I've been watching the Pitt recently and Dr. Micheal "Robbie" Robinavitch has taken over my headspace as late. I'd love to see you do something with him. I'm sort of imagining a neighbour to lovers, idiots in love situation, maybe something happens and the reader ends up in the ER where he works. And it sort of goes from there. Totally up to you.
if you need me, i'm always just across the hall — michael robinavich
michael robinavitch x fem!reader
fluff
⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 this reader is manifesting..
(˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) yesss of course i can lia! anything for you my love <3 i think robby is growing onto me, i just need to watch more of the episodes to really let it sink in.
ᯓ➤ synopsis: just metres away from one another at home and metres away from where you both respectfully work.. is this fate or is the universe toying with your broken heart?
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Moving down from Alaska, you situated yourself in the state of Pennsylvania — Pittsburg to be exact.
You wanted to start over. Erase the memory of the city you called home — the food, the people and most importantly, your ex.
So when you moved into your new apartment right across from door 302, you knew great things awaited you. The first thing is your neighbour, Michael Robinavich — or Robby, as he told you when you introduced yourself.
He was always arriving early and leaving late — the life of being the chief of medicine. His hours were pure chaos; you could tell by the lines of exhaustion on his face as he entered his apartment, and you were only just leaving.
By the time you learned his routine, you realise it doesn't really exist. It's more like a pattern of absence but you've learnt to adapt — learnt to know his schedule. You've stopped trying to predict when he'd be home. Stopped expecting anything consistent.
The difference between a manageable shift and one that hollowed him out. Tonight— well, technically 9pm, though it feels later — you recognise it instantly.
You're just unlocking the door, about to walk in with a handful of groceries when uneven footsteps sound down the hallway.
Not rushed nor slow — just heavy.
You glance up, and there he is.
Dr. Micheal Robinavitch, usually held together by the sheer force of will and caffeine, looked like he was running on neither. His scrubs were slightly creased, like he'd been wearing them for too long. There's a faint shadow under his eyes that even the harsh hallway lighting can't hide.
He’s halfway to his door before his gaze lifts, catching on yours like it takes effort.
“Hey.” He says, voice rougher than usual.
He's not just tired. He's drained.
You don’t think about it.
You never really do, when it comes to him.
“Hey..” You echo, then hesitate for half a second before adding. “Do you.. want a coffee?”
There’s a flicker of something — habit, maybe. The instinct to say no. To keep things contained. To not impose.
“Yeah.” He admits, quieter. “Yeah, I think I do.”
Your apartment feels warmer than usual when he steps inside.
Or maybe it’s just the contrast.
The world he’s come from — bright, sterile, relentless — clings to him in ways he doesn’t seem to notice. The faint scent of antiseptic, the stiffness in his movements, the way his attention still feels split, like part of him hasn’t fully left the hospital yet.
You gesture toward the kitchen without ceremony.
“Sit. You tell him. “I’ll make it.”
That’s how you know it’s bad.
Usually, he hovers. Leans against the counter, steals pieces of whatever you’re making, offers unhelpful commentary just to keep himself engaged. Tonight, he just.. sits.
Hands loosely clasped, elbows resting on his knees, gaze unfocused somewhere on the floor like he’s replaying something he can’t quite shut off.
You’ve learned better than that.
Instead, you move quietly. The familiar routine of making coffee — water, grounds, the low hum of the machine — fills the space with something gentle. Something ordinary.
When you place the mug in his hands, he looks at it for a second like he’s forgotten what to do with it.
A long, slow breath that seems to come from somewhere deep.
He doesn’t drink it right away. Just holds it, letting the warmth sink into his hands.
You lean against the counter across from him, giving him space without leaving entirely. Close enough that he’s not alone. Far enough that he doesn’t feel watched.
Minutes pass like that. Quiet. Uninterrupted. Eventually, he speaks.
Not a story. Not details. Just fragments.
“Long shift,” he says, like that covers it.
Then, quieter— “We lost someone.”
Not heavy with explanation. But it lands anyway.
You don’t ask who. Or how.
Because it doesn’t matter. What matters is that it happened.
And that he’s carrying it.
He finally takes a sip of the coffee.
“No.” He says, shaking his head. “It’s good.”
Then, almost absently— “I think I just forgot what normal feels like.”
Something in your chest tightens.
You push off the counter, moving closer, but still careful.
“Then stay.” You say simply.
“Stay for a bit.” You clarify. “You don’t have to go anywhere right now.”
His gaze lingers on you longer than usual.
Or trying to decide if he’s allowed to take that offer for what it is.
“You don’t have to take care of me.” he says after a moment.
“That’s not—” He exhales, shaking his head slightly. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” You repeat, softer.
But this one feels different.
At first, it’s just the couch.
You put something on the TV — background noise more than anything — and he leans back, one arm draped over his eyes like he’s trying to block out more than just the light.
You sit at the other end, giving him space.
At some point, the distance closes.
Just a slow shift — his arm dropping, his body angling slightly toward yours, your shoulder brushing his when you reach for the remote.
Neither of you pulls away.
You notice the exact moment he lets go.
A change in his breathing.
A slight drop in tension.
Like something inside him finally decides it’s safe to stop holding everything together.
His head tips back against the couch.
Then, after a second — hesitant, almost unsure — it tilts toward you.
Don’t make a big deal of it.
When his head settles against your shoulder, it feels.. natural.
Like it’s always been meant to.
The TV hums quietly in the background, something neither of you is paying attention to. His breathing evens out, slow and steady, the kind that only comes with real sleep.
You glance down slightly.
You couldn’t, even if you wanted to.
Not when he looks like that.
Not when the usual tension in his face has finally eased, replaced with something softer. Younger, almost. Like the weight he carries has slipped, just for a few hours.
Careful not to move too much.
At some point, you must drift off too.
Because the next thing you’re aware of is warmth.
And the quiet, unfamiliar awareness of not being alone.
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