughing. “Where… where am I?”

“The hospital,” you reply, trying to keep your voice calm even as panic creeps back in. “You collapsed. You’re safe now.”

His gaze snaps to you, dark and accusatory. “You brought me here?”

You felt a stab of guilt. “I didn’t know what else to do. You weren’t breathing properly—”

“You could’ve just taken me home!” he snapped, voice rising, panic cutting through the hum of the monitors.

“Luke—” you started, but he cut you off.

“You know what this looks like, right? You know how this looks if anyone finds out!”

Your stomach twisted. “You almost died!” you yell louder than you intended to. 

“I was just… I was tired, okay? Maybe dehydrated or something!” he panted, gripping the sheets.

“Really? Dehydrated? That’s what you think this is?” Your voice cracked, tears welling.

“I’m fine. I don’t need… I don’t need this,” he snapped, trying to push himself up again. “You’re—ugh… you’re such a—fucking—bitch!”

The door swung open. Robby stepped in, calm but authoritative, taking in the room: Luke half-sitting, the monitors beeping, you tense beside him.

“Let’s slow it down,” he said evenly, moving closer. 

Luke glared at him. “I’m leaving,” he huffed.

“You’re not leaving yet,” Robby replied, his tone quiet but firm.

“I didn’t ask to be here,” Luke muttered, voice tight.

Robby doesn’t argue. Instead, he gently guides Luke back down onto the bed. “You were barely breathing when you arrived,” he said. “Why don’t you stay here until we’re sure that doesn’t happen again?”

Luke muttered something under his breath but leaned back, defeated for now. Robby turned to you.

“Can I talk to you for a moment?”

You glanced at Luke, unsure, but nodded. “Okay.”

Robby led you down the hall to a small family room. You sat, gripping the chair’s armrest. He sat across from you, expression calm, but his eyes held seriousness.

“The toxicology results came back,” he said.

“And?” You asked, your voice breaking. 

He stayed quiet for a moment. Then gently: “They found opioids in his system.”

Your heart lurched. “No… he’s sober—he’s been doing so well—”

“How long has he been sober?” Robby asked.

You swallowed hard. “Five months…”

He nodded, softly. “Relapse is unfortunately common in early recovery. I’m sorry.”

The weight of it hits you all at once. You wanted so badly to believe in him. To trust him. But why would you? 

“He was going to a program—I don’t… It doesn’t make sense,” your breath quickened, turning into hyperventilating.

Robby stood and took a step toward you, keeping his voice low and steady. “Hey… look at me,” he said, resting a hand lightly on your shoulder. “Breathe with me. In… and out.”

You struggled to follow, but his presence slowly steadied your breathing. He didn’t rush you. He just waited, giving you space to catch your breath.

“I know it doesn’t make sense,” he continued gently. “And I know you wanted to believe him. That’s okay. Wanting to trust someone doesn’t make you stupid. It just makes you human.”

You glanced at him, and for a fleeting second, you noticed a glimpse of something in his eyes. A small, almost imperceptible care. It made you feel seen. More seen than you had been in a long, long time. 

“We’re going to figure this out,” he said, keeping his hand on your shoulder, just enough to steady but not intrude. “Right now, all you need to do is breathe.”

After a few more deep breaths, you finally calmed down enough to think clearly. But calm doesn’t last long. The panic and fear you just rode through twist into anger. How dare he put you through that? How dare he make you feel helpless like that?

You stood abruptly, brushing past Robby without thinking. “I can’t just sit here,” you muttered to yourself, voice tight. “I can’t…”

He followed silently, hand just behind you, ready in case you stumble, but you hardly notice.

You stormed back into the trauma room, and Luke’s eyes widened at the sight of you. “What—what’s—”

“I’m done with this!” you yelled, cutting him off. “Do you have any idea what you just put me through?!”

He blinked, still half-dazed, then tried to sit up. “It’s nothing—”

“You think this is nothing? That collapsing in front of everyone, nearly dying, is nothing?” Your hands shook with adrenaline as you gestured toward him, toward the monitors, toward the chaos he caused.

“I was just tired—dehydrated, okay? I didn’t—”

“Oh really?! That’s your fucking excuse. Not the drugs you took?”

“I’m not—” 

“DON’T LIE TO ME! AGAIN!” You were screaming now. Loud enough for the entire ER to hear, but you didn’t care. “Enough with the lying, Luke! What was it this time, huh? Oxy? Heroin? Fucking fentanyl?” 

Luke glared at you, frustration and guilt battling in his expression, though he doesn’t admit anything. “I said I didn’t take anything! Why are you making this a big deal?”

“Because it is a big deal!” your voice trembling with anger and fear. “You could have died! And you lied about it. I trusted you, Luke. I believed you.”

Robby watched quietly, noting every flinch, every hesitation in Luke’s eyes. His presence is steady, and though he doesn’t intervene directly, you feel a tiny anchor in the storm of your emotions.

Luke slumped back against the bed, muttering under his breath. “I didn’t lie. I’m fine. I don’t need this.”

You froze for a second, chest tightening. “No, Luke, I don’t need this,” you pointed at yourself, voice breaking. “I’m done with you.”

“Baby, please—” 

“Don’t.” You raised your hand sharply, cutting him off. “You’re out. I’m not dealing with you.”

“You can’t kick me out?!” his eyes widened.

“Oh yes, Luke, I can. And I did.” You turned towards the doors. 

“I’m gonna call the guys—they’ll back me up.” 

“I’d like to see you try.” You turned to look at him. “Goodbye, Luke.”

| chapter 1 | chapter 3 (coming soon) |