c⋆ flesh and bones @generation-zero - Tumblr Blog

What Happens in Vegas Never Stays in Vegas

Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch x Reader

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

Summary: After a drunken Vegas wedding, Robby disappears by morning, leaving you with nothing but a ring and a mistake that was supposed to stay in Vegas. But when a pregnancy and state paperwork force you to track down the husband who vanished, Robby learns the truth and this time, walking away isn’t so easy.

WC: 13K

Tags: Drunken Vegas Wedding, Runaway Husband, Unexpected Pregnancy, Forced Reunion, Second Chance Romance, Robby Wants to Stay, Romantic Comedy vibes with some Angst, No use of Y/N

A/N: I would like to apologize. I’ve come to the realization that I can only write one shots or lengthy chapter stories. I can’t write anything in between. With that saying I don’t know how long this story will be but it will definitely be more than the 10 chapter goal I had… sorry 🫥

The movie had been on for almost forty minutes.

You knew that because you’d checked the clock three times in the last ten minutes. Not because you were waiting for Robby. Because you were watching the movie. Obviously.

You shifted deeper into the corner of the couch, blanket tucked over your legs. Rain tapped softly against the windows. The dishwasher hummed in the kitchen, and a covered plate waited in the microwave. Robby’s dinner.

Somehow, that had become normal too. Not just making it. Not just leaving it covered in the microwave. The expectation that eventually the front door would open, his boots would hit the floor, and another day would end the way most of them ended now. Together.

Not always in the same room. Not always talking. Just existing in the same space. Some mornings, you woke up to a travel mug waiting beside the coffee maker because he’d left before sunrise and knew nausea hit hardest before breakfast. Some nights, he came home to dinner already made because cooking for one felt ridiculous when there were two people living in the house.

You texted him when you couldn’t find something. He texted when he was running late. Neither of you had discussed when that started. It just had. A routine forming quietly around the edges of everything neither of you knew how to name. The strangest part was the evenings.

At first, Robby disappeared into his room after work. You understood why. The hospital took pieces out of him some days. Nothing dramatic or visible. Just enough that by the time he got home, he looked like a man whose battery had hit the blinking red line.

Then one night, he wandered into the living room carrying a glass of whiskey and sat in the armchair without explanation. You had been reading. Neither of you said much. An hour later, he finished the drink, said goodnight, and went to bed. The next day, it happened again. And again. Until sitting in the same room became another habit.

Sometimes, he talked. About the elderly patient who finally agreed to use a walker. About a diabetic whose numbers looked better for the first time in months. About a resident who finally got a difficult procedure right after struggling with it for weeks. Little victories most people would never think twice about.

Other nights, he barely said a word. He sat in the chair with his whiskey while you read, watched television, or pretended to understand whatever movie was playing. The silence never felt awkward. Just shared.

You still weren’t entirely sure what that made the two of you. Friends felt wrong. It wasn’t the coffee or the groceries or the dinners. It was the assumption underneath them. The quiet certainty that tomorrow would probably look much the same. Him leaving for work. You being here when he came home. But more than friends felt wrong too.

Neither of you had said anything like that out loud. Neither of you had crossed any lines. You weren’t dating. You weren’t together. You weren’t even sure what pretending would look like. Most days, you weren’t sure what word belonged here.

The father of your child? Technically true.

Except that sounded like somebody you exchanged custody schedules with. Not the man who left coffee beside the machine before work because he knew mornings were rough lately. Not the man who listened to you complain about grocery-store strangers with the same attention he gave trauma reports. Not the man who sat in the living room after impossible shifts because somewhere along the way being alone had stopped feeling preferable.

So maybe there wasn’t a word for it. Maybe that was why it felt so strange. Maybe that was why you kept checking the clock. Because whatever Robby was now, his coming home had quietly become part of your day.

The lock turned.

Your head lifted before you could stop it. A second later, the front door opened and Robby stepped inside, bringing the damp smell of rain and hospital air with him. His helmet hung from one hand. His bag was slung over one shoulder. His jacket was unzipped over rumpled scrubs, and his hair was flattened in the back like he had dragged his hand through it too many times before getting on the bike.

One look was enough. He didn’t have to say anything. You knew. A normal day came through the door talking. Usually with some dry observation about the least catastrophic part of his day. Tonight was not that. His shoulders sat lower than usual. The crease between his brows was faint but familiar now. Not angry. Not frustrated. Tired. The kind that lived deeper than sleep.

He closed the door behind him and stood there for a second, staring at nothing in particular before his eyes finally found you on the couch.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

His gaze lingered briefly, checking. You were starting to realize he always did that. A quick inventory.

Are you in any pain?

Need anything?

Still awake?

Still here?

The usual.

Somewhere along the way, his check-ins had stopped feeling like a doctor assessing symptoms and started feeling like someone coming home.

You lifted your phone slightly. “Dinner’s in the microwave.”

Something softened in his expression. Not enough to erase the day. Enough to acknowledge the gesture.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

That earned the smallest hint of a smile.

“Thanks.”

You nodded, but your attention had already dropped back to the phone in your hand.

The notification was still there.

Women’s Health Associates, Appointment Reminder: Wednesday – 10:00 AM Ultrasound Appointment

You stared at it. Then locked the screen. Then unlocked it thirty seconds later. Tomorrow. The word felt heavier than it should have. You were having an ultrasound.

Not the first one. Planned Parenthood in Nevada had done one early on, enough to confirm what the test and your body had already told you. Enough to give you a grainy picture you’d barely been able to look at for more than a few seconds at a time.

This one was different. It was mostly for the new doctor. Baseline measurements. Dating. Making sure the records started somewhere solid now that you were transferring care. Practical. Routine. Except now Robby was here.

Now he was ten feet away, exhausted from a bad shift, with dinner waiting in the microwave and no idea you were sitting on his couch trying to decide whether to ask him to come. And somehow, telling him about it felt less like sharing information and more like giving him a place beside you. It should have made you feel safer. Mostly, it made everything feel harder to pretend away.

Robby shifted near the door, and you looked up again. He was still watching you. Not obviously. Not in a way that demanded anything from you. Just enough to tell you he had noticed your attention kept falling back to your phone.

“You okay?” he asked.

You closed your fingers around it. “Yeah.”

He did not look like he believed you. He also did not push.

Another thing you were learning about him. Robby brought bad days home with him. He just didn’t open them where anyone else could see. You could feel them anyway. In his face. In the set of his shoulders. In the quiet that entered the room before he said a word.

Mostly, he locked it down. He didn’t unload it onto whoever happened to be nearby or spend hours dragging every terrible thing back into the light. He just carried it until it changed the air around him. You were still learning how to tell the difference between wanting to be left alone and not wanting to be alone.

He rubbed one hand over the back of his neck and glanced toward the hallway.

“I’m gonna shower.”

“Probably for the best.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

“You smell like hospital,” you added.

He glanced down at himself, then back at you. “That bad?”

“You’re not a biohazard, but you are giving strong antiseptic-and-regret energy.”

This time, he almost smiled. Almost. “Fair.”

He set his helmet on the small table by the door, dropped his bag beside it, and headed down the hall. A minute later, the shower turned on.

You looked back at your phone. The appointment reminder still waited on the screen. You chewed lightly on the inside of your cheek. Maybe you’d bring it up after he ate dinner. Maybe when the movie ended. Maybe tomorrow morning.

The fact that you were strategizing a simple conversation like it required a full operational briefing probably wasn’t a great sign. Neither was the fact that part of you already knew you wanted him there. You just had not figured out how to say it yet.

The shower shut off. You looked toward the hallway before you could stop yourself. A few seconds later, cabinets opened in the kitchen. The microwave beeped. A fork scraped lightly against a plate. Small sounds. Familiar sounds. The kind you were starting to recognize without meaning to.

When Robby came back into the living room, his hair was still damp, his T-shirt clinging slightly at the collar. He carried the plate you had left him in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. He paused at the edge of the couch, just long enough to ask without asking.

You shifted your legs under the blanket, making room. “You can sit.”

His mouth moved faintly. “Good to know.”

“Don’t get sentimental.”

“I’ll try to control myself.”

He sat beside you, not close enough to touch, but closer than he would have two weeks ago. The couch dipped under his weight. The movie kept playing, ignored by both of you.

For a while, he ate in silence. You tried not to watch him too obviously. He was quieter than usual. Even for a bad day. His fork moved slowly. His eyes stayed on the television without following any of it. Every so often, his jaw shifted like he was holding a thought in place with his teeth.

You waited until he set the plate down on the coffee table.

“Bad?”

His eyes flicked toward you. He understood you weren’t asking about the shift. Not really. He seemed to understand that, because he didn’t answer right away.

Then he leaned back against the couch and let out a slow breath through his nose.

“Yeah,” he said. Simple. Flat. Honest.

Your fingers tightened once in the blanket.

He looked back at the television. “Just one of those days.”

You nodded. No questions. No digging. No careful attempt to pull the story out of him and make it smaller. You were learning that pushing Robby rarely opened anything. Usually, it only made him seal the door tighter. So you let it go.

The movie filled the space between you badly. Someone on-screen shouted a name into the rain. Neither of you reacted. After a minute, you looked down at your phone again. Locked. Unlocked. The appointment reminder waited there like it had patience.

You swallowed once. “Are you working tomorrow?”

Robby’s attention shifted to you. “No.”

You kept your eyes on the screen. “No?”

“I’m off.”

“Rare.”

“Try not to sound too impressed.”

“I’m overwhelmed.”

That earned the smallest breath of amusement from him.

He picked up his beer, then set it down without drinking. “I was probably going to stop by Duke’s for a bit.”

“The shop?”

“Yeah. Bike needs looking at.”

You glanced over. “That’s usually what people say right before they spend a thousand dollars.”

“Hopefully I’m lucky and it’s something cheap.”

You snorted softly. “That is not how bikes work.”

Robby looked over. “You suddenly an expert?”

“No,” you said, too quickly. “I just know ‘something cheap’ usually means ‘I haven’t found the expensive part yet.’”

His eyes stayed on you for half a second longer.

“What kind of sound?” you asked.

His brow lifted. “What?”

“The bike,” you said, nodding toward him. “What kind of sound is it making?”

For the first time since he’d come home, his attention sharpened for a reason that had nothing to do with the hospital.

“A rattle,” he said.

“When?”

He blinked. “When?”

“Cold start? Idle? When you throttle? Under load?”

Robby stared at you.

You stared back. “What?”

“You know what under load means?”

“Michael.”

“No, seriously.”

You looked back at the television. “If it rattles cold and settles once it warms up, check the cam chain tensioner.”

The room went quiet. Not the heavy kind this time. The surprised kind.

Robby slowly set his fork down. “You know what a cam chain tensioner is.”

“I know lots of things.”

“No normal person knows that.”

“Maybe I’m secretly fascinating.”

“I already knew that,” he said, then seemed to realize he’d said it.

Your eyes flicked toward him. His jaw shifted once.

You looked away first. “My dad rides.”

“Rides?”

“A lot.”

His expression changed slightly. Not teasing now. Careful. “How much is a lot?”

You adjusted the blanket over your legs. “Enough that I spent half my childhood holding flashlights and being told I was pointing them wrong.”

That got a quiet laugh out of him. “Universal childhood experience.”

“Yeah, well, most kids weren’t learning the difference between primary chain noise and valve train tick before they learned long division.”

Robby’s eyes stayed on you long enough that you felt yourself trying to make the story smaller.

“He tried to teach me to ride when I was six.”

“Six?”

“Dad of the year. My feet didn’t even reach anything. Obviously, it was a very professional operation.”

“Obviously.”

“My grandma chased him with a broom. Called him every name in the book.” You smiled despite yourself. “He laughed the whole time.”

The memory settled over you before you could shove it back. Hot pavement outside an open garage bay. Bikes lined up in crooked rows, chrome flashing under the sun, engines ticking as they cooled. Men in worn leather vests and oil-stained jeans stood around with paper coffee cups, cigarette smoke, and too many opinions.

Someone laughed loudly near a toolbox. Someone else was already arguing about the right way to fix a problem that had probably been solved twenty minutes ago. Your dad crouched beside a bike with grease on his hands, grinning like trouble was a language he spoke fluently. You loved that part. You didn’t always like admitting it.

There had been something satisfying about the noise and the order hidden underneath it. About listening closely enough to tell the difference between a healthy engine and one begging for attention. About watching your dad take something rough and stubborn and coax it back into smoothness with patience, profanity, and the absolute confidence of a man who believed every machine owed him an explanation.

You used to like riding too. Not the reckless parts. Not the stupid parts. Not the nights when the whole crowd rolled out together and your grandmother watched from the porch with her mouth pressed into a thin line.

But the quieter parts. The hum under your ribs. The wind pulling the world open around you. The feeling of everything narrowing to road, sound, balance.

You glanced down at your stomach and let out a small, dry laugh. “Obviously not doing that anytime soon.”

“No,” Robby said, a little too fast.

You looked over.

He exhaled. “That was a doctor answer.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I have a license. I feel obligated to use it.”

“Even off the clock?”

“Especially off the clock. Nobody can stop me.”

His mouth twitched when you laughed.

Robby picked his fork back up, but he didn’t interrupt. Just kept eating slowly, like he had nowhere else to be and nothing better to do than listen to whatever pieces of yourself you were accidentally handing over.

That made the joke fade a little.

“My dad had friends,” you said. The words came out lighter than they felt. “Bike friends.”

Robby’s gaze lifted.

“He had a very committed group of biker friends,” you said lightly.

Robby took a sip of his beer. “Biker friends?”

“They had matching jackets and everything.” Your mouth pulled into a small smile before you could stop it. “Very organized. Charity rides during the day, questionable decisions after dark.”

Robby looked over. “Questionable decisions?”

“I’m being generous.”

“That bad?”

“I said questionable, not the kind of story that starts with, ‘Allegedly.’”

His mouth twitched.

You almost smiled too, but it faded before it fully formed. “Sometimes both.”

The room quieted. Robby didn’t make you explain. He just nodded once, slow and understanding.

“Duke was part of a biker club. He’s told me a story or two,” he said.

You looked at him. “Then you get it.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I get it.”

You looked back at the television. “My grandmother actually liked most of his friends.”

Robby glanced over. “Most?”

“She said they were perfectly nice right up until they all got together.” A smile tugged at your mouth. “Then suddenly everybody started having terrible ideas.”

“Group effort.”

“Exactly.”

He took another bite of dinner. “And your dad?”

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. “Usually the one suggesting them.”

That earned a real laugh. Not a polite one. A genuine one.

“That sounds suspiciously specific.”

“Because it is.” You shook your head. “My grandmother used to swear there was a direct correlation between the number of motorcycles in the driveway and the likelihood somebody was about to make a terrible life choice.”

“Solid research.”

“Peer reviewed.”

“Naturally.”

The smile lingered a second longer this time. “She loved him, though.” The words came quieter. Easier somehow now that you weren’t looking at him. “Drove her absolutely insane. But she loved him.”

Robby nodded, not because he knew your grandmother, but because he understood loving somebody who wasn’t easy.

You looked down at the blanket gathered in your lap. “He really was a good dad. Not perfect.” A short laugh escaped you. “Obviously.”

Robby smiled faintly.

“But he never missed birthdays. Never forgot Christmas. Never made me wonder if he loved me.” Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “A lot of things in his life were a mess. His temper. His choices. The people he scared when he decided they weren’t his people.” You shrugged. “But me? That wasn’t one of them.”

The room settled around the confession. Robby nodded once, quiet and certain.

“My dad would’ve liked your bike,” you said after a moment, trying to pull the conversation back into safer territory.

Robby glanced over. “Yeah?”

“Oh, absolutely. She’s a pretty thing. He would’ve pretended not to. Walked around it twice, made some deeply insulting comment, then asked for the keys.”

“That does sound like a healthy level of respect.”

“Very traditional.”

His mouth twitched. “Would he have diagnosed it?”

“Immediately. Then he would’ve been unbearable about it.”

“Naturally.”

“That was kind of his brand.”

Robby looked down at his plate, the faintest smile still there. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You should. He’ll judge your maintenance.”

“Good to know I have supervision.”

You smiled, smaller this time, then let the blanket slide between your fingers. For a few seconds, neither of you said anything. The movie kept going. The rain kept tapping against the glass.

Then Robby said, quiet and almost casual, “I’d like to meet him someday.”

You looked over before you could stop yourself. He was still looking at his plate, like the comment hadn’t cost him anything. Like it was simple. Like meeting your father was a normal thing to want.

It should have made you nervous. Maybe it did. But underneath that, something in your chest softened. Because you had just handed him one of the messier pieces of your life, and he hadn’t stepped back from it. Hadn’t made your father smaller. Hadn’t made you explain why you still loved him. He just wanted to know him.

“You say that now,” you said.

Robby’s mouth shifted faintly. “That bad?”

“He once inspected a bike so silently the owner apologized.”

“For what?”

“Existing near him, I think.”

A small laugh slipped out before you could stop it. And somehow, after giving him a piece of your past you hadn’t meant to hand over, the next part felt a little easier. Not easy. Just possible.

You looked down at your phone again. The reminder waited there. Wednesday. Ten o’clock. Ultrasound. Your stomach tightened, but not as sharply this time.

“Michael?”

He looked over.

You kept your eyes on the phone. “I called that OB you recommended.”

His attention shifted immediately. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just completely.

“Yeah?”

“They got me in tomorrow.”

Robby’s fork stilled near his plate. “Tomorrow?”

“Ten.”

He nodded once, carefully. “Okay. That’s good.”

You turned the phone over in your hands, then back again. “She wants to do another ultrasound.”

His expression changed. Barely. But you saw it.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah, it’s routine. Since I’m transferring care, she wants her own measurements and scans and all that. Dating. Records. Making sure everything lines up.”

“Okay.”

“It’s mostly for the new doctor,” you added. “Planned Parenthood already did one early on. You saw that one.”

“I remember.”

His voice was quiet enough that something in your chest pulled tight.

You looked down at the phone again. Your thumb rubbed nervously along the edge of the case. This was the part. Not telling him. That was information. This was asking.

“You can come,” you said quickly. “If you want. I mean, you obviously don’t have to. It’s your day off, and you said you were going to Duke’s, and it’s mostly routine anyway. It’s not some huge dramatic first ultrasound moment or anything. They just want their own scan because I’m switching doctors, and I didn’t want you to think I was making it a thing, because I’m not. I mean, it is a thing, obviously, because there’s a baby, but it’s not—”

“Hey.”

Your mouth closed.

Robby was looking at you now, careful and quiet, one hand still wrapped loosely around his fork.

“Breathe,” he said softly.

Heat rushed into your face. “Right.”

You looked back at your phone. “I just didn’t want you to feel obligated.” The words came out smaller than everything before.

Robby’s expression shifted. Not hurt. Not exactly. Something quieter than that.

“I know.”

For a second, neither of you said anything.

Then he asked, voice low, “Do you want me there?”

Your fingers tightened around the phone. That was the question, wasn’t it? Not whether he could come. Not whether he had a right to know. Whether you wanted him beside you.

You swallowed. “Yeah,” you admitted. “I think I do.”

Robby looked down for half a second, jaw shifting once like he was trying not to let too much show.

Then he nodded. “Then I’m coming.”

Simple. Immediate. Like there had never been another answer.

Something loosened in your chest so suddenly it almost hurt.

“Okay.”

The movie kept playing.

Neither of you watched it anymore.

—

Something had changed on the couch the night before. Not enough to name. Not enough to touch. But enough that when Robby woke up the next morning, the house felt a little less unfamiliar than it had before.

At 8:03, he knocked softly against her bedroom door.

“You awake?”

His voice came out low. Careful. Like he wasn’t entirely sure what the rules were now either.

Silence from inside.

Then her voice, still rough with sleep.

“Unfortunately.”

Robby’s mouth twitched.

“You need coffee?”

Another stretch of silence.

“Maybe.”

Robby stood on the other side of the door with one hand still raised near the frame. He had already made the coffee.

The smell of it still lingered through the house along with butter warming in the pan and the faint sweetness of cinnamon. He’d gone to the grocery store the night before after she’d gone to bed, because somewhere between ultrasound and I think I do want you there, his brain had apparently decided French toast was a reasonable response.

He stared at the door another second anyway. She was awake. She was still there. That thought had started happening before he could stop it. Not in words at first. More like instinct. A glance toward the her room—no, guest room—when he woke up. Relief when he heard cabinets opening in the kitchen. The automatic habit of checking whether her shoes were still by the door before leaving for work. Still here.

He lowered his hand from the frame.

“I made breakfast,” he said instead.

“What kind?”

“Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“It depends on whether you’re pretending to hate French toast this morning.”

Silence. Then, through the door, “I have never pretended to hate French toast.”

“Good. Because I already committed.”

A soft laugh came from inside the room. Small. Sleep-roughened. It did something unfortunate to his chest.

Robby leaned back against the hallway wall for a second, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. The appointment wasn’t until ten. He had been awake since six anyway.

He had checked the time three times. Not because they were late. They were aggressively not late. He had just apparently become the kind of man who made French toast at eight in the morning and knew exactly how long it took to get to an OB appointment with traffic. Which was fine. Normal. Fine.

Robby went back into the kitchen mostly so he had something to do with his hands. The French toast was already done. The coffee was already done. He had run out of practical tasks twenty minutes ago. Which was unfortunate timing.

He leaned against the counter and stared into his coffee for a second. Ultrasound. The word still did something strange to his chest. Not panic. Not exactly. Just pressure.

Like his brain had not fully caught up to the fact that this was real enough now to have appointments and doctors and blurry black-and-white pictures taped to refrigerators someday.

He exhaled slowly and stared into his coffee. The first ultrasound had happened in the middle of chaos. Shock. Paperwork. Vegas hanging over both of them like a bad decision neither of them knew what to do with. He remembered looking at the photo in her hand and feeling the floor tilt beneath him.

This one felt different. Quieter. Worse, somehow. Because now there was routine wrapped around it. Coffee mugs in the sink. Her blanket on the couch. Dinner in the microwave waiting for him after shifts. Her toothbrush beside his.

Things that made it dangerously easy to picture more. Things he had no business picturing yet. Things he pictured anyway. Robby had wanted this. That was the ugly part. The dangerous part.

The part he never said out loud because wanting made people stupid, and he had spent too many years being practical to start being stupid now.

He had wanted a kitchen that smelled like coffee and breakfast. Someone half-asleep at the counter. Someone to ask if they were nervous before an appointment. A life that didn’t end at his front door every night with silence and takeout containers.

He had wanted it for years. Longer than he cared to admit. When he was younger, before life had gotten sharp around the edges, the dream had been simple enough to embarrass him now.

Two kids. A house near a pond. A woman who loved him enough to stay. That was it. Not impressive. Not complicated. Not some grand ambition. Just a life. The kind other people seemed to stumble into without realizing they had been handed something holy.

Robby had stopped saying it out loud somewhere along the way. Then he had stopped thinking about it. Or he had tried to. Because at some point, wanting started to feel less like hope and more like setting himself up for disappointment. Now the dream felt impossible and close enough to touch at the same time. That was the problem. Because he didn’t know what she wanted.

He knew what she needed right now. Safety. Insurance. A stable doctor. A room with a bed that belonged to her. Breakfast before appointments. Someone who would show up when asked. But need was not the same thing as wanting. And as far as Robby knew, she had never planned on staying.

Not after the baby came. Not after the dust settled. Not once she figured out what her life was supposed to look like without Vegas, without panic, without him as the emergency option.

Maybe she would want to go back. Back to her own life. Back to something that had existed before he had the nerve to imagine himself inside it. The thought sat under his ribs, sharp and quiet. Because he had no idea how to change her mind. Worse, he didn’t know if he had the right to try.

The bedroom door opened down the hall. Robby looked up before he could stop himself. She wandered into the kitchen slowly, still heavy with sleep, hair twisted up lazily like she had only halfway committed to getting ready for the day. One of his old T-shirts hung loose over leggings, the fabric shifting softly around the small curve of her stomach as she walked.

Not big yet. Still enough to change the shape of her.

Her hand rested there absently for a second before dropping again. Robby’s chest tightened so fast it almost annoyed him. Because she looked comfortable here. Not settled. Not permanent. He knew better than to let himself believe that. But comfortable enough to move through his kitchen half-asleep, reaching for the coffee mug he’d set out like she was starting to know where mornings lived in this house.

The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and coffee and butter warming in the pan. Morning light spilled through the windows over the sink, soft against the countertops, against her face, against the quiet way she moved through the room like she had already learned its rhythms.

Home.

The thought landed hard enough that he had to look back at the stove before his face betrayed him.

She stopped beside the island and blinked slowly at the counter.

“You actually cooked.”

Robby glanced over. “I can cook.”

“I know. I just didn’t expect…” She trailed off, smiling a little to herself.

“Didn’t expect what?”

Her fingers curled loosely around the coffee mug.

“I don’t know.” Her voice softened. “This.”

The kitchen. The breakfast. Him standing at the stove in sweatpants looking half nervous and half determined to pretend he wasn’t. Home, some dangerous part of him thought immediately.

The realization hit hard enough that he had to look back at the stove. Because this was exactly the kind of thing he had spent years convincing himself he was too old, too tired, too late for. And somehow she had walked into his house and made it feel possible again without even trying.

He picked up the plate and set it carefully in front of her. Ridiculously careful. Like French toast required precision.

She noticed.

“You’re acting weird.”

“I’m always weird.”

“No. This is… specific.”

Robby leaned against the counter and crossed his arms loosely.

“Maybe I just want today to go okay.”

Her expression softened instantly.

“Don’t worry,” she said quietly. “It will.”

The confidence in her voice sounded fragile around the edges. Like she was trying to convince herself too.

Robby swallowed once and nodded. “Okay.” It came out softer than he intended.

She smiled at him over the rim of her coffee mug. Sleepy. Nervous. Warm in the morning light. The thought surfaced again, unhelpfully. Temporary, he reminded himself.

Robby reached for the syrup before the thought could get worse.

She watched him move around the kitchen for a second before smiling faintly down at the plate. “You even made it look nice.”

“That was accidental.”

“Mm.” She didn’t sound convinced.

He set the syrup beside her and leaned back against the counter with his coffee.

“Eat,” he said gently.

Her eyes lifted to his for a second before she nodded.

“Yes, doctor.”

The quiet that settled afterward felt warm around the edges.

She took another bite, then glanced up at him carefully.

“You know you don’t have to look this stressed about it.”

“I don’t look stressed.”

“Michael.”

“Okay,” he admitted, “maybe a little stressed.”

“It’s just an ultrasound.”

“You say that like there isn’t an entire tiny human involved.”

Her expression changed at that. Softer. Quieter. Like hearing him say tiny human did something to her too.

She looked down at her plate. “Tiny human,” she repeated softly.

Robby’s mouth moved like he might take it back. He didn’t.

“Yeah,” he said. “Tiny human.”

The kitchen went quiet again. Not uncomfortable. Just careful.

She set her fork down and rested one hand lightly against her stomach, almost without meaning to.

Robby noticed. His gaze dropped for half a second, then lifted again quickly, because the last thing he wanted was to make her feel watched.

She smiled faintly. “You’re doing the doctor face again.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

He looked down into his coffee. “Different face.”

“Oh?”

The answer left his mouth before he could stop it. “Father face.”

The words landed between them. Soft. Awkward. Too honest. Robby froze like he hadn’t meant to say them out loud.

She stared at him. For a second, he thought he had ruined it. Then her expression softened.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

His chest tightened. “Okay?”

The corner of her mouth lifted. “But maybe save the father face for the appointment.”

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. Small. Relieved. Real.

The tension eased after that. Not completely. Just enough for breakfast to finish without either of them saying anything else that might change the shape of the morning.

By the time the plates were empty, the appointment had started creeping back into the room. Neither of them mentioned it. The clock did enough of that on its own.

Robby loaded the dishwasher while she rinsed mugs at the sink. A normal chore. A normal morning. The kind people did every day. The fact that it felt so normal was probably the problem. When the last dish disappeared into the dishwasher, she dried her hands on a towel and glanced toward the clock.

9:02.

Her shoulders shifted slightly. Robby noticed. His eyes flicked toward the clock too. Then away. Then back again.

“You’ve looked at that thing six times,” she said.

“I have not.”

Her mouth curved faintly. “You absolutely have.”

“Five.”

She rolled her eyes.

The corner of his mouth twitched. Neither of them moved.

Then she pushed away from the counter. “I should probably get dressed.”

Robby nodded once. “Probably.”

She took three steps toward the hallway before stopping. Turning back. “Michael?”

“Yeah?”

Her fingers twisted together briefly. Just once. “I’m glad you’re coming.”

Robby went still. Not dramatically. Just enough. His gaze lifted to hers.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. Then, because he couldn’t help himself, “Me too.”

Something crossed her face. Soft. Scared. Almost gone before he could name it.

Then she pointed at him. “Don’t make this weird.”

His laugh followed her down the hallway. Then the house went quiet again. Robby stood in the kitchen for a second longer, one hand braced against the counter, listening to the soft sounds of her moving around in the guest room.

A drawer opened. A closet door shifted. The old floorboards creaked beneath her feet. Normal sounds. Temporary sounds, he reminded himself.

He looked down at the mug she had left beside the sink. Then at the hallway. Then back at the clock.

9:06.

Plenty of time, which somehow made it worse.

Robby pushed away from the counter and headed for his own room to change, telling himself he was not the kind of man who cared what shirt he wore to an ultrasound appointment. Five minutes later, standing in front of his closet, he realized that was apparently a lie.

He had rejected one T-shirt for looking too much like sleepwear. Then a button-down for looking like he was trying too hard. Now he was holding a plain dark shirt and wondering when clothing had become complicated.

“It’s an ultrasound,” he muttered.

The shirt remained unhelpful.

Robby pulled it on anyway. By the time he stepped back into the hallway, her bedroom door had opened again. He heard her footsteps pause near the entryway mirror.

Then she came into view, smoothing the front of her sweater with one hand, her bag already hooked over her shoulder. Her hair was neater now, though a few loose strands had escaped around her face.

She looked like herself. Nervous. Still a little sleepy. Standing in his hallway before a doctor’s appointment she had asked him to come to.

Dangerous, his brain supplied. Because he was starting to like that far too much.

She caught him looking. “What?”

Robby glanced down at his keys. “Nothing.”

“That was definitely a something.”

“I changed my shirt three times for a doctor’s appointment.”

She blinked. “Three?”

“We’re not discussing it.”

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. “Oh my God.”

Her mouth twitched, but the nerves were still there. He could see them in the way she adjusted the strap of her bag twice.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Define ready.”

“Shoes on. Purse. Phone. Willingness to enter a medical building.”

“Three out of four.”

“Good enough.”

That got a small laugh out of her.

Robby opened the door, then paused. “Do you want me to drive?”

She looked at him. The question hung there, gentle and practical. Not because she couldn’t. Because he was offering one less thing for her to carry.

After a second, she nodded. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “If you don’t mind.”

He shook his head. “I don’t.”

And somehow, when she handed him the keys, it felt like more than driving.

Robby closed his fingers around them before he could examine that thought too closely.

The morning air was cool when they stepped outside. The driveway still glistened from the rain.

She started toward the truck while he locked the front door behind them. By the time he caught up, she was reaching for the passenger handle. Robby stepped around her automatically and pulled the door open first.

She stopped. So did he. For half a second, they just looked at each other.

“Sorry,” he said immediately.

Her eyebrows lifted. “For opening a door?”

“It was a reflex.”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “What a monster.”

“I know.”

“Someone should probably stop you.”

“Probably.”

She shook her head and climbed into the truck.

Robby shut the door gently behind her. Then stood there for a second longer than necessary. Because somewhere between Vegas and now, little things had started mattering. And that was becoming a problem.

The drive took twenty minutes. Twenty minutes Robby had made a thousand times before. He knew every turn. Every traffic light. Every shortcut.

Usually, he drove toward the hospital thinking about patients. Charts. Residents. Coffee. Today, he spent most of the drive trying not to think about the fact that there was a baby waiting at the end of it.

Beside him, she stared out the window. Quiet. Her fingers twisted once around the strap of her bag. Then stopped. Nervous. He recognized it immediately. Because he wasn’t exactly calm himself. The hospital came into view. And for the first time in years, walking into Pittsburgh Trauma didn’t feel routine. Usually, the hospital put him on autopilot. Badge. Waiting room. Coffee. Floor.

Today, he found himself checking whether she was keeping up. Which was ridiculous. She was walking directly beside him. Still, every few steps, his attention drifted back anyway. Not because she needed help. Just because she was here. Beside him. At his hospital. For his baby.

That familiarity usually made him comfortable. Today, it mostly made him aware of where they were going. Women’s Health. Ultrasound. Baby.

Beside him, she adjusted the strap of her bag again. Nervous. Somehow reassuring. At least one of them was behaving normally.

They rode the elevator up in silence. Not awkward silence. Elevator silence. The kind everyone fell into when trapped in a metal box with strangers. A woman carrying a toddler got off on the third floor. An older man with a cane got on. The doors opened and closed.

The hospital moved around them in its usual rhythm, which made it stranger when the Women’s Health waiting room appeared around the corner and his stomach immediately tightened.

A receptionist looked up from behind the desk.

“Good morning.”

She stepped forward before he could. Which was probably better for everyone involved. He had already caught himself reaching for her paperwork twice in the parking garage.

She handled the check-in while he stood beside her pretending not to notice that he was suddenly very interested in a framed poster about prenatal nutrition.

A few minutes later they were sitting side by side in the waiting room. Not touching. Not talking much. Just waiting. Across from them, a couple flipped through a baby name book. Somebody’s phone played a lullaby from across the room trying to soothe their baby. A nurse appeared in the doorway and called another patient’s name. The room settled again.

Robby looked over. She was staring at a spot on the floor. Thinking. Worrying. Probably both.

“Hey.”

Her eyes lifted. “Yeah?”

“You okay?”

She exhaled through her nose. “Ask me again in an hour.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Fair.”

For a while, neither of them spoke. Somehow, sitting beside her made all of it feel different. The appointment sat only a few doors away now. No longer tomorrow. No longer later. Just waiting.

The waiting room door opened. A nurse stepped out with a tablet in one hand, glanced down at the screen, then looked up.

“Robinavitch?”

Robby’s chest tightened before he could stop it. Strange. Almost nobody called him Robinavitch.

He was Robby. To patients. To nurses. To friends. Hell, half the hospital probably wasn’t entirely sure Robinavitch was his actual last name. Usually when he heard it, it meant paperwork. Administration. Somebody looking for a signature. Something official.

Beside him, she looked up too.

Robinavitch.

Her name now. Technically. Legally. Temporarily, he reminded himself. Except it didn’t sound temporary coming from someone else’s mouth. It sounded real. Like the world had decided what they were before either of them had figured it out themselves.

The nurse glanced between them.

“Robinavitch?”

She stood first. “That’s us.”

Us.

The word shouldn’t have done anything. Casual. Harmless. Meant to answer a nurse’s question and nothing more. Instead it landed somewhere behind his ribs and stayed there. Because first it had been the house. Then breakfast. Then the drive. Then walking through the hospital together. And now a waiting room full of strangers hearing a name neither of them quite knew what to do with.

Robby stood a second after her. The roller coaster had officially left the station.

The nurse smiled politely, either not noticing or choosing not to.

“This way.”

Robby stepped beside her as they followed the nurse through the door. The hallway beyond was quiet. That was the first thing that threw him. Not hospital quiet. Outpatient quiet. No alarms. No trauma pagers. No shouted orders. No wheels rattling too fast over tile.

Just muted voices behind closed doors, posters about prenatal vitamins, and the soft click of the nurse’s shoes ahead of them.

Robby knew the ER. He knew the route from ambulance bay to trauma room half-asleep. This side of the hospital was different. Not foreign exactly. Just not his. Not in the way the ER was his. And this was her first time here with this office. Her first visit with the new doctor. Her first step into the version of care he had helped point her toward. That realization made him keep his hands in his pockets.

The nurse glanced over her shoulder. “Any changes since you scheduled?”

She answered before Robby could even think about helping.

“No. Everything’s the same.”

Robby kept his hands in his pockets. Better. Because every instinct he had was already leaning too far forward. She didn’t need him to take control. She just needed him here.

The nurse pushed open the exam room door.

“You can go ahead in. The sonographer will be with you in a few minutes.”

She stepped inside first. Robby followed. The room was smaller than he expected. Not cramped. Just close. The exam table sat against one wall, covered in fresh white paper. Cabinets lined the other. A large monitor screen hung opposite the bed, dark and waiting.

Robby’s eyes immediately landed on it and stayed there.

“Well.”

She glanced over. “What?”

He pointed at the screen.

“I see where the hospital budget went.”

Her eyes followed his. The corner of her mouth twitched. “The monitor?”

“That thing is bigger than the TV at the house.”

“That seems like a very specific complaint.”

“It is.”

She shook her head.

Robby nodded toward the screen.

“Meanwhile, there’s a supply cart downstairs that only turns left.”

A small laugh escaped her. It wasn’t much. But he’d take it.

The paper crinkled softly as she sat on the edge of the table. Robby looked away before his brain could do anything stupid like offer a hand she didn’t need.

Instead he dropped into the chair beside the wall. Not too close. Not too far. Close enough that if she wanted him there, he was there.

The room settled around them. Quiet. The kind of quiet that made every thought louder.

His gaze drifted back to the screen. Still dark. Still waiting. Because the second that screen turned on, this stopped being an appointment. It became a baby. Her baby. His baby. Their baby. The thought hit harder than he expected.

He cleared his throat.

“So,” he said, because apparently silence was no longer an option, “what are we hoping for today?”

She looked over. “A healthy baby?”

“Good answer.”

“I feel like there was a right answer and I missed it.”

“There wasn’t.”

Her smile softened. “Then healthy baby.”

Robby nodded once. Healthy baby. Simple enough. The problem was that his chest had already moved several steps beyond simple. And judging by the way his eyes kept drifting back to the dark screen, it wasn’t slowing down anytime soon.

The room settled into silence again. Not awkward. Just waiting. Somewhere down the hall, a door opened and closed. Voices drifted briefly through the wall before fading again. The hospital carried on around them. Appointments. Lab work. Routine. Ordinary.

Robby had spent years watching people walk into rooms like this. Nervous. Excited. Terrified. Sometimes all three at once. Then they came back out carrying grainy black-and-white photos like they had been handed proof of magic. He understood it in theory. He wasn’t sure he understood it in practice.

Beside him, she adjusted the hem of her sweater. A small movement. Restless. His eyes dropped automatically. Seventeen weeks. Still early enough that most people probably wouldn’t notice. Early enough that she could still hide it beneath loose clothes if she wanted. Not that she had been trying lately.

His throat tightened unexpectedly. Because there was a baby in there. An actual baby. Not paperwork. Not a Vegas mistake. Not an abstract future problem for Responsible Future Robby to figure out. A baby. Their baby.

The exam room door opened before his brain could make the situation worse. A woman in navy scrubs stepped inside carrying a tablet. Smiling.

“Good morning.”

Robby immediately sat up straighter. The sonographer looked between them and smiled.

“I’m Melissa. How are we doing today?”

Robby opened his mouth. Then immediately closed it. Because the question wasn’t for him.

Beside him, she let out a breath. “Nervous.”

Melissa laughed softly. “Good. That means you’re normal.”

Robby glanced toward the giant screen. Melissa followed his gaze, amusement softening her face.

“First ultrasound together?” Melissa asked.

Robby cleared his throat. “You can tell?”

“Little bit.”

Beside him, a quiet laugh escaped her too. “We’re being subtle.”

“Extremely,” Melissa agreed.

“Good,” Robby said. “That was the goal.”

The smile stayed on Melissa’s face. “Trust me. You wouldn’t be the first nervous parents I’ve seen.”

Parents. There it was again. Another word that should have felt simple. Another word that somehow didn’t. Beside him, the mother of his child shifted slightly on the table.

Melissa picked up the ultrasound wand. “Alright,” she said gently. “Let’s meet this little person.”

And just like that, every thought in Robby’s head disappeared. The room got very quiet.

Melissa dimmed the lights. The screen glowed softly against the wall. The sonographer rolled the stool closer and pulled the machine beside the table. Routine. Efficient. Movements they probably performed thousands of times.

Robby watched every single one.

“Alright,” Melissa said gently. “This gel is going to be a little cold.”

“I’ve been warned.”

Melissa laughed. “Good.”

The bottle clicked softly against the counter.

A second later, a sharp breath escaped from the table.

Melissa smiled. “Cold?”

“I feel like that question answers itself.”

Melissa picked up the probe and turned toward the monitor.

Robby’s gaze followed automatically. Nothing. Gray static. Shadows. Shapes he couldn’t make sense of. His heart started pounding anyway.

Beside him, the tension coming from the exam table matched his own. The room seemed to shrink. Melissa moved the probe slightly. The image shifted. Then shifted again. Melissa’s smile softened.

“There we go.”

Robby leaned forward before he realized he’d moved. On the screen, something appeared. Not a blob. Not this time. A baby. Small. Curled. Unmistakably a baby.

Robby’s breath caught. Seventeen weeks. He knew what seventeen weeks looked like. He knew the developmental milestones. He knew the anatomy. He knew all the medical facts. None of them prepared him for seeing it.

Seeing them. Tiny arms. Tiny legs. A head. A spine. A whole person where his brain had apparently still been expecting an idea.

“Wow,” came the soft whisper from the table.

The word barely made it out.

Melissa smiled at the screen. “Baby’s moving all over the place today.”

As if on cue, one little arm jerked upward.

Robby stared. Then stared harder. Because the baby had moved. Actually moved. Not in theory. Not in a textbook. Not on someone else’s ultrasound.

Hers.

His.

Their.

The realization hit so hard it left him momentarily speechless. Which, judging by the way she immediately looked over from the table, was unusual enough to be concerning.

“You okay?” came the soft question from the table.

Robby didn’t answer right away. His eyes never left the screen.

“That’s a baby.”

Melissa laughed. “That is generally what we’re hoping for.”

He heard the joke. He even understood the joke. But he couldn’t stop staring.

Because somehow, somewhere between Vegas and this room, a future he’d spent months trying not to imagine had just waved at him from a television screen.

Melissa clicked another measurement, then another. “Growth looks right on track.”

From the table beside him, a breath slipped out like it had been held too long. Robby looked toward her, but her eyes stayed fixed on the screen. So did his.

“Everything looks good so far,” Melissa said gently.

Good. The word should have helped. It did. It also made something in him worse. Because now there was room for the feelings he had been keeping behind locked doors.

Melissa adjusted the angle again. “Have you heard the heartbeat yet?”

Robby’s eyes lifted.

Beside him, the question seemed to freezed the room for a second.

“No,” came the quiet answer.

Melissa smiled. “Want to?”

The answer was obvious.

Still, Robby couldn’t seem to find his voice.

Beside him, she nodded first. “Yeah.”

Melissa adjusted something on the machine. For a second, there was only static. A rushing sound filled the room.

Then—

Fast. Steady. Unmistakable. The heartbeat filled the small room.

Robby froze. Completely. His eyes stayed on the screen, but the sound moved through him before he could do anything to stop it.

That wasn’t a possibility. That wasn’t paperwork. That wasn’t Vegas. That wasn’t a mistake he could organize into something manageable. That was a heartbeat. His child had a heartbeat. The sound kept going. Rapid and strong and real.

And Robby felt something inside him give way. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just enough that the breath left his chest and did not come back right. He blinked once. Then again. It didn’t help. From the table, a small sound slipped out, barely more than a breath. He still couldn’t look at her. If he looked at her, he was done. So he stared at the screen. At the tiny shape. At the flicker of movement. At proof.

Melissa kept talking softly, explaining the rate, explaining that everything sounded good, but Robby barely heard the sonographer.

The heartbeat was too loud.

Not in the room.

In him.

It filled every place he had tried to keep empty. Every careful corner he had used for logic. Insurance. Appointments. Schedules. The guest room. The car seat he had not let himself think about yet. The crib he had refused to picture. The future he had kept folded up small enough to pretend he wasn’t holding it.

There was no folding this.

No making it manageable.

No pretending this was still an abstract problem two adults could calmly solve if they just stayed reasonable enough.

That sound was not reasonable. It was alive. Fast and steady and stubborn.

His child. His child was real.

Not someday. Not later. Not after they figured out what they were, where she would live, whether she would stay, what name would go on the forms, how much of this life he was allowed to want.

Now. Right now.

On a screen in front of him. Inside her. Beside him.

Every thought Robby had been using to hold himself together split clean down the middle.

He blinked once. Then again. It didn’t help. The heartbeat kept going. Rapid. Relentless. Beautiful. And somewhere between one beat and the next, he realized he was crying.

Quietly. Completely. Without any ability to stop it.

He tried to look away. Couldn’t. Tried to breathe through it. Couldn’t do that right either. The tears slipped down before he could stop them, hot and quiet against his face.

Robby lifted one hand, like maybe he could wipe them away quickly enough that no one would notice. Too late. From the table, movement shifted. Then her hand found his. Not careful. Not pitying. Just there. Warm fingers sliding into his like she had decided, in the middle of all that sound, that he didn’t have to stand outside it alone.

Robby looked down at their hands. At first, he didn’t move. Then his fingers closed around hers. The heartbeat kept going. Fast. Steady. Alive.

Melissa said something about the rate being strong, but Robby barely heard it.

Robby looked back at the screen, heart cracked wide open, and thought helplessly that if this was what temporary felt like, he was in serious trouble.

He still didn’t fully trust his voice. On the monitor, the baby shifted again, one tiny leg kicking out before disappearing into gray.

A breathless laugh slipped from the table. “That’s so weird.”

Robby looked down. Her bright eyes stayed fixed on the screen.

“Yeah,” he said roughly. “A little.”

Melissa smiled. “I can print some pictures for you.”

Robby’s chest tightened all over again. Pictures. Something real. Something to take home. He glanced over before he could stop himself. This time, he wasn’t the only one looking.

Neither of them spoke. Then the hand in his squeezed once.

“Yeah,” came the soft answer. “We’d like that.”

We.

Robby looked back at the screen before his face could do anything else stupid.

Melissa printed the pictures before they left.

Robby accepted them like he knew how to hold trauma shears, scalpels, a whole human life in his hands, but not this. Not paper. Not proof.

—

The drive home was quieter than the drive there.

She rested her head against the window, one hand curled loosely over the folded strip of ultrasound photos in her lap. Robby kept both hands on the wheel and did not look at the pictures again.

Not because he didn’t want to. Because he wanted to too much.

Back at the house, she made it halfway through lunch before the exhaustion caught up to her. He noticed the yawn. Then the second one.

By the third, he said, “Go lie down.”

She argued on principle. Badly. Ten minutes later, her bedroom door clicked shut. Her room. Robby stopped with one hand on the counter. No—guest room—Temporary. The correction sat badly in his chest. Then the house went quiet.

Robby stood in the kitchen. The ultrasound pictures sat on the counter. Her mug sat beside the sink. Her shoes were by the door. The house looked exactly the same as it had that morning. It felt completely different.

He looked at the pictures. Then away. Then back again. One small strip of glossy paper, and somehow it made the whole house feel rearranged. He picked one up carefully, thumb resting against the white edge so he wouldn’t smudge the image. Tiny profile. Tiny spine. A shape he could recognize now.

His throat tightened. “Jesus,” he muttered.

The picture did not answer. Probably for the best. He set it down. Then immediately picked it back up. Worse. Definitely worse. The baby was real.

Not that the baby hadn’t been real before. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew how biology worked. He had known since she came to Pittsburgh, since the first ultrasound photo she’d shown him, and every insurance form and practical conversation after.

But there was knowing. And then there was hearing. There was seeing movement on a screen. Hearing a heartbeat fill a room. Bringing home proof in glossy black and white and setting it on his counter beside her half-finished glass of water.

That was different. Worse. His gaze drifted toward the hallway. Nothing moved. She was asleep. As she should be. She needed it. He told himself he was checking. Not lingering. There was a difference. Probably.

The house pressed in around him. Not unpleasantly. That was the problem. It was warm. Lived in. Quiet in a way that had started meaning something else now. Her mug. Her shoes. Her room. No. Guest room.

Robby exhaled sharply and set the ultrasound picture back on the counter like it had personally complicated his life. He grabbed his keys before his brain could start another argument. He needed air before the house started feeling any more like something he could lose.

Twenty minutes later, he was on the bike. The city moved around him in familiar pieces. Wet pavement. Traffic lights. A delivery truck double-parked in a lane it had no business occupying. Construction cones that had apparently become permanent residents of the street.

Usually, riding helped. Usually, the engine gave his brain something simple to hold onto. Throttle. Brake. Lean. Balance. Road. Today, all it did was make the quiet inside his helmet louder. He stopped at a red light and looked straight ahead. A woman crossed the street pushing a stroller with one hand and holding a toddler’s raincoat hood with the other.

Robby stared. The light turned green. Someone honked behind him. He rolled forward.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered.

That was the problem, apparently. Three weeks ago, he would not have noticed the stroller. Or maybe he would have noticed it, because he noticed everything, but it wouldn’t have landed. It would have been a detail. A scene. Somebody else’s life happening at the edge of his.

Now everything had hooks. A car seat in the back of a minivan. A man carrying a diaper bag over one shoulder with the stunned expression of someone who had not slept since 2005. A kid in yellow boots stomping deliberately through a puddle while his father pretended not to see it.

Ordinary things. Everywhere. Ridiculous. Unavoidable.

The bike turned onto Duke’s street almost by habit. Robby didn’t remember deciding to go there. Which was probably telling. He pulled into the lot and cut the engine. The silence after the engine died felt too sudden.

For a moment, he stayed there, helmet still on, both hands wrapped around the handlebars, staring at the shop doors. Temporary. The word surfaced again. He hated it more every time. Finally, he climbed off the bike and headed inside.

Duke was bent under the hood of an old truck when Robby walked in, one arm buried elbow-deep in an engine bay, a rag hanging out of his back pocket. The radio played low from somewhere near the workbench.

He didn’t look up right away.

“You’re late,” Duke said. “I was starting to think the bike fixed itself.”

“It didn’t.”

“Good.”

Robby frowned. “Good?”

“If it fixed itself, I’d be out of a job. What took so long?”

“Got distracted.”

“By what?”

“Life.”

Duke stared at him. “That’s usually a bad sign.”

“Hasn’t killed me yet.”

“Give it time.”

Robby snorted.

Duke tossed the rag onto the workbench.

“So,” he said, turning toward the bike. “You gonna tell me what it’s doing, or am I supposed to commune with it spiritually?”

“It’s got a rattle.”

“Beautiful. Very descriptive.”

“Cold start mostly.”

Duke’s expression shifted slightly. Not much. Just enough to show the mechanic in him had taken over.

“Idle?”

“Yeah.”

“Settles once she warms up?”

“Usually.”

Duke crouched beside the bike and tilted his head like he was listening to something that wasn’t there yet.

“Mileage?”

Robby told him.

Duke made a face.

“That your professional opinion?”

“My professional opinion is that you should’ve brought her in sooner.”

“Helpful.”

“I try.”

Duke reached for a flashlight from the rolling cart and angled it toward the engine. “Could be a couple things.”

“Such as?”

“Cam chain tensioner’s high on the list.”

Robby looked down at the bike. “That’s what she thought.”

Duke paused just long enough for Robby to notice.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“She heard it?”

“No.”

Duke blinked. “No?”

“I described it.”

Duke stared at him for another second, then slowly looked back at the bike. “You described a noise.”

“Yes.”

“And she landed on cam chain tensioner?”

“Apparently.”

Duke was quiet and crouched again, flashlight sweeping along the bike. “She ride?”

“Not really. Her dad does.”

“Worked on his own bikes?”

“Yeah, taught her how to fix them and everything.”

Duke nodded slowly. “Sounds like it.”

Robby watched him work a little longer.

The shop smelled like oil, metal, rubber, and old coffee. Familiar. Easier than the house had been. Easier than the hospital room. Easier than the strip of ultrasound pictures still sitting on his kitchen counter.

Duke stood and stretched his back.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s right.”

Robby looked away too fast.

Duke saw it. “Well.”

Robby immediately frowned. “What?”

“Now I’m curious.”

“About what?”

Duke looked at him like the answer should have been obvious. “The woman you’ve got hiding in your house.”

“She’s not hiding.”

“Living in your house.”

“Temporarily.”

Duke’s eyebrows lifted. “Sure.”

Robby sighed. “Don’t.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“You’re about to.”

“Probably.” Duke grinned. “I’m just saying, most people describe a motorcycle noise with words like weird.”

“Fair.”

“They don’t usually jump straight to possible causes.”

“Like I said, her dad taught her.”

“Apparently he knew what he was doing.”

Robby shrugged, but it came out too small to mean much. “Apparently.”

Duke looked at him for half a second longer, then seemed to decide something. He reached for a wrench and tossed it toward him.

Robby caught it automatically.

“You helping or standing there looking tragic?”

“I don’t look tragic.”

“You look like a man who lost a fight with his own face.” Duke pointed toward the side panel. “Take that off.”

Robby crouched beside the bike without arguing. That was easier. Tools were easier. Metal was easier. Engines made sense. A rattle meant something was loose, worn, tired, misaligned. There was always a reason. Always a source. Always something to tighten, replace, adjust, or take apart until the problem finally admitted what it was. People were worse.

He loosened the first bolt. Duke worked on the other side of the bike, quiet now. Not ignoring him. Just waiting. That was the thing about Duke. He acted like a pain in the ass, and usually was, but he knew when to shut up better than most people Robby knew.

The ratchet clicked between them. Once. Twice. Three times.

Then Duke said, not looking up, “Ultrasound today?”

Robby’s hand stopped. Only for a second. Then he kept working.

“Yeah.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah.”

Duke nodded once. “Good.”

Robby loosened another bolt. The word sat there. Good. Simple. Too simple.

He stared down at the bike. “We heard the heartbeat.”

Duke didn’t look up right away. Just handed him another tool.

“That’s a hell of a thing,” he said.

Robby swallowed. “Yeah,” he said, voice rougher than he wanted. “It is.”

Duke kept the flashlight steady.

Robby stared at the bike. “I’ve heard thousands of heartbeats.”

Duke glanced over.

Robby kept his eyes on the engine. “Probably tens of thousands at this point.” His fingers tightened around the wrench. “Trauma bays. Exam rooms. ICU monitors. Ultrasounds.” He shrugged. “It’s just physiology.”

Duke’s mouth twitched. “Just physiology.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.”

Robby looked down. “Heart’s supposed to be beating at seventeen weeks.”

“That’s generally the goal.”

“Everything looked normal.”

“Good.”

“Yeah.”

Duke adjusted the flashlight.

“And that’s not what’s bothering you.”

Robby stared at the bike.

“No.”

Duke nodded like he’d expected that answer.

“Didn’t think so.”

Normal didn’t settle. Because normal wasn’t the problem. That’s what he’d been trying to explain to himself all day. Nothing was wrong. Nothing. Healthy pregnancy. Healthy baby. Appropriate development. Appropriate heart rate. Every box checked. Every milestone exactly where it was supposed to be. And somehow that had made it worse.

Robby stared at the bike for a long moment. “I spent weeks thinking about this like it was a problem to solve.”

Duke stayed quiet.

“Insurance. Housing. Appointments. Logistics.” Another turn of the wrench. “Action items.”

“You like action items.”

Robby exhaled. “Then today happened.”

The words hung there.

“And?”

Robby laughed once. Short. Disbelieving.

“And apparently that’s not an action item.”

Duke’s eyebrows lifted. “Hearing your kid’s heartbeat isn’t a problem you can solve.”

Robby’s jaw tightened. “No.”

Because that was the thing. He couldn’t organize it. Couldn’t schedule it. Couldn’t chart it. Couldn’t put it in a folder and come back to it later. It had simply happened. One second there was a monitor. The next there was a person. And Robby had not been prepared for the difference.

Duke didn’t answer right away. He just shifted the flashlight slightly and let Robby sit with it. That was worse, somehow.

The shop sounds filled in around them. The low radio. A socket rolling somewhere on the workbench. Traffic hissing past outside on wet pavement.

Robby turned the wrench again. Too tight. He stopped before he stripped the bolt.

Duke noticed.

“Careful,” Duke said.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Robby shot him a look.

Duke only lifted his brows and held the flashlight steady.

For a while, neither of them said anything.

Then Robby looked back at the engine and said, quieter, “I thought the baby was what scared me.”

Duke stayed still. “Isn’t it?”

Robby’s jaw shifted once. “No,” he said. “Not anymore.”

The admission sat between them, small and ugly and too honest for the middle of a mechanic’s shop.

Duke waited. Robby hated that too. He loosened another bolt. Set it carefully on the floor beside him.

“I can handle being a father,” he said, like he was trying the words out for size. “I mean, I’ll screw things up. Everybody does. But I can show up. I can learn. I can be there.”

Duke nodded once. “Yeah.”

Robby stared down at the bike. The next part got caught somewhere behind his ribs. He almost swallowed it. Almost.

“She’s probably going back to Nevada.”

Duke’s hand stilled around the flashlight. Not much. Just enough.

“There it is,” he said quietly.

Robby’s mouth tightened. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You said ‘there it is.’ That’s something.”

“Barely.”

Robby exhaled through his nose and looked toward the open garage door. “She has a life there.”

“Does she?”

“I don’t know.” The answer came too fast. Too sharp. He forced his voice flatter. “Friends. Work. History. A place that isn’t here.”

Duke was quiet.

Robby kept going, because apparently the damage had already started.

“This was never supposed to be permanent. The house. The room. Any of it.” He glanced down at the wrench in his hand. “She needed somewhere safe. I had somewhere safe. That’s all it was.”

“Was?”

Robby closed his eyes for half a second. Damn it. Duke didn’t even sound smug. That made it worse.

Robby opened his eyes and looked back at the bike. “I don’t know what it is now.”

Duke nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “That sounds about right.” Duke shifted the flashlight again. “Sounds like you’re waiting for her to decide what your life looks like.”

Robby’s head snapped up. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“No?”

“No.”

Duke gave him a look.

Robby hated the look.

“I’m trying not to decide it for her,” he said.

Robby looked back at the bike. “She didn’t ask for this. Any of it. Vegas happened. The baby happened. Then Pittsburgh happened because it was the practical choice.”

“Practical,” Duke repeated.

“Yes.”

“You hate that word right now.”

Robby tightened his grip on the wrench.

Duke leaned back against the workbench. “You want her to stay.”

Robby didn’t answer. The silence did it for him.

Duke nodded once, like that was all the confirmation he needed.

Robby stared at the engine. “I want the baby to have both of us.”

“Sure.”

His jaw flexed. “That’s a good reason.”

“It is.”

“And the house has room.”

“Also true.”

“And it would make appointments easier. Schedules. Work. Childcare.”

Duke’s mouth twitched faintly. “Lot of action items.”

Robby looked at him.

Duke lifted both hands. “Just saying.”

Robby exhaled hard and looked away. Because Duke was right. Those were reasons. Real ones. Good ones. They just weren’t the whole truth. The whole truth was quieter. More selfish. More dangerous.

The whole truth was that Robby had come home too many times to her dinner in the microwave. Her blanket on the couch. Her voice from the kitchen asking if he wanted coffee. Her shoes by the door. And now he knew what the house sounded like with her in it. Which meant he knew exactly what it would sound like without her.

“I don’t know how to ask,” he said finally.

Duke’s expression softened, but only barely. He wasn’t cruel enough to joke there.

“Then don’t ask yet.”

Robby frowned. “That your advice?”

“That’s my advice.”

“That’s terrible advice.”

“No,” Duke said. “Terrible advice would be telling a pregnant woman who just moved her whole life across the country that you’ve decided she should stay because your house feels less depressing with her in it.”

Robby winced.

“Yeah,” Duke said. “See? Bad pitch.”

“Glad you’re enjoying this.”

“I’m enjoying you finally having a problem you can’t organize into a spreadsheet.”

“I don’t use spreadsheets.”

“You know what I mean.”

Robby rolled his eyes.

Duke leaned back against the workbench.

“Besides, you’re looking at this wrong.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

Duke shrugged. “You’re acting like she’s already got one foot out the door.”

“She does.”

“Does she?”

“Nevada’s home.”

“Nevada’s where she used to live.”

Robby frowned.

Duke pointed a wrench at him. “Not the same thing.”

“That’s a stretch.”

“Is it?”

Duke walked back toward the bike. “Let me ask you something.”

Robby immediately regretted that sentence. “No.”

“She’s been in Pittsburgh how long now?”

Robby told him.

“And what’s she doing all day?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean exactly what I said.”

Robby shrugged. “Reading. Cleaning. Watching TV. Grocery shopping.”

“That’s it?”

“Mostly.”

Duke made a face. “I’d lose my mind.”

“She’s pregnant, not imprisoned.”

“Same difference after enough weeks.”

Robby snorted despite himself.

Duke nodded. “See?”

“See what?”

“You’re talking about Nevada like she’s sitting around homesick all day.”

“Maybe she is.”

“Maybe.”

Duke set a socket on the workbench. “Or maybe she’s bored.”

Robby looked at him. “What?”

“She’s a nurse, right?”

“Was. Then a bartender.”

“Still has the brain.”

“Fair.”

Duke pointed toward the shop. “Girl diagnoses a motorcycle from your description and you’re telling me she’s happy sitting around a house waiting for the next appointment?”

Robby opened his mouth. Closed it.

Duke's mouth twitched. “Thought so.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is she sounds like she’s got a brain that doesn’t do well sitting still.” Duke folded his arms. “Half the reason this place still exists is because people smarter than me occasionally stop me from doing something stupid.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“What I’m saying,” Duke continued, ignoring him completely, “is maybe she needs something that’s hers.”

Robby’s eyebrows pulled together.

Duke gestured around the garage. “I’m not talking about a job.”

“Then what?”

“Somewhere to go. Something to do. A reason to leave your house that isn’t an appointment.”

Robby didn’t answer.

Duke shrugged. “I hate answering phones.”

Despite himself, Robby laughed. “You do.”

“I hate ordering parts.”

“You definitely do.”

“I hate customers describing noises.”

“Nobody likes that.”

Duke pointed at him. “Exactly. And apparently she’s better at it than half the people who walk in here.”

“So your solution is to put a pregnant woman in a garage?”

“My solution is giving a smart woman somewhere she can be useful without feeling trapped.”

Robby looked away.

Duke’s voice softened just a little. “There’s a difference.”

And the worst part was, Robby could actually picture it.

Her sitting behind the counter. Arguing with Duke. Rolling her eyes at customers. Calling him an idiot when he ignored obvious advice. Laughing. Comfortable. Like she belonged there. The image settled somewhere dangerous in his chest.

Duke caught the look on his face. “See?”

“Don’t.”

Duke grinned. “Didn’t even have to say anything.”

Robby looked down at the wrench in his hand. “You’re making it sound simple.”

“It’s simple.”

“It’s not.”

“No,” Duke agreed. “But it’s less complicated than whatever you’re doing in your head.”

Robby huffed a humorless laugh.

Duke picked up the flashlight again and angled it toward the engine. “You don’t have to ask her to stay forever tomorrow.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

Robby shot him a look.

Duke ignored it. “You know, this isn’t really about her.”

“Here we go.”

“No, hear me out.”

Robby immediately regretted staying.

Duke pointed between them. “You need other people involved.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means right now her entire Pittsburgh social circle is you.”

Robby stopped.

Duke shrugged. “That’s a lot of pressure for two people who are still figuring out what the hell this is.”

“That’s annoyingly reasonable.”

“I know.”

“I hate it.”

“Also know that.”

Duke pointed toward the office. “Bring her by sometime.”

“Terrible plan.”

“Best I’ve got.”

Robby looked toward the open garage door. The idea sat there. Small. Practical. Dangerous. Not asking her to stay. Not asking her to choose Pittsburgh. Just giving her one more place where she could breathe. One more person who might know her as something other than pregnant, displaced, temporarily living in his house. One more root. The word made his chest tighten.

Something in Duke’s face softened.

“You want her to stay?” he asked.

Robby didn’t answer.

Duke nodded once, like the silence had done the work for him.

“Then don’t build a cage,” he said. “Build a place she might actually want to come back to.”

Robby looked at him then.

Duke shrugged and turned back to the bike. “And maybe start with the shop. Low stakes. Worst case, she hates me.”

“She probably will.”

“Perfect. Common ground.” Duke snorted and ducked back toward the bike.

After that, they worked in silence. Real silence this time. Not empty. Just easier.

Robby loosened bolts. Duke muttered insults at the engine. Somewhere outside, tires hissed over wet pavement. The radio kept playing low, some old rock song neither of them commented on.

The conversation didn’t fix anything. That was the annoying part. The baby was still real. The house still felt different. Nevada still sat somewhere in the back of Robby’s mind like a door he couldn’t lock. But the panic had shifted shape. Not gone. Just smaller. Something he could hold without bleeding all over it.

Duke tapped the side of the bike with the wrench. “Yeah. I’m gonna need to get in there properly.”

“Expensive?”

“Emotionally or financially?”

“Duke.”

“Probably both.”

Robby sighed.

Duke grinned. “Tell the motorcycle whisperer she may have been right.”

Robby looked down despite himself, mouth twitching. “I’ll mention it.”

By the time Robby left the shop, the sky had started clearing. The streets were still damp, but the clouds had thinned enough for late afternoon light to catch in the puddles along the curb. He pulled his helmet on and stood beside the bike for a second longer than necessary.

The shop. Low stakes. A place that wasn’t his house. A person who wasn’t him. One small root. Robby swung onto the bike and started the engine. This time, when the rattle caught beneath the idle, he heard her voice in his head before Duke’s.

Cold start?

Idle?

When you throttle?

Under load?

His mouth twitched inside the helmet.

“Motorcycle whisperer,” he muttered.

Then he pulled out of the lot and headed home.

Tags: @kitkat1690 @little-mini-me-world @marisol4k @shashasimba1996 @karlawithacapitalk @robinavitchswhore @borbalalikesdocs @3-smi @dizzybee03 @cerberus101@celestialsonglines @mewmew222 @baelorandmaekarinparis @tpwklizzie @floralsightings @joelmillerswifey @rufles2 @maskfiend @adoringanakin @mynameisbaby9 @graciiiaciii @menolderthan39 @anyasthoughts @findthebeautyinbreakdowns @twizzlelutz @redhooduwu @rithifriesstuff @lou-la-lou @pinkpantheris @tpwklizzie @kathrinemelissa @spooky-librarian-ghost @lillly-ofthevalley @yournamesnob @thegirlwhowaited5everok @perkyjackon @generation-zero @snovvv @1dhoe93 @optimistictacosaladcloud @proudlyvastlake @pinksabotageveil @love4lando @thebitchsaid @laughsandlivia @hollowrose12 @confusedwhitegirl10 @realwhoreforfictionalmen @lou-la-lou @buckystwilight @allenajade-ite @xoxabs88xox @bellatopo25 @mscreativity @thehockeynerd30 @xenop0p @the-weirdest-nighcrawler-hooah

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

c⋆ flesh and bones