michael robinavitch who’s skin is getting softer. you have a near twenty step nightly skin care routine, at least that’s what he laments to you when you’re ’late’ for bedtime. so, you decide that he needs to do it with you. you go out and buy him moisturizer and some beard oil, get him some sunscreen too. he refuses to use it in the beginning, it’s just not something he has time for, he says. but when you refuse to kiss him unless he puts on the lip mask you got him, he gives in. and now, every night, he’s beside you at your marble bathroom sink. you got him his own little headband and everything. he makes sure to follow your directions on the proper order of application, and soon his skin is clearer, his lips softer, and his smile wider. the only thing he doesn’t use is his lip mask, he prefers to kiss yours off instead, but hey, if it works!
pairing: platonic! tony stark x reader, platonic! avengers x reader, peter parker x reader, gn reader
content: mostly fluff, some arguments between reader and tony. implied romance between peter and reader, takes place pre-infinity war. tony is a little overprotective, harley from im 3 mention, headcanons follow reader from childhood to peter's age in spider-man homecoming, no use of y/n. takes place in the same universe as my peter fic, about you :)
a/n: yes i am doing more y/n stark fics without using y/n and you can't stop me!! likes, reblogs, and comments appreciated hehe <3
tony didn't plan to have you. the exact opposite was true, actually. your biological mother had been some fling from some party he had forgotten about. but then pepper informed him that your mother had passed and had a child she was certain was his, and things changed. before he knew it, he had full custody of you, a new bundle of joy in his life.
tony didn't think fatherhood would come easy to him. but the moment you opened your eyes and let out a little baby gurgle and a smile, he felt himself crack.
tony doesn't believe in the idea that you shouldn't buy your baby nice clothes because they're going to outgrow it in two weeks. if you're going to be his kid, you're going to wear the nicest, most expensive clothes anyone has ever seen!
(a scathing gossip column article is written about tony, calling him an irresponsible father for buying you a 100% down feather-filled winter jacket at 8 months. but how could he resist? the hood had little bear ears, damn it!)
tony is sick to his stomach when he ends up stuck in that damn cave. all he can think about is surviving and getting back to you. he spends a lot of time reminiscing about you to yinsen as they build the first suit, recalling everything from your first steps to your kindergarten graduation. he's worried he's going to miss your first grade one.
as soon as he's home, you're the first person tony asks for. when you arrive, you run into his hospital room, squealing your head off with pepper in tow. you tackle tony in a hug so hard he thinks you might mess with the arc reactor in his chest.
tony holds you dearer than ever after that. he swears he'll do anything to protect you, to keep that smile on your face.
once the avengers are formed, you run around asking tony if your new "aunt and uncles" can come and play with you. tony temporarily pacifies the idea by gifting you a plush set of all the avengers, custom-made, of course. it works for a little. you keep the plush set for the rest of your life.
obviously, your attachment to them leads the avengers to fighting over who's your favorite. which leads to even more chaos.
after important avengers meetings, tony finds thor and nat playing tea party with you. they're both dressed in neon feather boas and tiaras. thor looks like he might crush your imported china tea set if he holds the teacup too hard.
somehow, bruce is the one tony trusts you the most with. he's careful and gentle with you, making sure you tie your shoelaces and giving you gentle lectures on how to regulate your little kid emotions.
there's one time where clint, thor, and steve all lay out their weapons, asking you to pick which one is your favorite. you just stared at the bow, hammer, and shield in front of you, walked away, and came back with one of tony's iron man gauntlets. you nearly shot a hole in the wall that day and tony learns to keep his workshop locked from you, for now.
you continue to grow up spoiled, and thankfully only a little rotten. tony would basically let you get away with anything if you wanted. but pepper is there to reign it in a bit, offering you stability that tony sometimes lacked.
when you're old enough to realize that your dad randomly disappearing to go save the world from aliens, androids, or wizards isn't normal, you set some ground rules. he has to give you thursday nights, at the very least.
on thursdays, you and tony go and try new restaurants in new york city, which subsequently gets both of your faces plastered all over the news, declaring the two of you "trendsetters". the next day, wherever you ate will have a line wrapped around the block.
if not eating out, then watching old movies in, pointing out the inconsistencies and bad special effects to each other with wicked cackles.
then tony recruits peter. you meet him not long after, and your father feels a sense of dread in the pit of his stomach as he sees the way peter looks at you. and it seems you're looking at him the same way, too.
he goes and whines about it to pepper, who tells him you're growing up, which is the last thing tony wants to hear. you're his baby, his angel.
you become fast friends with peter. you secretly exchange numbers with him behind tony's back and spend many nights messaging him back and forth under the covers of your bed.
at the beginning of your friendship, there's some cognitive dissonance between you and peter. one time you told him to "come over," which made peter confused, because you were upstate at the avengers compound. then he looked out his window and saw happy standing with a grumpy expression and a limo in front of his apartment building. you end up foregoing the personal driver and just meeting him in the city to hang out after that.
there's one time you and tony run into peter while on the way to one of your thursday dinners. tony watches as peter blushes at every word and touch you give him, and he dramatically pretends you gag. you scold him (since when did you start sounding like pepper?) and tell him to be nice to peter.
at dinner, he suggests setting you up with harley instead. you smack his shoulder in response.
you'd always begged peter to swing you around the city, which he finally agrees to one day. unfortunately for both of you, that's when the paparazzi catch you. the next day, articles reading "stark heir seeing webbed-vigilante?!" are published, and tony has choice words for both of you.
you end up grounded, which usually doesn't mean much, but this time tony was serious. you had to stay upstate at the compound for two weeks, away from peter, until you could "think about the consequences of your actions".
you protest by refusing to leave your room. tony tries to talk to you through the door, pepper leaves food for you. you still don't come out.
after a few days of not seeing you, tony relents and opens your bedroom door himself, only to find it empty. he groans. you'd run away. maybe you were a bit too much like him.
he finds your set of avengers plushies neatly displayed on your bed, and notices a new addition. a little spider-man plushie that you sewed yourself, displayed at the front with your iron man plushie. his arc reactor pangs with a little regret at that.
but it's all gone when he tracks you (because he has trackers on everyone important to him) to peter's apartment.
he doesn't even bother with a car, instead opting to fly his iron man suit all the way there.
after pulling off some bullshit excuse with may about why he was at their apartment, he stomps towards peter's room, expecting debauchery and betrayal, only to be met with you sitting at peter's desk, tinkering with one of his web-shooters. tony spots peter on his bed, scratches and cuts covering his face and hello kitty band-aids covering his arms and legs. his chest rises and falls slowly, indicating sleep.
you look up in surprise when tony enters the room, face morphing with annoyance once you realize it's your father. you go back to fiddling with the web-shooter, ignoring him.
"he was hurt," you say, nodding to peter's resting form. "he called me for help. and that's what i'm doing."
tony can't fight against that. peter was important to him too, after all. he feels guilt for making assumptions about both of you. he knows you're a good kid. he's just scared of you growing up.
"i'll leave you to it," is all tony tells you as he gives you an awkward bob of his head and leaves peter's room. you sigh in relief, shoulders relaxing for a moment.
but then tony is poking his head back into the room, clicking his tongue to get your attention. "thursday night. don't forget," he reminds you before leaving again.
you can't help but chuckle at that. neither of you could stay mad at each other for that long.
tony thinks about you for the rest of the night. to him, you're still his baby. but to the world, you're growing up and unfortunately, he hasn't found the technology to stop that yet. you'd always be his angel, but seeing you with peter, he knows. he has to let you go spread your wings and fly, even if it means without him.
battle of the sexes: seven week robinav-itch vs. y/n's seven day plan to hit. who will win?
pairing: dr. robby "robinavitch" x younger resident fem!reader
summary: the one with day one (pt. 1). ╱ 5k
note: after a criminal amount of sea-related puns (i might've gone overboard haHA), she's back! i'm sorry but life is crazy rn, mental health on a -0 and the second semester is always the worst one. anyway, beta'd by the loml @capuccinodoll who i miss to spam on twitter when she updated :,)
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Vacations are a rare thing in the ER; no rest for the wicked, nor the sick. What's even more rare though, is Gloria Underwood's newest approach at boosting morale.
For some reason, a paid week to a cruise is single-handedly the most insane thing to ever grace The Pitt, which, given all that has happened inside the place's walls, gives it a well-earned reputation.
The reputation being a disaster wheeled on the HR probably planned this and that's why it sucks gurney right to the Why do we even bother to pretend we're happy when what we really want are safety measures and better salaries? room.
You and your friends are probably the only ones excited at the idea of a week away in the middle of nowhere: just the sea and all the cocktails you can stomach without puking over the hallways’ beige dust-covered carpet. There's no reason why Dana, who rather quit smoking (she's vacationed plenty of better places with her husband, anyway), or Robby, who looks allergic to any fun outside the ER that's not attempting to his life while riding without a helmet, would understand why a big, loud ship sounds exactly like the perfect gift for an overly eager and burnt out young healthcare worker.
Now, here's the tricky part: the slots aren't infinite. Of course an administration that can't offer raises won't be able to afford an all inclusive for all their employees, but a tired R2 can dream.
So, if the cruise idea wasn't already a crash in slow motion (Javadi is not happy when you make this comparison out loud and Santos snorts with a Ha! while pointing at her like she's a Marvel cameo), the way to win your ticket to seven days away from hell is a full blown collision on the Ninth Street Bridge.
Since patient satisfaction is not a thing around PTMC, according to Gloria and dismissed by your attending, to raise those Press Ganey scores she can't stop hounding him with, the cruise's gist consists of pitting underpaid healthcare workers against each other: only the ten highest scores can go. Forget camaraderie and teamwork, you've got both shifts neglecting the We're a team thing to favor getting their individual numbers up.
Some refuse to indulge in the competition, deeming it unprofessional and cynical. It's funny when one of the most vocal protesters is Michael Robinavitch of all people, who seems to have a degree in sarcasm and a penchant for avoiding people, but draws the line at faulting scores to win a paid vacation.
In the end, unfairly so since he doesn't want it at all, Dr. Robinavitch gets written under the guest list along with his fellow ER attending, night shift's Jack Abbot, both assigned to babysit a bunch of twenty-somethings, the age pool (get it) of people interested in the Hunger Games: Win A Cruise Edition.
That leaves ten slots between both shifts.
Al-Hashimi declines almost immediately, sensing an opportunity to keep fixing things on the ER without Robby's scowl glued to her back like a shadow, and takes over his absence with the happiness only a break from someone you can't stand can give. Shen is half-happy to take for Jack until he learns the very reason and has to down his bitterness with three overly-sweet iced coffees followed up by a threat to the night shift's attending to discuss his vacation when Jack's back from his own. Ellis says she's above all this nonsense, and she's cool enough to believe so. Dana thinks the same way too, and McKay declines, much to Javadi's deception. When her reasoning states her kid and duty, the med student can't help but swoon; “She's so dedicated!” which makes you roll your eyes and resent it a little when it's not met with the same chagrin your ER crush was.
And maybe, that's why this last month your empathy has suddenly risen to Robin Hood levels and your smile seems taken out of a dental flyer with how picture perfect it is. It totally has to do with your big heart (which you have) and patient's wellness (which you care about) and totally not with the idea you may get a chance to see Dr. Robby half-naked. Skin is skin!
In the end, the final list, counting the two senior attendings, consists of: you, Mel (of course), Denis (he kept taking the cases that required at least one scrub change), Victoria (nepotism), Mateo and Langdon (who you suspect had their looks involved somehow), Santos (who for some reason managed to get a spot you fear involved threatening), and your best friend and faux older sister, Samira Mohan (because all patients love her, of course). Donnie's wife makes him decline, Perlah gets sick at the last minute and passes her flu to Princess (maybe that's why Santos is there). Ahmad makes Mateo promise he'll keep Pitt traditions alive with some betting that makes Javadi roll her eyes when the nurse answers he's already on it. Joy says she won’t change for people to like her and you suspect Ogilvie’s random spewed facts don’t necessarily get him a thumbs up from patients.
The lack of nightcrawlers doesn't mean you won the unofficial battle but that the nighttime's wisdom that comes from surviving brutal midnight hours made them realize how stupid it all was.
You don't think about said hoax as you take in the salt and sunscreen tinged air while your ears muffle the crowd dragging suitcases, eyes glued to the massive cruise ship that towers over the dock. A city, with even a hair saloon and small museum of the ship's company probably nobody visits.
The check-in lines are flooded as Robby counts the group like a teacher would count their toddlers before a field trip.
He's wearing sunglasses that have, like himself, given up, hanging on his nose. The usual hoodie has been allowed to breathe, a Guayabera taking its place: Robby now looks like a man finally allowed to rest or a single guy going through midlife crisis.
It has to do with how out of the water (stop these puns!) he looks, the idea of having both attendings probably thrown in out of spite or concern by Gloria, who thought Robby's sabbatical should've lasted longer (or been more efficient on bringing the mighty Michael Robinavitch back. Spoiler: he was only half back).
Because who sips a hot, bitter, black coffee under the scorching sun before boarding a lightfilled, colorful and bright ship?
Answer: only Cubavera and khaki short combo'ed Dr. Robby, that's for sure.
You see him mumble to himself from behind, surely spewing sarcastic little phrases about how this is a failure waiting to sail under his breath, where you get the perfect view of his broad shoulders and for the first time, hairy legs on display. He's hunched, like he's trying to hide himself from the sun or his crew's attention.
"You know, staring isn't exactly speeding up your goal."
Mateo stands next to you, hair in a bun and glasses on top of his head, clearly part of the outfit and not with a functional use behind.
"I'm scheming," you reply flatly, "these things take time."
You're not about to reveal under the sun last weekend's text, because it still does weird things to your body whenever you think about it for too long, although you could blame the sun for the redness in your face. At the memory of spitting your tea over the table or the effect it had when it settled, who knows.
"Like seven days?"
You shrug. "I wanna drag it and have some fun."
"I just wanna keep my one hundred fifty," he pats your back, "so you do you. In fact, take all the time you need."
You quirk an eyebrow, half grinning. "I thought you wanted to see me, and I quote, jump his bones."
Now it's his time to shrug. "As promising as it sounds, I also want to keep my money. I'm practically broke."
You cross your arms. "Mateo, you literally get paid extra hours for being on nights."
He pats your back before he leaves, "Just go do your thing."
Nobody eyes you suspiciously as you walk up to Robby's side, where now Abbot has joined. He must've been complaining for a while now, about the weather or this whole thing, because Jack keeps shaking his head and exhales heavily, hands on his hips as his friend talks.
You're right behind when you hear him say something he must've been repeating for the past couple of days:
"This is the worst idea I've seen in my life.”
"Wow," you chime in, “then it surely must be it.”
Both men turn around, looking ridiculous to you in their vacation clothes while also carrying a sort of naturally handsome energy in a way that's not flashy but makes you do a double take. Triple.
Robby takes some time to turn around, like he recognizes the voice and wants to hide from its owner for a little while. He's probably still thinking about the text message and considers your last a polite way to tell him “Fuck off, creep”. When he finally does (he can't hide forever, less with Jack there), he delivers a single dry chuckle, eyes now hidden behind glasses he just decided to put back where they belong.
“Did you just call me old?”
“You say it like it's an insult,” you feign innocence, looking perplexed. “More years, more wiser.”
Jack snorts. Robby ignores his fellow attending and looks you into the eye.
"You're late. I was starting to think you'd bailed."
The half grin (never a full smile with him) that follows is so familiar it hurts.
"So I lose the opportunity of seeing Mateo have his way through the cruise's population and Samira drunk dancing?" you scoff, "you wish."
His dark tired eyes still manage an amused glint from behind those shades as he places a hand over his chest and fake winces.
"And here I thought you came for me."
Your heart does that thing where it's like you put it on a slingshot and then throw it against your ribcage, hammering loudly as if the jittery thing is bouncing inside it. It's almost as if he's not taking back but doubling on the energy from whatever happened in your last conversation.
It shouldn't be a thing, not even as Jack glances between both of you (ever the perceptive) and your skin prickles (with sweat, obviously). It should only be the same banter your attending's had with you since your first year as a resident.
Robby's a mentor: the guy that makes you laugh so you shake off nerves and gives unsolicited advice with a raspy voice that demands respect. He is also touchy when he's guiding you in surgery but only because it's strictly required to be close enough while you're stabilizing a patient, strong body wash dizzying your senses. That somehow knows how you like your coffee and takes his with yours in the break room if he isn't bouncing around the ER, along with the sarcastic quota of the day.
Robby’s a friend, maybe: in the way a fifty-four year old coworker who appreciates your skills enough can be, earning you most of his good days over the bad days that make residents cry or bitch about him over drinks (Samira’s done it more times than you can count, rightfully so). In a way that earns you his crow's feet and proud grin combo accompanied by the "favorite resident" unofficial title that’s only been partially filled (mostly emotionally) by Whitaker since Langdon's benzos fiasco.
Speaking of him, Robby's currently scowling at the freshly divorced young man who talks animatedly with Mel.
"So, there's this thing called having fun. You should try it," you quip. "It won't happen if you keep throwing murderous looks to your former friend."
"He's not my friend," is his quick answer. Apparently, his defensiveness didn't get the memo to go on vacation.
Then, as if realizing he was being uptight for no reason, Robby offers you a tight lipped smile that resembles more a flatline than an attempt at pretending to be happy.
“Yeah, hence why I said former.”
You try to go for comfort, hand reaching to place over his shoulder.
The moment the warmth of your palm comes in contact with his skin, he tenses, like it burns. It happens under Jack's prying eyes, though, to the rest, there’s nothing to look much into about the interaction, considering what's secret is your crush, not the dynamic you both share back at the ER. They aren't suspicious of a fleeting touch as they aren't of your twitter account where you constantly vent about him to almost ten thousand people that are your followers; oldmanfucker69 isn't the handle any of your friends or coworkers would think of when guessing what your username may be.
He huffs as your hand falls limp to your side. "I can have fun. I'm plenty of fun."
The other attending says nothing but lets out a scoff, eyebrows raised.
"Anything you wanna share with the class, Jack?" he crosses his arms, eyebrow raised and eyes to the floor.
Abbot shrugs. "That unlike you, I am having fun. S'all."
Robby scans the growing crowd of passengers boarding ahead and tries to change subject.
"You're right about Mateo. There's plenty of single people on this cruise."
"Oh," you chuckle, playing along. "You can tell?"
He nods. "Believe me or not, running an ER for decades grants you the power of reading people."
"And what about them screams Get me drunk enough so we have casual sex?"
“I can tell.” He snorts under his breath, "We should probably assign someone to watch Díaz after ten."
"Babysitting a grown man counts as a job, and I don't know if you're aware, Mr. Workaholic, but that defeats the whole point of a vacation. So I'm out." You pause, pretending to think, "Although, I can do it if he turns into my wingman and sends some sad bachelors or swingers my way."
Robby gives you a long look dressed in both amusement and judgment, the type of paternal stare your dad gave you whenever you were about to make a big mistake. Trying to weasel into your boss' pants and betting on it is a good example of what would send your old man into a heart attack.
He exhales sharply through his nose. "Mateo's only flirted with med students he can scare off and drowsy patients."
"Man of little faith. This place is filled with white tourists. Most of them could use his charming spice in their life. So could I.” You hum, thoughtfully. “Scratch that. Dating friends is a no-no."
"Ho. I don't know how problematic what you just said is." Robby sips his coffee, pretending he didn’t hear your last words, and mumbles: "Besides, you're better off single."
You smirk. "Jealous?"
The tip of his ears go pink as Robby attempts (and fails) to hide behind a dry chuckle. Jack pretends to busy himself with his phone but you see his thumb press Samira's contact.
"No. It's good advice," he tries to correct.
"Says who?" you tease.
"Says me.” Then adds, "I was talking more on the setting up side, anyway. We all know Mateo's skills are terrible in that area."
Somewhere behind you, he who has been named appears out of nowhere, slung arm around your shoulders.
"I'm wounded, chief. I thought you had a higher opinion of me."
Robby sips his coffee again, and at this point, it feels almost purposeful he's leaving the bottom, even if it's only the sediment, to hide behind “drinking” when he doesn't feel like talking.
"Listen," he turns towards you with a mischievous grin that gives away he's about to start shit, "it was one time I failed you and I swore it wouldn't happen again. You have my word I'll find you someone decent in this sea of retired elders and alcoholics. We'll get you a civilized date, baby,” he winks.
The older man remains silent, the name tag of his luggage suddenly needing re-reading.
You decide to take it up a notch and blurt, "How about Robby?"
The effect is immediate. The sediment technique finally becomes the choking hazard it is, making him cough up the bitter remains.
“Excuse me?” he rasps, voice suddenly an octave higher than normal.
For a moment, he forgets you're bound by the hours working together and shared trauma. That your mutual liking to flirting without thinking of consequences doesn't mean anything more than that.
You're just his resident. Several years younger. Bright-eyed. That looks up to him even when he's a tangled mess of emotions waiting to be unraveled, hanging on to every word and advice. Saying those things so casually because you don't see past the bond he's built―safe enough to believe but not enough to hope.
You’re just his resident. A girl who would never look twice his way, too busy dancing through people as young and pretty as you, whereas his joints would creak if he tried (he cannot dance and won’t do it, not even if it was to save his life) and he finds the club’s atmosphere too loud and bright.
It may be his fault then, letting your sugar talking and cheeky smirk get to him the minute he's free from the noise of The Pitt and the chaos that keeps his brain on a stressed-fueled high drive that quiets his demons for a while. The one that stops his heart from squeezing painfully in an embarrassing reminder the thing still works.
Because, for a moment, the idea settles.
(You, sitting on his legs, biting your lip like you do when you're concentrating as you read paperwork for him, when his eyes get too tired. Cooking those meals that make his stomach churn when he the reheated smell wafts through the break room at midday. Kissing on blind spots, hugging from behind as you chart. Text you through the day with unimportant things because you'd always treat it like it matters. Holding him when it gets too dark. Letting pop infiltrate on his dad rock playlist. Loving you. Having you. Being yours.)
But he can't let it sit far too long on his head or the small progress he'd made being away would end then. Duke would probably laugh, bring up his strong impression on nurse Vivi and how quick Robby shut it back then, while Jack… Well, he can already feel his stare burning from afar.
He shouldn't, especially when you share a knowing smile with Mateo at your side, making his insides burn with a strange mix of jealousy and embarrassment at being outside a joke he's not part of as, well, anything but maybe being the joke himself.
“A few whiskeys and we can get rid of some intimacy issues. As for the emotional unavailability, you'll have to work harder on that one.”
“So, one whiskey is at least one guaranteed kiss?”
The tip of his ears flush pink at just the thought of kissing those soft, currently gloss coated lips of yours. This has to be karma, surely, for subtly staring at your ass while you weren't looking. Or maybe you knew and this was combined payback for it and flirting with you through texts like a horny teen.
Not once had he gone overboard (stop please) with you. Easy back and forth was safe, calling you Bad girl at breakfast was not. This was payback, of course.
“I'm literally right here,” he cuts in with a grave voice that sounds ridiculously pissed off for a supposedly mature man like himself. Except, he's getting irritated at two of his younger employees making fun of his inability to commit.
You cross your arms as a wicked grin slowly creeps up your face. “We're stuck on a floating metal box for a week, let a girl live.”
Robby huffs, “I thought you wanted to be here.”
“And I thought you were,” you raise your fingers to quote, “plenty of fun.”
“Not if I'm the joke of whatever you and Mateo are brewing” he scoffs.
There's a tiny crack in your composure he misses. Fine. If he wants to play hard to get, you'll play harder to deflect.
“But what if it's not? Are you scared I might not be joking?”
He thinks he'd handle getting shocked with a defibrillator (he has a feeling he couldn't handle it in a past life, for some reason) better than a professional twenty-seven year old minx messing with his head.
“No,” he deadpans.
He hates how your beautiful face curls into a pleased smirk.
“No?”
“No, you shouldn't go around sleeping with strangers. Especially not your boss,” he adds the last, not sounding as convinced as he wishes or threatening as he thought. “Who, by the way, is your vacation chaperone.”
Why did he said that is beyond himself. It sounds as corny and ridiculous as 80s slang on an American with capital A sitcom.
“So, you're off limits. Got it.”
His face burns and he prays the blush takes some time off to come out (or that it doesn't).
“Didn't you listen to a single word I said?”
“Yeah, I did. And I fear you're in the way of destiny. What if I meet my true love here?”
“In seven days?” he sputters with disbelief, but it sounds more like he's in denial. “Good luck with that.”
You and Mateo exchange another look. God. He hopes the whole ship sinks for a brief second.
You sigh. “I'm a big girl, Robby. I can handle dating.”
And if this couldn't get worse, even with Mateo enjoying the whole thing with a knowing look Robby despises, you lean in and say:
“Or am I a bad girl?”
His throat goes dry and he's sure the blood draining from his face is going… Somewhere else.
He knew this was payback.
Luck is on his side for once, Díaz having vanished into thin air.
Okay, scratch that. This is actually worse.
Just him, no cockblocking night shift nurse nor it's judging attending. Only Robby, at the mercy of your playful nature.
“Robby.”
He looks up to the sky (anywhere but your sly gaze) as if the sunny weather would need any inspection like the forecast can change in a blink.
“It's sunny,” he observes, commenting the obvious.
You fight back a smile, insisting again.
“Robby…”
God, he's hating your stubbornness now. He knows you hate being ignored.
“We should meet up with the rest,” he comments out loud, hands in his pockets as he balances on his heels. “It's almost time to board.”
“Robinavitch.”
“I bet Mateo's in a mood because you aren't with him.”
He doesn't know why he said that.
“Michael!”
Well, there's no way he can ignore that shout. Not when heads turn and he loves how it sounds.
He'd like it even better if―
“Relax. I was just fucking with you.”
You say it so casually, it somehow hurts.
Then, your shoulder bumps against his in the same way you've done thousands of times before. Again, casual.
If his EKG was already low, after what you say next, it straight up flatlines.
“But you know where my room is.”
(Of course he did. He usually double checks everything, especially after he found out your rooms were across each other.)
Your whisper hangs in the air, dangerous, as you get lost in the sea of passengers, probably looking for Mateo (like he said you should. He hates thinking about it, even if you playfully reasured him dating friends is a no-no. Wait, does that include him?) and the crew he'd rather not see now.
Because he's standing still, too still, muscles taut like if he moves, he might break into a puddle of embarrassment and unnamed feelings he knows all too well, resolve melting over the hot-floored deck.
He stays there before huffing and shaking his head, hands on his hips.
Unbelievable.
You had even winked. You fucking flirt.
Robby hasn't even boarded the ship and he's already dizzy.
Good morning, ladies and gentleman, welcome aboard…
Robby tunes out the announcement drilled by an overly happy standard woman's voice through the ship's speakers.
His brain is somewhere else.
But, instructions: he can follow instructions, even if he seems to bicker with everyone that tries to impose themselves against him.
Focus. Try not to think about―
“You know,” Jack appears back at his side, seemingly out of nowhere, leaning towards him on his good side, which means this is on purpose. He smirks, knowingly, “Back in my day, that was called flirting.”
Robby huffs, as in disbelief, shaking his head slightly while his hands rest on his hips.
There's no point thinking about it. Even if you were, what would change? You're most likely trying to have fun by pushing boundaries workplace professionalism and the hospital's hierarchy wouldn't allow. Young people love to break rules; have a thing for the forbidden.
“It's still a thing now,” he spits in a way that says he's done with the conversation.
Then, Robby shoves his sunglasses up as if that can shove back delusions too embarrassing for a man almost sixty to fantasize about. He starts to walk to the boarding gate without looking back at Jack, as if he can run away from the topic.
The other man follows behind, not done.
“So you admit it was flirting?” he teases while sounding amused. Robby speeds his walking but his friend easily catches up to him. “C’mon, Robby. Give me something, man.”
He knows he's hit the jackpot when his ears go pink again. A lazy smirk curls his lips up. Jack? He's living for it. His best friend going all quiet for his favorite resident like his brain has been rewired? Surely, this trip just got more exciting.
“You won't say anything?” he asks, “no sarcastic comments or remarks?”
Robby finally turns to look at him, gaze hard.
“I’m going on vacation.”
What he's doing is clear as water. He chuckles at his attitude and deflection.
“Can't take some teasing now? I thought it was your thing.”
They step onto the ship’s grand deck together. A beat, then Robby deadpans.
“I can. It’s our thing.”
Jack just shrugs at his side, hands in his pockets, giving him a sideways glance.
It comes out defensive. Too fast. The kind of denial that makes Jack's grin deepen.
“You're mad,” he acknowledges with that stupid smile.
He shakes his head, creases on his forehead deep. “And you need to round up the crew. It's your job.”
“Ours,” Abbot corrects. “But sure,” he pats his back, “leave it to me.”
Robby combs through his beard, the lick of his teeth that follows a tell of stress and his sanity falling apart. “Please do.”
He doesn’t wait for Jack or tourist groups speaking in languages he doesn’t understand. Picking up his pace, he puts distance between himself and the crew, as if that could save him from your soft eyelashes and eyes dancing with mirth.
Robby checks himself in and searches for the elevator, luggage on one hand and printed layout on the other. He shoves it in his pocket forcefully after checking it twice, punching the button with the same unnecessary harshness.
The elevator doors slide open, welcoming.
Robby steps in immediately, grip tight on his luggage. But before the doors can close, a hand steps in.
What if it’s you?
Robby's heart hammers violently on his chest at the prospect of sharing an enclosed space with the person who has made his usual confidence crumble like a house of cards. Heart and head race alike, one with too rapid heartbeats like it doesn’t remember who you are and what kind of relationship you have while the other brings up ideas that should have him knelt repenting at the synagogue.
But then his eyes catch the freckles on the skin. He feels oddly disappointed at that.
“I'm starting to think you're in love with me or something. Chasing me everywhere,” he jokes, sardonic, gaze glued to the floor.
As Jack fully enters the elevator, Robby avoids eyes that clearly search for him, first looking above with a frown and then the buttons with rapid blinking as if that'll make time go faster.
“If you want to pretend and hide behind sarcasm, you're doing a terrible job at it,” his old friend snickers. Robby just stares at his shoes and lets out a huff. “I can tell.”
His free hand curls up in a ball. “Sure you can.”
Silence falls between them, heavy in the way pauses and unspoken words inside enclosed spaces can be.
“I know you, brother. That's why I can.”
Robby stares at the floor numbers lighting up one by one:
3… 4… 5…
He stays perfectly still, like that can make him disappear. Holds his breath and prays the elevator moves faster.
But, the one thing about Jack, the most annoying of it all, is he loves to meddle, especially if the business he’s involving himself without permission somehow involves Robby’s feelings and love life (or lack thereof).
Robby braces himself for a very awkward conversation, the type that can only happen in between four closed-off walls and the oddly-cheerful and calm-inducing Muzak that’s irritating him and definitely not reducing his stress.
Jack leans casually against the elevator wall, arms crossed. His muscles flex and a wave of insecurity flashes through him at that, suddenly conscious of his naked arms lacking his usual long sleeved shirt under scrubs.
“You know, it’s okay to like someone.”
He hates how gentle he sounds, as if he’s talking to a wounded animal.
He knows it is okay, but he’s way too many traumas deep and casual relationships in to even think of anything real at his age.
The elevator keeps climbing (6… 7…), but Robby is stuck.
Stuck in the past. In Janey and the life he always dreamed of and the family he always wanted. Collins, with the distance after Adamson and the secret she hadn’t revealed until a while back. In the string of casual affairs around the Pitt that have earned him the Seven Week Itch infamous whispered-through-gossip name that he found out when he clearly shouldn't have, a mess preceded by the thread of mindless relationship dating back to med school that have tied his heart on a knot. Because back then he thought he had forever. Now? He's all alone, fifty-four, and with a severe case of emotional constipation that keeps him up at night in a house with three spare rooms.
He doesn't look at Jack, just stares ahead, like the doors will open to a big solution.
“I do,” he finally says, throat suddenly dry, “but it's not like that.”
He doesn't know why but he sounds awfully close to crestfallen.
Jack sighs. “Who are you talking about? Her or you?”
“Doesn't matter.”
The elevator rises (8… 9…), because life doesn't stop.
And because there's no one that knows him better in the world right now, Abbot realizes this goes way beyond just you.
“I know you think you do, but you don't. You keep punishing yourself like that's your job, but you can have good things too if you let it happen. It's never too late.”
Jack's gaze is far away, probably thinking of something. Someone.
“Seven days, Robby.” The elevator doors open on their floor, the Ding! cutting through the thick silence. Jack pats his back. “It's not three months, but you can start there.”
Jack Abbot is right, but Michael Robinavitch, standing in the middle of the empty halfway, looking straight to your room, knows best.
summary: The entire hospital fears Brendon Park. Except you. You can steal his coffee, order him around, tease him all day, and tell him he’s being an ass. Nobody understands why he listens until they discover you met him before — back when he was struggling, unknown, and not yet “Park the Shark.” 9.9k
The scent of hospital-grade disinfectants and stale dark roast coffee was the same in Pittsburgh as it was in New York, but the air here felt heavier, thick with the damp heat of an impending late-spring thunderstorm.
You adjusted the collar of your black scrubs, checking your reflection in the small, slightly warped mirror of the staff locker room.
Undeniably, the move had been a shock to your system. A week ago, you had packed your entire life into a single U-Haul, leaving behind a brownstone in Brooklyn, a prestigious fellowship, and a man who had successfully managed to hollow out your chest over the course of three years.
“You’re just never there, babe,” Richard had said, his voice dripping with that smooth, corporate condescension you had somehow mistaken for maturity when you first met him.
He had been standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows of your downtown apartment, not even looking at you. “I need someone who actually shows up for dinner, not someone who prioritizes a bunch of strangers over her own relationship. Look at you. You’re undeniably beautiful, you’re brilliant, you have the whole world handing you whatever you want—but you’re empty. Your job is your real partner. I’m just the guy holding the ring until you realize you don’t have room in your life for a real man.”
That last sentence had been the final, brutal blow—the one that made you slide the engagement ring off your finger, drop it onto the marble kitchen island, and tell him to get the hell out. You weren’t going to let a man who wanted a trophy wife make you feel guilty for saving lives. So, you chose yourself. You chose your career. You chose Pittsburgh.
The memory still tasted like ash, but as you tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, you reminded yourself of who you actually were. You were young, you were an incredibly talented Emergency Medicine attending, and despite Richard’s parting attempts to dismantle your self-esteem, the appreciative glances you’d received in the hospital corridors over the last seven days proved you hadn’t lost an ounce of your charm or your looks.
You were talented, you were charismatic, and you were finally free.
Pushing through the double doors into the main hub of the Emergency Department, you were immediately greeted by the low, constant hum of the pit.
"Morning, superstar," called out Dr. Robby, the Chief of the ED. He was a salt-pepper haired genial man whose eyes always held a paternal warmth. He was leaning against the central tracking board, a tablet balanced on his forearm. "How's the transition treating you? No one’s driven you back to the turnpike yet?"
"Not yet, Chief," you said with an easy, radiant smile that made a passing intern nearly trip over an IV pole. "The pace is good. The staff is sharp. I think I'm actually starting to figure out which elevator leads to the cafeteria without ending up in the morgue."
"That's a victory in week one," Dr. Frank Langdon chimed in, stepping up to the desk. Langdon was a senior resident, highly excellent, effortlessly charming, and currently sporting a grin that suggested he’d spent the last ten minutes trying to think of an excuse to talk to you. "If you ever need a personal guided tour of the city's better culinary establishments, Doc, my schedule is surprisingly flexible for an R4."
"I appreciate the offer, Dr. Langdon," you replied, your tone perfectly balanced between warm collegiality and a gentle, unmistakable boundary. "But I think I'll stick to learning the hospital grid before I venture out into the wild."
Langdon gave a good-natured shrug, his eyes lingering on your smile for just a beat too long before he walked away. He wasn't the first.
Over the past week, a steady stream of eligible bachelors from cardiology, neurology, and general surgery had suddenly found reasons to consult or simply wander down to the ED, all of them eager to introduce themselves to the gorgeous new attending everyone was talking about. You had politely, flawlessly deflected every single dinner invitation. Your heart was under construction, and frankly, you didn't have the bandwidth for more corporate slickness.
"Don't let them hound you," a gravelly voice said from behind the terminal. Dr. Abbot, the night shift attending who was currently finishing up his hand-off notes, looked up with a tired but deeply kind smile. "They're like seagulls when a new ship docks. You've been a breath of fresh air around here, truly. The night shift reports have been immaculate since you took over the swing."
"Thanks, Abbot. Get some sleep. You look like you're walking in a dream."
"More like a nightmare, but I'm heading out now. Good luck today," Abbot said, gathering his things with a grateful nod.
You walked over to the main nurse's station, where Dana Evans, the legendary charge nurse of the PTMC trauma bays, was currently terrorizing a supply representative over a late shipment of rapid infusers. Dana was tough, deeply competent, sarcastic to a fault, and fiercely protective of her clinical space.
She slammed the phone down, took one look at you, and her fierce expression softened into a wry smirk. "Look at you, still looking like a shampoo commercial after five consecutive shifts. What's your secret, Doc? Genetic superiority or just high-quality concealer?"
"Good moisturizer and a complete lack of a personal life, Dana," you joked, leaning against the counter.
"Well, keep that shield up. The vultures are circling," Dana said, gesturing subtly toward a group of internal medicine residents pretending to study a chart nearby. "They aren't used to an attending who can run a level-one trauma without breaking a sweat or looking like they slept in a ditch. Speaking of which, you've got Trinity Santos on your team today. Keep her on a leash."
Right on cue, R2 Trinity Santos marched up to the desk, her jaw set, her eyes burning with the fierce, highly competitive ambition she was already famous for. She was sharp-tongued and possessed a brash confidence that bordered on terrifying for the medical students.
"Hey, Doc," Trinity said, dropping a clipboard onto the counter. "Bay 3 is prepped for the chest tube evaluation. I've already reviewed the films from last night. I can perform the exchange myself, no supervision required."
Before you could answer, R3 Melissa King drifted over. Melissa was empathetic and highly intelligent, possessing an incredible emotional perceptiveness, but she was also humanly, beautifully awkward. She was clutching a cup of tea like a security blanket. "Um, actually, Dr. Santos, the patient in Bay 3 specifically asked for a female doctor who 'doesn't shout at them,' so maybe... maybe we let the attending take the lead? Not that you shout! You just... speak with high velocity."
Trinity rolled her eyes. "It's efficiency, King. If the patient wants a lifestyle chat, they can call a therapist. We need the bed."
"Let's compromise," you said, your calm, cool voice instantly cutting through the resident bickering. "Trinity, you'll perform the procedure, but I will be in the room, and you will speak to the patient at a volume that doesn't suggest an air raid. Melissa, I want you on the ultrasound for the subsequent cardiac window checks. Deal?"
Both residents nodded—Trinity with a tight, respectful click of her jaw, and Melissa with a sigh of relief.
Just then, Dennis Whitaker, an R1 who perpetually looked like he was being hunted by an apex predator, stumbled toward the desk, nearly dropping a handful of specimen tubes. "Uh, Doc? MS4 Victoria Javadi is in the hallway... she's trying to explain the entire coagulation cascade to a patient with a minor laceration, and the patient is crying because they think they have leukemia now."
You let out a soft laugh, rubbing the bridge of your nose. Victoria Javadi was a brilliant medical student, but her social skills were still in the embryonic stage. "Dennis, breathe. Go tell Victoria that the cascade is beautiful, but the patient just needs three standard sutures and a lollipop. Then take over the closure for her."
"Yes, ma'am! Thank you, ma'am!" Dennis scrambled away like a startled rabbit.
Dana Evans shook her head, an amused grin on her face. "You're a saint, Doc. Seriously. If this were the upper floors, they'd have eaten those kids alive by now. Especially if they wandered into the penthouse."
"The penthouse?" you asked, charting a quick note on the computer.
"Ortho," Trinity Santos answered, her voice dropping into a tone that was unusually reverent for her. "Specifically, the Chief of Ortho. Dr. Park. They call him 'The Shark.' He’s a total machine. Aggressive confidence, complete clinical dominance, and if an intern breathes out of rhythm in his OR, he bans them for a month. He’s completely terrifying."
You frowned slightly. Park? The name was common enough, but a strange, distant memory twitched in the back of your mind. No. It couldn't be. The only Park you knew from medical school was someone who couldn't even look a Starbucks barista in the eye without stuttering, let alone terrify an entire Level 1 trauma center.
"He doesn't have emotions," Melissa King added with a slight shudder. "I saw him look at a shattered femur last week like it was a fun puzzle, and when the resident missed a bone fragment on the pre-op, he just stared at them until they started sweating through their scrubs. Literally. He’s like an apex predator."
You smiled slightly, shaking your head at the hospital lore. Every major trauma center had one—the legendary, unyielding surgeon who ruled their department with an iron fist.
"Well, let's hope the Shark stays in his deep water today. We have enough to deal with down here."
The peace didn't last. Forty minutes later, the red courtesy phone at the trauma desk began its shrill, rhythmic wail. Dana picked it up on the first ring, her sharp eyes scanning the room as her expression instantly shifted into high-alert mode.
"Copy that. ETA three minutes. Give us both bays," Dana barked, slamming the receiver down. She looked directly at you. "Multi-vehicle collision on I-376. Inbound are two criticals. First up is a twenty-four-year-old male, unrestrained driver, ejected from the vehicle. Unstable vitals, massive pelvic disruption, obvious open deformities to the lower extremities. Second is a passenger, entrapped for thirty minutes, severe crush injuries."
"Alright, let's move!" you commanded, your voice carrying that effortless, magnetic authority that instantly pulled the chaotic ED into a tight, synchronized orbit. "Trinity, you're with me in Bay 1. Dennis, get the rapid infuser spiked. Melissa, I want you on airway with Dr. Garcia from Trauma Surgery. Victoria!" you called out to the medical student who had just appeared. "Stand back, observe, and do not recite textbooks unless I ask you to. Let's go!"
The doors to the ambulance bay flew open with a violent crash, the sound of rain and roaring sirens flooding the room. The paramedics rolled in, their faces grim, their forearms strained as they kept manual pressure on a mountain of bloody gauze.
"Patient is responsive only to deep pain!" the medic yelled over the din. "Systolic's been hovering in the low seventies. We got two lines of wide-open normal saline going. He’s got an obvious unstable pelvic binder on, but his left leg is practically pointing backward!"
"On my count, over to the trauma gurney," you ordered, stepping into the slot at the head of the bed. "One, two, three, shift!"
The patient was transferred in a flurry of movement. The smell of copper, road rash, and damp earth filled Bay 1.
"Trinity, check breath sounds. Dennis, get those lines hooked up to the blood products now!" your voice was a cool, steady anchor amidst the storm. You ran your hands expertly over the patient's abdomen and pelvis, feeling the terrifying, unhinged crepitus of a shattered pelvic ring. "He's bleeding out into his retroperitoneum. We need an immediate pelvic binder tight, and call the blood bank for a massive transfusion protocol."
Dr. Yolanda Garcia, the attending trauma surgeon, strode into the bay, her eyes taking in the scene in half a second. "He's got a rigid abdomen, Doc. We might need to ex-lap him right here if we can't stabilize this pressure."
"It's the pelvis, Yolanda," you argued, your hands steady as you secured the mechanical binder, pulling it taut until the lock clicked. "Look at the left lower extremity. The femoral artery is compromised from a massive orthopedic distortion. We need an immediate ortho consult for external fixation and vascular exploration. Dana! Who's the on-call ortho attending?"
"It's the Shark's service today," Dana said, her fingers flying over the keyboard. "Paging him now."
"Tell him to get his ass down here in thirty seconds or he's going to be operating on a corpse!" Trinity Santos yelled, her competitive adrenaline spiking as she tried to maintain an airway window.
"Watch the tone, Santos," you said mildly, not looking up as you began an ultrasound of the patient's heart. "But she's right, Dana. Make it a stat page."
The minutes stretched like taffy. The patient's blood pressure ticked up slightly with the first two units of O-negative, but the left leg was cold, pulseless, and pale—a ticking clock of ischemia.
"Where the hell is Ortho?" Garcia muttered, her hands hovering over her surgical tray.
Suddenly, the automatic doors of the trauma bay didn't just open; they seemed to part out of sheer deference. A tall, broad-shouldered man in dark green scrubs and a black surgical cap strode into the room. His presence was immediate, an oppressive wave of absolute focus and aggressive confidence that caused Dennis to instinctively step backward into a corner.
He didn't look at anyone's face. He walked straight to the foot of the bed, his dark eyes fixed entirely on the mangled left leg of the patient.
"What do we have?" his voice was deep, gravelly, and entirely devoid of warmth. It was a voice designed to cut through noise and command absolute obedience.
"Multi-vehicle MVC, severe pelvic ring disruption, open left femur fracture with absent distal pulses," Trinity Santos rattled off, her voice actually trembling slightly as she stood before the legendary surgeon. "We’ve placed a binder, but the limb is ischemic."
The tall surgeon reached down, his large, powerful hands moving with an terrifyingly precise efficiency as he evaluated the injury. "The binder is decent, but the traction is wrong. Who placed this?"
"I did," you said, stepping around the side of the bed to face him directly.
Dr. Brendon Park looked up from the injury, his sharp, dark eyes locking onto yours for the very first time.
The entire trauma bay seemed to lose its oxygen.
The man standing before you was a towering specimen of clinical perfection. His shoulders were broad enough to fill the doorway, his jawline sharp, his posture commanding and unyielding. He was the epitome of a brilliant, intimidating Chief of Orthopedic Surgery.
But as you stared into those familiar, dark eyes, the hospital room completely vanished.
You weren't looking at "The Shark."
You were looking at Brendon. Your Brendon.
The lanky, socially awkward, intensely brilliant boy from medical school who used to trip over his own shoelaces and hide in the back row of anatomy lectures. The boy whose shoulders used to slouch because he hadn't yet figured out how to carry the weight of his own genius. The boy whose lips had tasted like cheap beer and desperate, beautiful promises under a starry Ohio sky seven years ago.
Brendon froze. The absolute, unshakeable confidence that defined his entire reputation cracked in a fraction of a second. His wide, expressive eyes dilated, his lips parting slightly as a sudden, breathless shock washed over his features.
He whispered your name, his voice suddenly losing every ounce of its gravelly, intimidating edge. He looked at you like he was seeing a ghost, his hands hovering mid-air above the patient's leg.
"Brendon," you breathed, your cool, professional composure momentarily slipping as a wave of intense, buried yearning slammed into your chest.
For three long seconds, the busiest trauma bay in Pittsburgh was completely silent. The nurses, the residents, and the trauma surgeon stared at the two of you in absolute, slack-jawed bewilderment. The terrifying "Shark" was looking at the new ED attending like a man who had just found water in the middle of a desert, and you were looking at him with a vulnerability that none of them had ever witnessed from the unflappable new doctor.
"Uh..." Dennis Whitaker squeaked from the corner, breaking the spell.
Brendon blinked, his wall of clinical steel instantly slamming back into place, though his eyes remained fiercely, desperately anchored to yours. He cleared his throat, his chest expanding as he took a deep breath.
"Right," he said, his voice deep again, but there was a subtle tremor in it that only someone who knew him inside out could detect. "The leg needs immediate reduction and an ex-fix in the OR. If we don't restore perfusion in ten minutes, he loses the limb. Is she stable for transport, Doctor?"
He called you Doctor. The professionalism was a shield, but his eyes were pleading with you.
"Vitals are holding after the second unit," you replied, your voice snapping back into its signature, charismatic rhythm, though your heart was hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. "He's all yours, Dr. Park. Take him."
"Santos, Whitaker, with me," Brendon commanded, turning on his heel. "We're going straight to OR 4. Move!"
The residents scrambled to unlock the gurney, flying out of the room behind him.
As Brendon reached the threshold of the door, he stopped for a second, turning his head just enough to catch your eye one last time before disappearing into the corridor.
Dana Evans stepped up beside you, her eyes wide as she looked from the doorway back to you. "What the hell was that?"
You let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding for seven years, leaning against the central desk. "That... was an old friend."
By the time your shift wound down to its final hour, the storm outside had broken, a steady, rhythmic rain drumming against the frosted glass of the emergency department.
The adrenaline of the trauma had faded, leaving behind a profound, aching hollow in your chest that you hadn't felt since you left medical school.
You sat in the quiet doctors' lounge, a lukewarm cup of terrible coffee cradled between your hands, your mind entirely hijacked by the past.
You had met him during your second year of medical school at Ohio State.
You had been one of the "cool girls" in your class—undeniably brilliant, managing to effortlessly ace your pathology exams while still maintaining a vibrant social life, going out to bars, and living your early twenties to the absolute fullest. You had a status to uphold. You were charming, pretty, and effortlessly popular.
Then came the infamous mid-semester house party.
You had gone because you desperately needed to unwind, to forget the crushing weight of textbooks and clinical rotations for just a few hours. The air was thick with the scent of cheap beer and loud music.
And that’s where you first saw him.
Brendon had been dragged there by his roommate, he was sitting in the corner of a crowded kitchen, looking completely miserable, wearing an oversized gray hoodie that practically swallowed his lanky, six-foot-two frame. He was fumbling with a red solo cup, staring intensely at the floor, praying to whatever deity was listening that no one would try to talk to him. He was painfully shy, socially awkward, and completely out of his depth.
You had found him absolutely adorable.
Later in the night, a rowdy group of drunken surgery track students forced everyone into a circle for a classic, juvenile game of "Seven Minutes in Heaven." The beer bottle spun on the carpet, slowly losing speed, until the neck pointed straight at you.
The crowd cheered. You smiled, tossing your hair back, ready for whoever it was.
Then, they spun the bottle for the guy.
It landed on Brendon.
The room erupted into groans and laughter. Brendon looked like he wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole. His ears were bright red. He clumsily stood up, his long limbs awkwardly adjusting as he was pushed into the small, dark coat closet under the stairs with you.
“Good luck, babe, he might faint if you touch him!” your friend had yelled.
The door clicked shut, plunging both of you into darkness, save for the faint sliver of light beneath the door.
"Um... hi," Brendon had squeaked, his voice cracking slightly. He pressed his back firmly against the wall of the closet, as far away from you as physically possible.
"Hi," you had laughed softly, stepping closer to him. The scent of his clean laundry and nervous sweat filled the small space. "You know," you said, your tone light, cool, and teasing, "you don't look like you're in heaven, Brendon. You look like you're on death row."
"I... I don't really do parties," he stammered, staring at the ceiling. "And I... I really don't think we should do this."
You blinked, surprised. "Do what? Kiss?"
"Yeah," Brendon muttered, his face burning hot even in the dark. "I mean, you're... you're you. You're popular, and you're really pretty, and everyone knows you. And I’m... I’ve only ever kissed my high school girlfriend, okay? Once. And it was bad. I'll just embarrass myself. So... we don't have to. Let’s just stay on opposite sides of the closet.”
You had been surprised. Most guys in med school were arrogant, overflowing with unearned ego. You had found his honesty incredibly endearing. You actually wanted to kiss him. You had wanted to see what those nervous lips felt like.
But you respected his boundaries, and more importantly, you had a reputation to uphold. If you walked out of that closet and told everyone that the awkward, lanky guy had rejected kissing the coolest girl in the class, your ego would never recover.
"Alright," you had said, a mischievous spark igniting in your chest. "We won't kiss. But we have to make them think we did. Otherwise, they'll never let us live it down."
Brendon looked relieved. "How do we do that?"
"Mess up your hair," you commanded smoothly. You reached up, your fingers running through his thick, messy dark hair, intentionally rumpling it. Brendon went entirely rigid, his breath hitching as your fingers brushed his scalp. You grabbed the lapels of his oversized hoodie, shaking them, making a rustling noise, while you loudly sighed and threw your back against the closet wall, making a soft thud. You even let out a breathless, fake moan that made Brendon exhale a strangled, terrified gasp.
“Oh my god,” he whispered, his face burning in the dark.
“Shh, they’re listening,” you giggled.
"Perfect," you smirked. "But listen, Park. I'm saving your reputation out there, and I'm protecting my own. So, you owe me. Big time."
Brendon blinked in confusion. "A debt?"
"A debt of absolute servitude," you had declared dramatically. "From now on, you buy my late night coffee. You are going to be my personal driver when it rains. And you are going to be my mandatory study buddy, because I know you're secretly a genius who makes perfect flashcards. Deal?”
Brendon had stared at you through the dark, a slow, incredibly endearing smile finally breaking across his face. "Okay. Deal."
That silly party game had been the catalyst for the most beautiful, chaotic friendship of your life.
Brendon had kept his word with terrifying precision. He became your shadow, your defender, and your personal assistant. The hospital staff at your school clinic used to laugh watching the two of you. You would sit at the library tables, completely exhausted, and bark orders at him like a spoiled queen, and he would just grin and fulfill them.
“Park! I need a venti iced caramel macchiato with exactly two pumps of vanilla, and if it’s warm, I’m giving you the most complicated cases on our next quiz,” you’d yell across the student lounge. And twenty minutes later, he’d return, breathless, holding the perfect cup.
“Park, my car is making a noise like a dying cat. I need a ride to my 4:00 AM shift,” you’d text him at midnight. And at 3:45 AM, his beat-up Honda Civic would be idling outside your apartment, the heater already blasting because he knew you hated the cold.
The peak of your comedic tyranny had occurred during your internal medicine rotation. You had unexpectedly started your period during a twelve-hour shift, and the hospital supply closet was completely bare of anything useful. You had called him in a panic.
“Brendon. I need you to go to the pharmacy right now. Get me a box of Tampax Pearl. Regular absorbency. Do not get the generic brand, or I will end our friendship.”
An hour later, Brendon had sneaked into the back of the ward, his face bright red, holding a brown paper bag like it contained active explosives. He had handed it to you, coughing nervously. “I... I didn't know what absorbency meant, so I bought one of every box they had. The cashier looked at me like I was a pervert.” You had laughed so hard you almost cried, pulling him into a fierce hug right there in the hallway.
But slowly, beautifully, the surface-level banter had faded into something deeper. You began to see the brilliant mind beneath his awkward exterior. He was the only one who understood the crushing, suffocating anxiety of trying to be perfect in a field that demanded infallibility. You would sit on the floor of his messy apartment, surrounded by open textbooks, talking until the sun came up—not about medicine, but about your fears, your childhoods, the things that kept you awake at night.
He became your anchor.
Slowly, under your warmth and confidence, Brendon began to bloom. His lanky frame filled out as he started lifting weights to handle the physical demands of orthopedic surgery interest. He grew taller, his shoulders broader, his confidence slowly blooming under your constant, fierce encouragement. You had built him up. You had told him every single day that he was going to be the greatest surgeon this country had ever seen.
And then, during the final week before graduation, the tension had finally snapped.
You had been sitting on the hood of his car, looking out over the city lights. He had turned to you, his new, broad frame towering over you, his eyes burning with a confidence he had stolen directly from your belief in him. He had reached out, his large hands cupping your face, and he had kissed you.
It wasn't the awkward kiss of a boy. It was a kiss full of 2 years of unsaid words, full of desperation, yearning, and promises that tore at your soul. You had clung to him, your cheeks wet with tears, knowing that you had fell completely, deeply in love with him, and he was completely, utterly devoted to you.
But medical school is a meat grinder. By your final year, the pressure reached a boiling point. You were placed in different clinical rotations at entirely different hospitals across the city. You were working eighty-hour weeks, collapsing into sleep the moment you got home. The coffee dates stopped. The late-night study sessions vanished.
The final, crushing blow came on Match Day. You opened your envelope to find you had matched into an ultra-competitive emergency medicine residency in New York. Brendon opened his to find he had matched into an elite orthopedic surgery residency in California.
The distance, the exhaustion, the terrifying reality of residency loomed over you both. And on that rainy day at the airport, unable to face the agony of a long-distance relationship while drowning in intern year, you had mutually, heartbreakingly let each other go.
You remembered the tear-stained cheeks. The hugs that felt like they were trying to fuse your ribs together. And the kisses—god, the kisses—that were full of promises you both desperately wanted to keep, but ultimately couldn't. “We’ll find each other,” he had whispered into your hair. “I’ll come find you, baby.”
And then, life happened. Years passed. You met your douchebag ex-fiancé.
And Brendon became the "Shark."
The doors to the doctors' lounge flew open, shattering your reverie.
Dennis sinks against the wall, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Oh my god. I thought he was going to murder me for leaving the drill bits.”
"He's a psycho," Trinity Santos huffs, straightening her lab coat defensively. "He thinks he owns this entire hospital just because he’s a prodigy. Did you see the way he looked at everyone? He’s completely heartless."
You stand there, quietly hooking your stethoscope around your neck, a brilliant, knowing smirk playing on your lips.
Heartless? If only they knew.
Over the next few weeks, a massive, utterly baffling phenomenon takes over the halls of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.
The entire hospital fears Dr. Brendon Park. The nurses warn new interns not to look him directly in the eye. The residents tremble when his pager number flashes on their screens. He is an unstoppable, ruthless force of surgical perfection.
Except when it comes to you.
It starts on a chaotic Tuesday morning. The ED is overflowing, and Brendon has been down in the bays for three hours helping reduce a complex posterior hip dislocation. He is standing at the central nursing station, looking absolutely exhausted but radiating pure, unadulterated venom as he berates Zach Torres, the senior Cardiology resident.
"If your department can't clear this patient for the OR within the next ten minutes, Torres, I will personally wheel him up myself and write the clearance under your name," Brendon growls, his broad chest looming over the senior resident. "Don't waste my time with unnecessary echoes."
Zach, usually highly excellent and charismatic, is sweating through his white coat. "Dr. Park, we just need to ensure—"
Suddenly, you stroll up to the desk, looking radiant and completely relaxed. Without saying a word, you reach out, snatch the tall, steaming cup of artisanal dark roast coffee right out of Brendon’s hand, and take a long, satisfied sip.
The entire nursing station goes dead silent. Dana Evans stops typing, her jaw literally dropping. Victoria Javadi, who was standing nearby carrying charts, gasps softly, grabbing Dennis Whitaker’s arm in sheer terror. They are all waiting for the "Shark" to turn around and rip your head off.
Instead, Brendon stops mid-sentence. He slowly turns his head to look down at you.
The terrifying, icy glare completely evaporates, replaced by an expression of pure, exasperated fondness that none of the staff has ever witnessed.
"You're drinking my coffee," Brendon says, his voice dropping from a roar to a quiet, familiar rumble. "Again."
"You order too much espresso, Park. It’s making you cranky," you say smoothly, handing him back the half-empty cup. You reach out, your hand casually pressing against his broad chest, physically pushing the feared Chief of Orthopedic Surgery back half a step. "And stop bullying the cardiologists. Zach is doing his job. You’re being an ass."
Zach Torres stares at you like you are a goddess descended from the heavens.
Brendon sighs, a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of his lips threatening to turn into a smile. He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking less like a ruthless surgeon and more like a tired boy. "He's taking too long."
"Go sit down in your office and rest for twenty minutes before your next case," you order him playfully, tapping your clipboard against his arm. "Doctor’s orders. Move it, or I'll make you buy me tampons again."
Brendon’s ears turn a violent shade of pink. He clears his throat, glances at the stunned residents, and mutters, "Fine. Ten minutes."
He turns and walks away toward the elevator, completely submissive to your command.
Langdon blinks, utterly bewildered. "What... what just happened? Did you just hypnotize the Shark?"
You laugh, taking another sip of your own water. "No, Frank. He just needs a Snickers bar and a nap."
Dana Evans leans over the counter, staring at you with intense, analytical eyes. "Doc... what kind of voodoo magic do you possess? Nobody talks to Park like that. Nobody. Last month a general surgery attending tried to tell him he was being an ass, and Park almost threw him into a linen cart."
"We just have a history, Dana," you say with a wink, walking away to check on a patient.
But it doesn't stop there. The teasing and the dynamic between you two becomes the primary source of entertainment and gossip for the entire medical center.
A week later, you are up in the main OR tracking a trauma patient. Brendon is in OR 3, finishing up a grueling, six-hour spinal reconstruction. He is furious because the equipment tech brought the wrong size pedicle screws, and his booming voice can be heard echoing through the sterile hallway, terrifying the scrub nurses.
You walk straight into the scrub room, pop the door open with your elbow, and look inside. "Park! Shut up!"
The entire OR freezes.
"You're vibrating at a frequency that's giving me a headache from across the hall," you call out, completely unfazed by the sterile environment. "Use the alternative screws and stop throwing a tantrum. You're a big boy."
Brendon looks up through his surgical loupes. The entire room holds its breath, expecting him to banish you from the surgical floor. Instead, he just lets out a heavy breath, his broad shoulders dropping. "The alternative screws have a wider thread pitch, Doc."
"Then adjust your torque and stop crying about it," you reply cheerfully. "I’ll see you at hand-offs."
"Unbelievable," Brendon mutters under his breath, but the anger completely leaves his voice. He looks at his scrub nurse, his tone entirely calm now. "Let's get the alternative tray, please."
The staff is utterly flabbergasted.
Later that evening, the Pittlings are sitting in the cafeteria, desperately trying to deconstruct the mystery.
"I'm telling you, she must have dirt on him," Trinity insists, stabbing a fork into her salad with fierce competitiveness. "She probably knows about a malpractice suit, or she caught him doing something illegal. There is no logical reason why a brutal chief of surgery lets a newly transferred ED attending push him around like a puppy."
"No, it's not dirt," King says softly, her highly perceptive nature taking over. She smiles, staring into her soup. "Did you see his face when she took his coffee? He didn't look mad at all. He looked... happy. Like he was finally breathing. I think they knew each other before. Like, way before."
"Before?" Victoria asks. "Like... before residency? Back when he was a nobody? But Dr. Park was never a nobody, he's a prodigy!"
"Everyone was unknown once, Victoria," Melissa points out wisely.
The bubble popped on a chaotic Friday night.
The weather had turned violent, a severe thunderstorm rolling over Pittsburgh, causing a massive pile-up on the Fort Duquesne Bridge. The ED was under siege. Every single trauma bay was full, the air thick with the smell of blood, sweat, and the sharp tang of antiseptic.
You were in Bay 2, dealing with a twenty-two-year-old female patient who had been crushed in the driver’s seat of her compact car. Her status was critical, deteriorating by the second.
“Vitals are dropping!” Victoria called out, her voice tight with panic. “BP is 60 over 30! Heart rate is spiking to 160! She’s slipping into profound hemorrhagic shock!”
You were standing at the patient’s side, your mind racing through the differentials. She had massive internal bleeding, but her abdomen was firm, and her pelvic X-ray showed a severe, unstable "open-book" pelvic fracture. The blood was pooling in her retroperitoneal space.
“We need to bind this pelvis, now!” you shouted over the noise. “Dennis, get the binder!”
“We’re out of binders!” Dennis yelled back, his voice cracking as he rummaged through the supply cart. “The previous traumas took the last ones from central supply, they’re fabricating more now!”
“Fuck!” you cursed. The patient’s monitor began to beep erratically.
“She’s going into PEA!” Trinity Santos called out, her hand flying to the patient’s carotid artery. “No pulse! Starting compressions!”
You looked at the monitor, then at the patient’s pale face. You were out of options. The blood transfusion wasn't keeping up. The pelvis was wide open, acting like a massive, bleeding cavern that was draining her life force. If you didn't close that pelvic ring immediately, she would die on this table within two minutes. You couldn't wait for surgery. You couldn't wait for a binder.
A reckless, insane, completely unorthodox idea flared in your mind. It was a technique you had read about once in a military medicine journal—a desperate, high-risk field maneuver used in combat zones when standard equipment was unavailable. It was highly reckless, completely unauthorized by hospital protocol, and could permanently damage the patient’s internal organs or nerves if done wrong.
But it was the only chance she had.
“Trinity, stop compressions,” you commanded, your voice turning to absolute ice.
“What? Doc, we need to keep perfusion—”
“STOP. COMPRESSIONS!” you roared, a rare flash of raw, commanding power echoing through the bay. Trinity instantly froze, pulling her hands away.
You stepped onto the step-stool at the side of the bed. You looked down at the patient’s fractured, unstable hips. Without a binder, you had to use manual, extreme counter-traction and internal fixation using whatever you had.
You grabbed a heavy, thick cotton hospital sheet from the bottom shelf. You quickly threaded it under the patient’s lower back, aligning it with the greater trochanters.
“Dennis, grab that end of the sheet,” you ordered. “When I say go, I want you to pull with everything you have. We are going to manually crush this pelvic ring back together using the sheet, and then I am going to lock it down using a surgical clamp from the chest tray.”
“Doctor, that’s... that’s completely non-standard!” Mel stammered, her eyes wide with terror. “The sheer force could transect the femoral nerve if the bone fragments shift wrong! It’s too dangerous!”
“She’s already dead!” you snapped. “Pull, Dennis! Go!”
You and Dennis pulled the sheet with brutal, immense physical force, twisting the heavy fabric against each other, forcing the patient’s shattered pelvic bones to slam back together by sheer tension. You felt the sickening crunch of bone shifting beneath the flesh.
The patient’s body jolted. Holding the immense tension of the sheet with one white-knuckled hand, you reached for a massive, heavy-duty Kocher forceps from the emergency thoracotomy tray and clamped the twisted sheet tightly against the patient’s skin, locking the makeshift binder under extreme, crushing pressure.
“Resume compressions!” you shouted.
Trinity jumped back on the chest. Within three cycles, the monitor beeped.
A rhythm emerged. Weak, thready, but stable.
“Pulses are back,” Victoria breathed, looking at you like you were either a god or a lunatic. “BP is... 90 over 50. It’s holding.”
You stepped down from the stool, your hands shaking from the sheer physical exertion, your scrubs soaked in sweat. You had done it. The reckless, insane technique had closed the space and stopped the catastrophic bleeding. You had saved her life.
The automatic doors slammed open.
Brendon strode into the bay, flanked by two orthopedic residents. He had received the page for an unstable pelvic fracture and had rushed down from the OR. He took one look at the patient, then his eyes dropped to the makeshift sheet-and-clamp setup crushed around her hips.
He froze. His face went entirely pale, then flushed into a deep, terrifying crimson. The "Shark" didn't just return; he exploded.
“What the hell is this?” Brendon’s voice thundered, vibrating the glass walls of the trauma bay. The residents shrank back.
“It’s a makeshift binder, Dr. Park,” you said, trying to keep your voice calm, though the adrenaline was still pumping through your system. “We were out of standard binders, she lost pulses from hemorrhagic shock, and I had to close the ring.”
“With a sheet and a chest clamp?” Brendon marched up to the bed, his eyes flashing with a raw, furious brilliance. He looked at you, his voice dripping with venomous, professional outrage. “Are you completely out of your mind? Do you have any idea what you just did? You could have severed her internal iliac artery! You could have shredded her sacral plexus! You took a blind, reckless gamble with a patient’s life!”
The room went dead silent. The residents didn't dare breathe. It was the first time the hospital had ever seen the Shark turn his teeth on you.
“She was in PEA, Brendon!” you shot back, using his name, your own temper flaring. “She was dead! I didn't have time to wait for your department to fabricate a piece of plastic! It worked. Her vitals are holding.”
“It was luck!” Brendon snarled, stepping into your personal space, his imposing height towering over you, his eyes cold and hard as flint. “It was a reckless, arrogant, cowboys-and-indians piece of medicine that violates every standard of care in this institute. You didn't save her; you got lucky that you didn't paralyze her. Get out of my way. Move.”
He shoved past you, his movements aggressive and sharp as he immediately began to assess the damage, barking orders to his residents to get her to the OR for a proper external fixator.
You stood there, your heart pounding against your ribs. The insult stung—not just because he criticized your medicine, but because he had done it in front of the entire department, stripping away the mutual respect you had built over the last few weeks. He looked at you like you were a liability. An incompetent child.
“Fine,” you said, your voice dropping into a cold, lethal whisper that cut through his shouting. “She’s your patient now, Chief.”
You turned on your heel and walked out of the trauma bay, your face a mask of absolute, icy calm, leaving a stunned, silent room behind you.
The fallout was immediate and devastating.
The playful, legendary dynamic between the ED’s star attending and the Chief of Ortho vanished overnight. In its place was a terrifying, suffocating ice age that gripped the entire hospital.
For three weeks, there were no more stolen coffees. There were no more playful shoves at the scrub sink. There were no more private smiles or late-night laughs.
When Brendon came down to the ED for a consult, the atmosphere turned to absolute glass. You handled hand-offs with an icy, flawless professionalism that was completely devoid of emotion.
“Patient in Bed 4 has a displaced bimalleolar fracture,” you would say, your voice flat, your eyes fixed strictly on the computer monitor, never looking at his face. “Films are on the system. Ortho is consulted.”
“Understood,” Brendon would reply, his voice deep, hollow, and equally cold. He would take the chart, his eyes lingering on you for a desperate, painful second, hoping for a spark, a glance, anything. But you gave him nothing. You were a wall of ice.
The hospital staff was miserable.
“I hate this,” Dennis Whitaker whimpered in the breakroom, putting his head in his hands. “When they were flirting, the hospital was safe. Now? Dr. Park looked at my cast yesterday and told me a toddler with a crayon could have done a better job. He’s meaner than he’s ever been.”
“She isn't doing well either,” Dana Evans sighed, leaning against the counter. “She’s quiet. She’s brilliant as always, but that light she brought with her? It’s dimmed. They’re both miserable, stubborn idiots.”
You were miserable. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the fury in his eyes in that trauma bay. The words “reckless, arrogant gamble” burned in your chest. You had thought he, of all people, would understand. He knew how you operated; he knew you would never do something unless it was the absolute last resort. But he had judged you. He had put his professional arrogance above the reality of the situation.
And worse, it felt like your ex-fiancé all over again—someone telling you that your passion, your instinct, your identity as a doctor was flawed, dangerous, or empty.
You threw yourself into your work, pulling extra shifts, running yourself ragged just to keep your mind from thinking about the giant, dark-eyed surgeon who occupied the upper floors.
It was a rainy Thursday night, nearly four weeks after the argument. The storm outside was a mirror of the mood inside the hospital.
You just visited a pediatric patient on one of the top floors of the hospital. You had promised the kid that you’d visit her after her CRPP. Your shift had just ended, and you were thoroughly exhausted. Your feet ached, your eyes burned, and you wanted nothing more than to crawl into your bed in Shadyside and sleep for a week.
You walked toward the main elevator bank in the central pavilion, waiting for the car to arrive. The bell chimed. The doors slid open.
You stepped inside. You reached out to press the button for the ground floor, but stopped.
Sitting in the corner of the elevator, leaning heavily against the handrail with his eyes closed, was Brendon. He looked absolutely destroyed. His scrubs were wrinkled, dark bags hung under his eyes, and his broad shoulders were slumped in a state of profound, total physical exhaustion.
You froze. Your first instinct was to step back out, to wait for the next car. But before you could move, the automatic doors slid shut behind you.
The elevator began its smooth, silent descent from the twelfth floor.
You stood near the control panel, your back rigid, your eyes fixed on the digital floor indicator as it changed. 11... 10... 9...
The silence inside the small metal box was heavy, suffocating, and charged with four weeks of unspoken agony. You could hear his breathing—slow, deep, and tired.
8...
Suddenly, the elevator gave a violent, sharp lurch.
A loud, mechanical screech echoed from the shaft above. The lights flickered violently once, twice, and then died completely, plunging the car into absolute darkness. A second later, the emergency red backup lights kicked in, casting a dim, crimson glow over the small space.
The elevator ground to a dead halt.
You blinked, gripping your bag tighter. You reached out and pressed the emergency call button. Nothing happened. The system was completely dead.
“Great,” you muttered under your breath. “Just perfect.”
From the back of the car, you heard a long, heavy sigh. Brendon shifted his weight, his large frame moving through the red light. He looked up at the digital indicator.
The indicator was stuck on a single digit.
7.
The irony hit you like a physical blow to the chest. Floor 7.
Seven years ago, you were trapped in a dark closet for seven minutes. And now, seven years later, you were trapped in a dark elevator on the seventh floor with the exact same man.
Neither of you spoke for a long minute. The red light painted the space in a surreal, intimate warmth, cutting off the rest of the hospital, the rest of the world. There were no residents here. No nurses. No watchful eyes. Just the two of you.
“Are you okay?” Brendon’s voice broke the silence. It wasn't the voice of the Shark. It wasn't the voice of the angry Chief of Ortho. It was soft, hesitant, and carrying a deep, raw ache that made your chest tighten.
“I’m fine,” you said coldly, keeping your eyes fixed on the closed doors. “Just tired. I’d like to go home.”
“Baby... please.”
The use of the old nickname sent a violent tremor through your defenses. You closed your eyes, fighting the urge to turn around.
“Don’t call me that, Dr. Park,” you said, your voice shaking slightly despite your best efforts. “I think you made your thoughts on my identity quite clear four weeks ago.”
Hear a rustle of movement behind you. Brendon stood up. He walked across the small car, his massive, imposing presence closing the distance until he was standing right behind you. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, smelling the faint, familiar scent of cedar wood and soap that had always been him.
“I was wrong,” he whispered.
You bit your lip, refusing to look at him. “You think?”
“I was wrong about why I was angry,” he corrected himself, his voice cracking with emotion. He reached out, his large, calloused hand hovering over your shoulder, before he gently, tentatively placed it there. The touch was electric, burning through your scrubs. “I wasn't angry because your decision was bad. I knew the technique. I knew it was a battlefield maneuver. I knew she was in PEA.”
You finally turned around, snapping your eyes up to meet his. In the dim red light, his dark eyes were shining with unshed tears, his expression completely broken, stripped of all pride.
“Then why did you humiliate me in front of my team?” you demanded, your voice rising, the anger and hurt finally spilling over. “Why did you call me reckless and arrogant? Do you know what that felt like? After everything I went through, after my ex told me I was empty and that my career was a disease—you stood there and told me I was a liability!”
Brendon looked like he’d been stabbed. He took a sharp breath, his hands coming up to gently grip both of your shoulders, his thumbs rubbing circles against your skin.
“Because I was terrified!” he shouted softly, his voice thick with raw passion. “I walked into that bay and saw you covered in blood, pulling a stunt that could have ended your career if it went wrong. If that patient had died, if you had cut that artery, the board would have stripped your license before the sun came up. They would have destroyed you.”
He stepped closer, his chest pressing against yours, forcing you back slightly against the elevator wall. He looked down at you, his eyes wild with a desperate, consuming love.
“I didn't care about the protocol, baby. I cared about you. The thought of you losing your license, the thought of this hospital breaking you, the thought of you being taken away from me again before I even got the chance to tell you... I couldn't handle it. The Shark? That’s an act. It’s an act I put on so I don't break. But when it comes to you, I have no skin. I am completely raw. I saw you risking everything, and I panicked.”
You stared up at him, your breath hitching in your throat. The anger in your chest melted away, replaced by the profound, crushing realization of his true intent. He hadn't been attacking your competence; he had been trying to protect you from the system that had almost broken him.
“Brendon...” you breathed, your voice softening, your eyes searching his face.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispered, his forehead dropping down to rest against yours, his breath warm against your lips.
“Seven years, baby. Seven years of working eighty hours a week, looking at bone scans, moving up the ladder, but every single night, I woke up wishing I was back on that floor in med school sharing Chinese food with you. I wished I could turn back time. To when things were simple. To when I was just the awkward kid who was lucky enough to have the most beautiful girl in the world look at him.”
A tear slipped down your cheek, catching the red light. “I wished for it too,” you confessed quietly. “Every single day.”
“I love you,” he said, the confession raw, heavy, and absolute. “I never stopped. Not for a second.”
The final wall of ice inside you shattered into dust.
You reached up, your hands flying to the back of his neck, burying your fingers in his dark hair, and pulled him down.
The kiss wasn't like the ones from seven years ago—it wasn't full of tragic promises and impending goodbye. It was a violent, passionate, territorial reclamation. It was the release of seven years of pining, of loneliness, of misery.
Brendon groaned deep in his throat, his arms wrapping around your waist like bands of steel, lifting you slightly off the floor as he crushed his lips against yours. He kissed you with a desperate, consuming hunger, his tongue parting your lips, tasting you, drinking you in like a man dying of thirst.
You gasped into his mouth, your body melting completely into his broad, massive frame. You locked your legs around his waist, your back pressing hard against the cold metal wall of the elevator as he held you up effortlessly, his hands gripping your thighs with a fierce, possessive intensity.
The red light flickered around you, creating a private, chaotic heaven. He moved his mouth down your jawline, his lips burning against the sensitive skin of your neck, making you arch your back and let out a soft, breathless moan that echoed off the metal walls—the exact same sound you had faked seven years ago in that closet, but this time, it was entirely, beautifully real.
“Fuck, baby,” he groaned against your skin, his hands sliding under your scrub top, his warm palms mapping the curves of your waist, making your skin tingle with an electric fire.
You pulled his head back up, your eyes meeting his dark, blown-out pupils in the crimson dusk. “Don’t stop,” you whispered breathlessly. “Don’t you dare stop.”
He didn't. He kissed you until your lips were bruised, until your lungs burned, until the seven years of separation felt like nothing more than a bad dream.
CLUNK.
The elevator gave a sudden, violent jolt.
The mechanical screech returned, and suddenly, the bright, harsh fluorescent white lights of the car snapped back on. The digital indicator flickered and changed to G. The elevator began to move again smoothly.
You both froze. You quickly slid down his body, your feet hitting the floor, your hands frantically smoothing down your wrinkled scrubs and fixing your hair as Brendon stumbled back a step, his chest heaving, his face flushed, his eyes wild.
A second later, the chime echoed. The doors slid open smoothly to the main lobby.
Standing right outside the doors, waiting to board, were Langdon and Santos.
The two of them looked into the elevator. They took in the scene: you, standing near the back, your lips visibly swollen, your hair slightly disheveled, but your face wearing a cool, utterly unbothered expression. And beside you stood the Chief of Ortho, Dr. Brendon Park, his scrubs wrinkled, his breathing heavy, and a look of profound, dazed distraction on his face.
Trinity’s eyes went wide. Langdon blinked, looking back and forth between the two of you.
“Uh... evening, Doctors,” Frank stammered. “Is... is the elevator working?”
You flicked your hair over your shoulder, stepped past them with an elegant and utterly effortless charisma, and gave them a sweet smile.
“It’s working perfectly,” you said smoothly. “Have a good night, everyone.”
You walked out into the rainy Pittsburgh night, your heart soaring higher than it ever had in your entire life. Behind you, you heard Brendon’s heavy footsteps rushing to catch up.
The rain had stopped by the time the sun began to peek over the Monongahela River, casting a pale pink and gold glow over the brick buildings of Shadyside.
Inside your bedroom, the air was warm, quiet, and peaceful. The half-unpacked boxes in the corner didn't look like an unfinished chore anymore; they looked like a beginning.
In the center of the bed, tangled deep within the white cotton sheets, lay the two of you.
After the elevator doors had opened, there had been no more talking, no more hesitation. You had driven back to your apartment in a blur of rain and neon lights. The moment the front door had clicked shut, the clothes had been shed, the barriers broken down completely.
The sex had been profound—an intense, passionate, and deeply emotional consummation that carried the weight of seven years of waiting. It hadn't just been physical; it was the reclamation of your souls. Every touch, every gasp, every whispered confession against the skin had been a promise rewritten. He had loved you with a fierce, worshipful intensity that made you realize you were anything but empty. You were his entire world.
You slowly opened your eyes, a soft, content sigh escaping your lips.
The morning light filtered through the blinds, illuminating the broad, muscular expanse of Brendon’s back. He was sleeping on his side, his large frame taking up most of the mattress. One of his massive arms was wrapped tightly around your waist, his hand resting possessively against your hip, pulling your back flush against his chest even in his sleep.
You smiled, turning around slowly within his grip so you could look at him.
Without the mask of the Shark, his face was peaceful, handsome, and remarkably soft. The dark circles under his eyes seemed less prominent now, smoothed out by the deep, restorative sleep he’d been deprived of for weeks.
You reached out, your fingers gently tracing the sharp line of his jaw, moving up to brush a stray lock of dark hair away from his forehead.
Brendon stirred. His long eyelashes fluttered open, his dark eyes cloudy with sleep. The moment his gaze focused on your face, a slow, incredibly beautiful smile spread across his lips—a smile that was reserved strictly for you.
“Good morning, baby,” he rumbled, his voice thick and raspy from sleep, sending a delicious shiver down your spine.
“Good morning, Shark,” you whispered back, leaning forward to press a soft, sweet kiss against his lips.
He groaned happily, his arm tightening around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, his warm breath tickling your skin.
“Don’t make me go to work today,” he murmured against your skin. “I’ll page out. I’ll tell them I broke my arm.”
You let out a melodic, genuine laugh, running your hands through his hair. “You’re the Chief of Ortho, Brendon. You can't page out for a broken arm. That’s bad for your brand.”
“My brand is entirely yours,” he whispered, kissing the sweet spot just beneath your ear, making you gasp softly. “Let them handle the bones today. I’m staying right here.”
You smiled, closing your eyes as you held him tight, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest.
The past was gone. The cruel words of your ex-fiancé were nothing more than ash. You were here, in a new city, running a world-class department, and waking up in the arms of the man who had loved you through a lifetime of separation.
You were the cool and undeniably brilliant doctor who feared nothing—not the trauma bay, not the future, and certainly not the Shark. Because beneath the steel and the bone, he was just your Brendon, and you were his.
just letting you guys know rn that upon all the other wips i’m working on, i’ve just added another gator one to the list. oops.
‘stop the wedding…’ coming soon
the countdown finally hit zero. today is the day! the whole town is here, everyone is in their sunday best. the tables are set, and the guest are waiting!
a gorgeous day for a white wedding.
but you can’t ignore the sinking feeling, voices in your head, the dread in your heart, your sweating hands… you know how you really feel.
can you really do it? or does your childhood best friend, Gator Tillman have to help you…
Before Frank went to rehab, he had a notorious entanglement with an R1. Beautiful girl with pressed scrubs, the glossiest lips you've ever seen, and a surgical prodigy. Fantastically witty, fast on her feet- the complete whole package.
It was a constant "will they-won't they", the center of numerous bets within the PTC. Robby always knew if he was missing one, he'd have to ask the other. It was almost painful observing them from afar, her watching him like he'd hung the moon just for her, hanging off the back of his scrubs like he held her heart in his hands.
He did, in a way. Dangling a carrot just out of her reach, enjoying seeing her do her very best to try and earn his favor, earn one more kiss in the janitor's closets.
He liked having one of the most promising young residents at his beck and call.
Call him sick, call him twisted- it didn't ever get to him.
Well until now.
Two hours into his return, and he is watching his R1 be crowded by the chief of orthopedic surgery. His finger twisted little coils into her tied-back hair, watching her explain a pelvic fracture, like she had hung the moon.
Like she held his heart in her hands.
It wasn't wishful thinking; it wasn't jaw-droppingly obvious.
It was held in the tension of his jaw, the bend in his spine, trying to get closer to her level. The scene was as intimate as professionalism would allow. Doctor Park was looking at her like he knew something nobody else in The Pitt did.
Maybe he did.
"If you don't close your mouth, you'll catch flies." Dana's voice snaps him out of his hypnosis. He looks at her, still slightly surprised.
"W-what-" his finger pointed in their direction, disbelief coating his entire body.
"That's none of your business, kid. Stay out of it." She looks down at the clipboard in her hands.
"While you went AWOL, Shark smelt blood in the water and wanted a taste for himself." Dana chuckled.
"How 'bout that?"
(Thinking of making this a series... idk its open for suggestions)
a one shot of luke finally going to one of joes shows
“five years of front row”
☆ joe keery x fem!reader ☆
another luke one because apparently i can’t stop writing this little family 😭 i wanted to do one where he’s older and actually gets to enjoy joe’s concerts instead of sleeping through half of them. thank you for reading!! <3
summary: luke has been going to his dad’s concerts since he was a baby. now at five, he knows the songs, has opinions about the setlist, and fully believes every show is partly his.
word count: 5.7K
warnings: fluff, established relationship, dad!joe, son!luke, concert setting, lots of family moments, no use of y/n
Luke had been going to Joe’s concerts for longer than he could remember.
Literally.
There were pictures of him at six months old asleep against your chest backstage, enormous protective headphones covering half his head while Joe stood beside you already dressed for the show, grinning at the camera like he’d personally invented fatherhood. You still remembered that night better than most — the way Joe had hovered over the two of you for twenty straight minutes before someone finally dragged him to the stage, checking and rechecking that the headphones weren’t too tight, that Luke wasn’t too warm, that you had water, that you had everything, as if the venue might spontaneously stop functioning the second he walked away.
There were videos from when Luke was one, bouncing wildly on your hip while you tried to keep his headphones in place. He used to grab at them constantly, offended that something was covering his ears, and you’d spent entire songs locked in a battle of wills with a one-year-old who did not care that the bass was, in fact, dangerously loud.
At two, he’d learned that pointing at the stage and yelling “Dada!” got a reaction from almost every adult around him. He’d figured out fast that it worked on strangers too — crew members, security, people three rows back — and he’d used it shamelessly, delighted every single time somebody laughed.
At three, he’d developed favorites. Not just songs. People. He decided, apparently unilaterally, that certain crew members were his and others were merely tolerated. Adam had made the cut almost immediately. It had taken Trent a little longer, mostly because Luke had been suspicious of anyone who wore sunglasses indoors.
At four, he’d started getting offended if Joe changed the setlist and left one of them out. That had been the year you’d first seen him cross his arms during a show, a full body’s worth of three-foot-tall outrage aimed at a stage he could barely see over the barricade.
And now, at five years old, Luke Keery considered himself something of a professional concertgoer.
“Mom.”
You glanced down.
Luke was standing between your knees in the dressing room, staring at himself critically in the mirror. He had his chin tilted up, turning his head slightly side to side, the exact same way you’d once caught Joe doing in a hotel bathroom mirror at two in the morning, half-asleep and still inspecting himself like the room owed him an explanation.
“What?”
“My hair.”
“What about it?”
“It’s wrong.”
You looked at his hair.
Then at Joe’s reflection in the mirror across the room.
Then back at Luke.
It was almost ridiculous how much of his father lived in that little face. The set of his jaw when he was concentrating. The way his eyebrows did that same skeptical tilt whenever something didn’t meet his standards. You used to joke that you’d contributed nothing to this child except height, and lately you weren’t sure you’d even managed that.
Luke had insisted on growing his hair out because Joe’s was long, although his version was considerably messier from spending the afternoon running through hallways, climbing onto furniture he had specifically been told not to climb onto, and repeatedly stealing snacks from the catering table. There was a smear of something orange — cracker dust, probably, or possibly a crime against the craft services table — near his ear that neither of you had noticed until just now.
“I think it looks fine.”
“It doesn’t.”
From the couch behind you, Joe looked up from his guitar, one hand still resting flat against the strings to quiet them.
“Looks good to me.”
Luke turned around, fully committing to the argument now, hands landing on his hips in a stance you recognized instantly because you’d seen Joe strike it during more than one soundcheck disagreement.
“No.”
Joe’s eyebrows lifted.
“Okay.”
“I want it like yours.”
You pressed your lips together to stop yourself from smiling.
Joe looked at you.
You looked at Joe.
There were certain situations in parenting where neither of you needed to speak. A whole language had built itself between you over five years — a look that meant he’s you, a look that meant good luck, a look that meant I am handing this entire problem directly to you and walking away.
This was one of them.
Your problem.
Joe set his guitar aside, leaning it carefully against the arm of the couch the way he always did, like the thing was made of glass instead of wood and steel.
“Come here, man.”
Luke immediately crossed the room, abandoning the argument with you the second a better option presented itself.
Joe pulled him between his knees and started fixing his hair with his fingers, pushing it around until it vaguely resembled his own. He worked slowly, thumb smoothing down a piece that kept springing back up, tongue caught briefly between his teeth in concentration. Luke watched the process through the mirror with intense concentration, occasionally reaching up to swat Joe’s hand away from a section he’d decided was already perfect.
“You know,” Joe said, “most people pay somebody to do this before a show.”
Luke frowned at his reflection.
“You don’t.”
“Sometimes I do.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I never see them.”
“That doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
Luke considered this, visibly weighing the evidence, the way he weighed most claims Joe made that sounded suspicious.
Then apparently decided it was irrelevant.
“More like yours.”
Joe glanced at you through the mirror.
“You created this.”
“Me?”
“You.”
“You’re the one with the hair.”
“And you’re the one who told him he looked handsome with it long.”
“He does.”
Luke smiled at himself, pleased, tilting his chin up another inch like he was posing for a photo nobody had asked to take.
Joe caught it immediately.
“Oh, there it is.”
Luke tried to stop smiling, mouth twitching with the effort.
“There what is?”
“That giant ego.”
“I don’t have an ego.”
“You’re five. You don’t even know what that means.”
“Yes, I do.”
“What does it mean?”
Luke went silent, eyes narrowing slightly like the question had personally wronged him.
Joe waited, arms still loosely braced around him, clearly enjoying every second of this.
You waited too, leaning your hip against the counter, already knowing this was going to be good.
Luke looked at himself in the mirror again, buying time, searching his own reflection for the correct answer as though it might be written somewhere on his face.
“It means my hair looks good.”
You laughed so suddenly you had to turn away, one hand slapping over your mouth.
Joe stared at him for a second before nodding slowly, like a man conceding a point in a debate he hadn’t expected to lose.
“Yeah. You know what? Close enough.”
Luke escaped the second Joe finished, immediately running toward the door because somebody had walked past outside and apparently everything happening in the venue required his personal supervision. He didn’t so much walk as launch himself, socked feet skidding slightly on the concrete floor.
“Hey,” you called. “Where are you going?”
“Adam!”
“You don’t even know if that was Adam.”
“It was!”
The door opened.
It was, in fact, Adam.
Luke disappeared into the hallway with him approximately three seconds later, his voice already carrying back down the hall — something about his hair, something about the show, something about whether Adam had seen the new sneakers he was wearing, which nobody had asked about but which Luke clearly considered essential information.
Joe watched the empty doorway.
“He doesn’t even say goodbye anymore.”
“He sees you every day.”
“That’s not the point.”
You turned around in your chair to look at him.
Joe was still staring toward the hallway with an expression that was far too offended for a grown man whose five-year-old had simply chosen his friend over him for five minutes. There was something almost theatrical about it, his hand pressed lightly to his chest like he’d been wounded, though underneath the performance you could see he wasn’t entirely joking.
“You know he thinks your concerts are his social events.”
“They kind of are.”
“He walked in here and immediately asked where Trent was.”
Joe leaned back against the couch, feigning deep offense.
“He likes Trent more than me.”
“He likes everyone more than you.”
“That’s insane. I’m his father.”
“You’re old news.”
Joe narrowed his eyes.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Very much.”
He reached for your hand when you walked past him.
It happened so casually that you almost kept moving.
Almost.
Joe’s fingers wrapped around yours and pulled you backward until you were standing between his knees instead, the same spot Luke had occupied a few minutes earlier, though Joe filled it considerably differently.
“You ready?” you asked.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t look nervous.”
“I am.”
“You’ve done this approximately a million times.”
“And?”
“And I don’t know. At some point I’d assume your body would realize nobody’s chasing you with a knife.”
Joe laughed quietly, his hands settling at your hips, thumbs moving in small absent circles the way they always did in these last few minutes before a show, like he needed something to do with his hands or the nervous energy would go somewhere worse.
“That’d take all the fun out of it.”
You ran your fingers through the front of his hair, fixing a piece Luke had messed up while demanding his matching hairstyle, smoothing it back into place with the kind of practiced ease that came from doing this exact thing hundreds of times before.
Joe looked up at you the whole time, watching your face instead of the mirror.
There was always something strange about these few minutes before a show.
The venue outside the room could be loud enough that you felt it through the floor. People were moving everywhere — crew shouting numbers back and forth, a radio crackling with somebody’s voice, footsteps thundering past the door every few seconds. Someone was always calling for Joe, looking for something, checking something, needing a signature or a decision or a five-second answer to a question that felt enormous to them and small to him.
But he’d gotten good at finding these tiny pockets of stillness with you.
Sometimes thirty seconds.
Sometimes five minutes.
Enough.
“You’re gonna be great,” you said.
“Yeah?”
“No. I just didn’t know what else to say.”
Joe squeezed your hip.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
He pulled you closer, forehead nearly resting against yours, close enough that you could see the small crease of focus already starting to form between his eyebrows, the one that meant part of him was already halfway to the stage even though his hands were still on you.
You smiled, resting your hands on his shoulders, feeling the tension sitting there the way it always did before a show — not fear, exactly, just the particular kind of alertness that came before doing something in front of thousands of people.
“Luke requested his song, by the way.”
“Of course he did.”
“He said I needed to remind you because last time you forgot.”
“I didn’t forget. It wasn’t on the setlist.”
“I told him that.”
“And?”
“He said you’re in charge.”
Joe stared at you.
You shrugged, entirely unbothered.
“He has a point.”
“He’s becoming difficult.”
“He’s your son.”
“Our son.”
“He gets that from you.”
Before Joe could answer, Luke came charging back through the open door, breathless, hair somehow already worse than when he’d left, one shoe untied and flapping with every step.
“Dad!”
Joe immediately looked over your shoulder, hands still on your hips but attention fully redirected.
“What?”
“They said five minutes!”
“I know.”
“Five minutes!”
“Thank you.”
Luke ran over and wedged himself directly between the two of you, small shoulder pressing insistently into the gap like he was physically dividing territory that belonged equally to him.
Joe let go of you to catch him, scooping him up with the ease of someone who’d been doing it for five years, settling him easily on one hip.
“You gonna watch?”
Luke gave him a look.
It was almost insulting.
“Yeah.”
“The whole thing?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not gonna fall asleep?”
Luke’s mouth dropped open, genuinely scandalized.
“I don’t fall asleep!”
“You fell asleep last time.”
“No, I didn’t!”
You looked down at him, arms crossed now, playing along.
“You absolutely did.”
“I was tired.”
“That’s usually why people fall asleep,” Joe said.
Luke ignored him completely, choosing instead to address the more sympathetic party.
“I was four.”
“That was three months ago.”
“I was little.”
Joe looked at you.
You bit the inside of your cheek, trying very hard not to laugh at the sheer confidence of the deflection.
“Right,” Joe said seriously, nodding along like this was a perfectly reasonable defense. “Totally different guy now.”
Luke nodded, satisfied that the matter had been settled in his favor.
“I’m five.”
“That’s huge.”
“I know.”
Someone appeared at the doorway, clipboard in hand, not even needing to finish the sentence.
“Joe.”
Joe looked over.
“Yeah. Coming.”
And just like that, something shifted.
You’d seen it hundreds of times by now. Joe stood, rolled his shoulders back, grabbed what he needed — a water bottle, a pick he kept in the same pocket every night out of habit rather than necessity. The lazy version of him who had been sitting around arguing with a five-year-old about ego and hairstyles disappeared beneath the focused one who knew exactly where he needed to be, replaced in the span of about four seconds by someone with better posture and a different kind of stillness in his face.
Luke watched him do it.
He always did. Every single time, without fail, he went quiet for just a second, tracking the change like he was trying to figure out exactly where the line was.
Joe caught him doing it.
He crouched down, knees cracking slightly, bringing himself level with Luke’s face.
“Hey.”
Luke stepped closer.
Joe held out his fist.
“Good show?”
Luke bumped his tiny fist against his, the motion practiced and precise.
“Good show.”
It had been their thing for years.
Originally, Luke couldn’t even make a fist properly — his fingers used to curl into something closer to a limp wave, and Joe would gently reshape his hand into the right position every time, patient about it in a way he rarely was patient about anything else.
Now he did it without being asked.
Joe stood and leaned over to kiss the top of his head before turning to you.
He didn’t need the fist bump with you.
Instead, he slipped a hand around the back of your neck and kissed you quickly.
“See you out there.”
“Go.”
He kissed you once more, quick and unnecessary, the kind of kiss that existed purely because he could.
“Joe.”
“Going.”
“Dad!”
“I’m going!”
Joe finally disappeared through the door, and you could hear him laughing at something someone said in the hallway before the sound faded into the general noise of the venue.
Luke grabbed your hand.
“Come on!”
Apparently, you were late now.
By the time you reached your usual spot — a slightly elevated platform just off the side of the stage, close enough to see everything, far enough back to stay out of the way — the room had changed completely. The house lights were still up, but the energy in the crowd had already started to build, that particular hum of a few thousand people who knew the wait was almost over.
Luke’s headphones were firmly over his ears, although he’d complained the entire walk over that they messed up the hairstyle Joe had given him. You’d promised to fix it later, a promise you both already knew you’d probably forget, because within minutes the hairstyle would be the last thing on either of your minds.
The lights went down.
The crowd erupted.
Luke erupted with them, jumping in place, both fists in the air like he’d personally been waiting all day for exactly this moment. In a way, he had.
“DAD!”
You laughed.
There was absolutely no possibility Joe could hear him over a room full of screaming strangers.
Luke did not care.
“DAD!”
And then Joe walked out.
Luke’s entire face changed.
That was your favorite part.
Not because Luke was surprised to see him.
He wasn’t.
He’d watched Joe do this his entire life. He’d sat through soundchecks and rehearsals. He knew what guitars belonged to which songs. He knew which people would be standing backstage when you arrived. He knew that Dad disappeared for a while and came back sweaty and hungry afterward.
But somehow, every single time Joe stepped onto a stage, Luke looked at him like he’d never seen anything cooler in his entire life. Like the man walking out under those lights was someone new and enormous and slightly unbelievable, instead of the same person who’d been arguing with him about hair gel twenty minutes earlier.
You understood.
Five years old or not, you probably looked exactly the same.
Luke immediately started jumping.
You caught both his hands.
“Careful!”
“Mom! Dance!”
“I am dancing!”
“No, like this!”
His version involved significantly more jumping than dancing, knees bending and springing back with total disregard for rhythm, tempo, or the actual song playing.
You copied him anyway, matching his ridiculous bouncing step for step.
Luke screamed with laughter, delighted that you’d committed to it.
It took approximately half a song before he abandoned your hands and started performing alongside Joe from the safety of the side stage.
Not watching.
Performing.
Every movement was exaggerated — arms flung wide, head thrown back, an entire one-man show happening three feet from you that nobody in the actual crowd could see.
Every lyric he knew was screamed.
Every lyric he didn’t know was also screamed, except with completely invented words that occasionally, hilariously, rhymed with the actual ones.
You pulled out your phone.
Luke noticed immediately, spinning to face you with the speed of someone who had a sixth sense for exactly this.
“No!”
“What?”
“No video!”
“You love watching the videos later.”
“No!”
You lowered your phone.
“Okay, diva.”
Luke pointed at the stage, arm fully extended, the universal five-year-old gesture for this is more important than whatever you’re doing.
“Watch Dad.”
“I’ve seen Dad.”
“Mom.”
“Okay!”
You put the phone away.
Luke nodded, satisfied, immediately returning his full attention to the stage as though the interruption had never happened.
The next song started.
He recognized it before you did, head snapping up, whole body going rigid with anticipation.
His head snapped toward you.
“Mom!”
“I know.”
“This one!”
“I know!”
“My favorite!”
“Yes, Luke, I know!”
Joe knew too.
You saw it happen.
He was halfway across the stage when he glanced toward the side.
Straight toward you.
Luke was already losing his mind, both arms windmilling over his head.
Joe smiled.
Not the performance smile.
Not the one aimed out at the room, the one calibrated for cameras and phones and thousands of strangers.
That one was yours.
Yours and Luke’s.
Luke waved both arms over his head, practically vibrating.
Joe gave him the smallest wave back — just two fingers, barely a movement at all, easy to miss if you weren’t looking exactly at him.
That was enough.
“HE SAW ME!”
“Yes!”
“He saw me!”
“I saw!”
Luke grabbed your hands again.
This time, you let him drag you completely into it.
You danced with him through the entire song, spinning him once when he demanded it, catching him when he stumbled into you, both of you singing badly and loudly enough that it was probably fortunate neither of you had microphones. A few people nearby had noticed by now, smiling at the sight of the two of you, though Luke was far too absorbed to care about an audience of his own.
Halfway through, Luke climbed onto a nearby road case, scrambling up with more confidence than coordination.
You immediately grabbed his waist.
“Absolutely not.”
“But I can’t see!”
“You can see perfectly.”
“No, I can’t.”
“You are literally looking at him right now.”
“I wanna be taller.”
“Well, unfortunately, I can’t fix that tonight.”
Luke held his arms up, the universal request that had worked on you since he was old enough to make it.
“Up.”
You stared at him.
He smiled, fully aware of his own leverage.
“Luke.”
“Please?”
You lasted approximately two seconds.
Then you picked him up, hoisting him onto your hip with a small grunt you tried to hide.
He was getting too big for this.
You noticed it every time now.
His legs hung lower against you than they used to. You couldn’t carry him endlessly anymore without your arms complaining, a fact that quietly startled you every single time you registered it. Five years had somehow passed between the baby asleep against your chest in giant headphones and this little boy singing directly into your ear, elbow occasionally jabbing your collarbone in his enthusiasm.
Luke wrapped one arm around your neck.
With the other, he pointed toward Joe.
“Look!”
“I’m looking.”
Joe had moved toward your side of the stage again, guitar slung low, feet planted in that wide, familiar stance he took during the bridge of almost every song.
Luke waved.
Joe looked over.
Then, without missing a beat, he pointed at him — a quick, deliberate gesture, unmistakable even from a distance.
Luke gasped.
You felt his entire body straighten against you, spine going rigid with pure delight.
“He pointed at me!”
“He did.”
“Did you see?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see, Mom?”
“I saw!”
Luke turned back toward the stage, practically glowing.
Joe was laughing now, you could tell even from here, shoulders shaking slightly as he turned back toward the crowd.
You shook your head at him, though he wasn’t looking anymore.
Joe shrugged at nothing in particular, still grinning.
Then Luke started singing again, louder than before if that was even possible, riding the high of being seen.
You watched him for a second instead of the stage.
His little profile. His messy hair, completely undone from Joe’s careful styling now. The headphones slightly crooked over his ears. His hand keeping time against your shoulder even though he had absolutely no sense of rhythm, tapping somewhere between double-time and no time at all.
You kissed his cheek.
Luke immediately wiped it, unbothered but businesslike about it, the way he handled all affection during a performance he considered too important for distractions.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“I’m singing.”
“Sorry for disturbing you.”
Then Joe changed songs.
Luke froze mid-sway.
He looked at you, eyes wide with the beginning of betrayal.
You knew immediately.
“Oh no.”
Luke slowly turned toward the stage, as if giving Joe one more chance to redeem himself.
“He skipped it.”
“Maybe it’s later.”
“He skipped my song.”
“Luke—”
“DAD!”
You started laughing.
“Dad!”
Joe could not hear him.
“DAD, YOU FORGOT!”
People nearby were beginning to laugh too, a small ripple of amusement spreading from the strangers who’d caught on to exactly what was happening.
You covered your mouth.
“Luke, I don’t think—”
“MY SONG!”
As if the universe had decided Luke Keery’s ego needed to remain intact, Joe glanced toward you right then, maybe out of habit, maybe out of some instinct honed over five years of exactly this kind of interruption.
Luke pointed an accusing finger at him, fully committed, unwilling to let this slide.
Joe frowned from the stage, confused, mouth shaping a silent what.
Then looked at you.
You mouthed, His song.
Joe’s expression changed with recognition, eyebrows lifting.
He laughed.
Actually laughed, right into the microphone, although nobody else knew why — a burst of sound that got absorbed into the song, most of the crowd assuming it was just part of the performance.
Luke crossed his arms, entirely unimpressed by the laughter.
“He knows.”
“Oh, he knows.”
“He better do it.”
You looked at your five-year-old, still perched on your hip, arms crossed like a tiny furious executive.
“Who are you?”
Luke didn’t answer, too busy monitoring the stage for signs of compliance.
His song came two songs later.
Joe introduced it with, “This one’s apparently mandatory tonight,” and you could hear the smile in his voice even through the microphone.
Luke’s arms shot into the air.
“YES!”
You nearly folded in half laughing, nearly dropping him in the process, which only made him laugh too, the two of you a mess of noise on the side of the stage while a few thousand strangers sang along without any idea why the two of you found it so funny.
Afterward, backstage was considerably quieter.
Luke had made it through the whole show.
Technically.
He was also currently lying across a couch with his head in your lap, insisting he wasn’t tired while blinking slower every thirty seconds. His shoes had come off somewhere between the stage and here, and one sock was already missing entirely.
“You made it,” you told him.
“I told you.”
“You did.”
“Whole show.”
“Whole show.”
His eyes closed.
You smiled, brushing a piece of hair off his forehead.
“Luke?”
They opened again, slower than they had ten minutes ago.
“I’m awake.”
“Obviously.”
The door opened.
Luke sat up so quickly you nearly got hit in the chin.
Joe walked in, still slightly damp from the show, shirt sticking to his shoulders, a towel draped around his neck.
“Dad!”
There was no trace of exhaustion anymore.
Joe barely had time to put anything down before Luke launched himself off the couch.
“Whoa.”
Joe caught him, absorbing the impact with the ease of long practice, lifting him easily despite the guitar case still hanging off one shoulder.
“You did my song.”
“I did.”
“You almost forgot.”
“I didn’t almost forget.”
“You did.”
“I was building suspense.”
Luke looked suspicious, narrowing his eyes in a way that was, once again, unmistakably his father’s expression.
Joe looked at you over his head.
You shook your head.
“Don’t look at me. He spent two songs publicly criticizing your setlist.”
“Really?”
“He was furious.”
“I wasn’t furious.”
“You crossed your arms.”
Luke rested his chin on Joe’s shoulder, unbothered by the accusation.
“I thought you forgot.”
Joe’s expression softened, all the teasing draining out of it at once.
“Never.”
“You forgot last time.”
Joe paused.
“Okay, one time.”
Luke smiled, victorious.
Joe carried him over to the couch and sat beside you, keeping Luke on his lap, one hand automatically settling against his back.
Immediately, Luke started talking.
About everything.
The song.
The lights.
How Mom had danced wrong.
“I did not dance wrong.”
“You did.”
“There is no wrong way to dance.”
Luke looked at Joe, appealing to a higher authority.
“Mom danced wrong.”
Joe nodded solemnly, entirely too serious for the topic.
“I’ve seen her. I believe you.”
You slapped his arm.
“Excuse me?”
Joe laughed.
Luke laughed harder, delighted by the alliance.
“Oh, great. Team up on me.”
Luke leaned across Joe to reach you, small hand outstretched.
You let him grab your hand.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“You were good.”
“Oh, now I’m good?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you.”
“But Dad’s better.”
Joe immediately held up his hand, feigning innocence.
“Okay, don’t drag me into this.”
“You already put yourself in it!”
“I didn’t know there was gonna be ranking.”
“There is now.”
Luke settled deeper against him, the argument apparently resolved to his satisfaction.
His energy disappeared as quickly as it had returned, the last of it draining out of him in the space of a single yawn.
Joe noticed too, glancing down.
“Tired?”
“No.”
“Right.”
Luke’s eyes closed.
Joe looked at you.
You smiled.
“Whole show.”
“I’m impressed.”
“He nearly fell asleep during the last song.”
Luke’s eyes stayed closed, voice already thick with sleep.
“No, I didn’t.”
Joe lowered his voice.
“Sorry.”
Silence settled around the three of you.
Not complete silence. It never was backstage.
You could still hear people outside the room, cases rolling down the hall with that particular rumble, pieces of equipment being packed away, somebody laughing somewhere nearby, a radio still crackling faintly in the distance.
But in here, everything had slowed down.
Joe’s arm stretched across the back of the couch behind you.
You leaned into him.
Luke was folded against his chest, one small hand still wrapped loosely around two of your fingers, breathing slow and even.
Joe looked down at him.
“He’s huge.”
“I know.”
“When did that happen?”
“I don’t know.”
Joe ran his hand over Luke’s hair, smoothing it down out of habit even though it was already a lost cause.
It was completely ruined now.
So much for the pre-show styling.
“You remember when he’d sleep through these?”
“He slept through everything.”
“He slept through that entire show in Chicago.”
“With the headphones slipping over his eyes.”
Joe smiled, the memory clearly playing out behind his eyes.
“You have that picture?”
“Obviously.”
“You have everything.”
“Somebody has to.”
He looked at you, something quiet and warm in his expression.
“You’re gonna show those to his girlfriend one day.”
“Obviously.”
“He’s gonna hate you.”
“That’s fine.”
Luke moved slightly between you, murmuring something unintelligible in his sleep, one foot kicking out against the couch cushion.
Joe immediately lowered his voice even more, going still until Luke settled again.
You watched him do it — that automatic, unthinking carefulness, the way his whole body adjusted itself around the smaller one currently drooling slightly on his shirt.
There were still moments when seeing Joe as someone’s dad caught you off guard.
Not because it was unusual anymore.
It wasn’t.
Five years of it had made this version of him as familiar as every other one — as familiar as the version who argued about setlists, the version who forgot where he put his keys, the version who could hold a room of thousands of people in the palm of his hand for two hours straight.
But sometimes you’d see him onstage in front of thousands of people and then twenty minutes later he’d be sitting beside you with your sleeping son on his chest, absentmindedly rubbing circles over his back without even seeming to notice he was doing it.
And the contrast still did something strange to you, every single time, like your chest couldn’t quite decide how to hold both versions of him at once.
Joe caught you staring.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, what?”
You shook your head.
“Just looking at you.”
“Why?”
“Can’t I look at you?”
“Not like that.”
“Like what?”
“That face.”
You smiled.
“I don’t have a face.”
“You have a face.”
“Good observation.”
“You know what I mean.”
Outside, the venue was still being taken apart around you.
Tomorrow there would be another city. Another soundcheck. Another dressing room Luke would immediately treat like his own house, inspecting the couches, claiming a corner, asking Adam where the good snacks were kept. Another show he’d insist he was old enough to stay awake through, and would probably lose that particular battle again.
But for now, Luke was asleep between you.
His headphones were abandoned somewhere under the couch.
His hair no longer looked remotely like Joe’s.
And five years after his first concert, he’d still ended the night exactly the same way he had as a baby.
Asleep against his dad while you sat beside them.
Some things, apparently, didn’t need to change.
thank you so much for reading!! <3 i really love writing joe, reader and luke together, especially these little moments of luke growing up around joe’s music. Also sorry for the absence, i’ve been very lazy and doing other one shots... as always, requests are open!!
୨ৎ pairing .ᐟ.ᐟ michael robinavitch x psych fellow!reader
୨ৎ summary .ᐟ.ᐟ robby was three months shy from his sabbatical. the amount of loose ends he had to tie were creating a dreadful to-do list he felt obligated to address before hitting the open road. one of the many things on his list is ensuring you'll be the newest addition to the behavioral health department to assist down in the pitt. the longer the two of you toe the line of professionalism, he realizes there are other things to broach with you.
୨ৎ tags/warnings .ᐟ.ᐟ female reader, no physical description, no use of y/n, SMUT MDNI!, unprotected p in v, handjob, making out, dirty talk, medical inaccuracies, mentions of gun violence, suicidal ideation, substance intoxication, physical assault at the workplace, robby being slightly jealous
୨ৎ authors note .ᐟ.ᐟ woah...getting hot and steamy here! honestly, first piece of smut on this app. apologize if it sucks, lol! i actually was pretty satisfied after writing this, so i had to post it. anyways, i love them and they obviously had to come together eventually.
୨ৎ word count .ᐟ.ᐟ 13 k
prev: two against three
Another shift down, Robby mentally reminded himself. Another day closer before he’d be walking out those doors and learning the endless sights of the road. He was officially three months away from his sabbatical.
Every time he walked into his garage and admired the bike, he spent months reconstructing, he told himself to hold off. There was a buzzing noise in his ear during shift change recently, with the anticipation crawling. Eventually it would be his last for a while. Longer than he had been gone before.
Despite the fact he was tempted to go on his trip earlier, he knew there were responsibilities he’d be ignoring if he did. He never would have opened the reinstatement paper for Langdon to repeat his last year of residency due to ‘unforeseen circumstances.’ He never would have witnessed the renderings of the shiny plaque commemorating their efforts in the wake of the PittFest shooting. He would’ve also missed the invitation for the farewell party hosted by Princess and Perlah for Collins.
He would also be oblivious to the close proximity you shared with the night shift attending by the nursing station.
If anyone were looking in his direction, they would have noticed the quick double flick of his head as he walked out of Trauma 2. It was close to 8pm and by this time; you would have made your way out. It was rare you stuck around late. Robby knew from the few times you two ran into each other in the parking garage elevator.
While discretely keeping his eyes on the two of you, he noted how you leisurely leaned against the counter. One elbow resting on station while holding a coffee in the other. A clear cup with orange lettering. Shen was listening intently to you ramble about something. Your eyes fluttered and brightened as you continued with your story. Shen didn’t tear his eyes away for one moment.
Robby tried to make out what he could from across the station. He pretended to be engrossed in the patient board, arm crossed and head craned back; but if anyone paid closer attention, they would see his eyes fleeting back to you and Shen.
“So the tinman does have a heart.” He heard someone mutter from behind him. He twisted his neck to either side before seeing Santos come up on his right with an amused smile. She had on her jacket and one strap of her backpack slung over her shoulder.
He furrowed his brows at her, feigning naivety. She motioned over to the sight of you now laughing at something Shen said. Robby smiled awkwardly, “I don’t think she would appreciate that.”
Santos snorted, stuffing her hands in her pockets. She leaned back and forth gracefully. “She’s chill with it.”
“Oh, yeah?” Robby breathed out with a chuckle. There was a slight resemblance between you and his intern. He wasn’t surprised you two could hit it off under the right circumstances and if Santos could learn to trust someone outside the workplace, then he was in greater support of it. “Chill with the idea that my residents consider her a heartless individual.”
“It’s a joke, Dr. Robby.”
The small rebellious streak in her eyes simmered when the two looked over once more. Shen had put aside his ice coffee and digital chart as he showed you something on his phone. Your shoulders lightly pressed together, and your head leaned in closer. It could have been attributed to the loud sounds of machines and staff walking by, but it seemed scarcely intimate for you.
“I’ve seen them hang out more.” Santos acknowledged, crossing her arms to mirror the stance of her superior. Robby hummed lightly while still observing the newfound dynamic between you and Shen. “Javadi caught them once at a café walking a golden retriever.”
Robby shook his head. There was no plausible reason to be discussing a hospital staff’s personal life—let alone their romantic one. If you wanted to go on dates with people, even those within the hospital walls that was fully within your rights. There wasn’t much overlap between your positions and if you continued staying at PTMC as an attending, there wouldn’t be any concern of a power imbalance, despite being a couple of years older.
“I think they could work. In their own weird way.” Santos concluded. The sound of Whitaker calling her name pulled her out of the parasocial analysis of her colleagues. It also ruined the illusion Robby was starting to make up in his mind.
With Santos disappearing from his eyeshot, his mind wandered back across the nursing station. He saw Jack pat Shen on the shoulder, mumbling something incoherent. Compliant, Shen pocketed his phone. Once Jack stepped away, Shen collected his things, still speaking with you. There was a smile on your face as you let him brush past you, attending to his duties. You walked in the opposite direction and Robby willfully saw himself moving as well. He kept his head down to remain inconspicuous.
When the two of you rounded the center by the behavioral rooms, Robby saw the slight raise of your eyebrows with a small grin. “Robby, are you avoiding going home or do you just live here?”
“I could say the same about you.” He mused, hands hiding in the pockets of his blue zip-up. He shrugged, shying away, “You aren’t typically found this late.”
Taking a careful sip of the coffee, you hummed, “You kept giving me patients to visit.”
Robby chuckled, shaking his head at the playful blame. It was the current dynamic the two of you settled on. Playful banter that only made sense to the two of you. The past month has forced you two to spend more contact outside the hospital. With the review from Admin, there were reasons for the two of you to continue texting and calling.
The review had closed a week ago and Robby thought there would be a drought after. With the blow up between you and Mrs. McGuire and that of your own colleague, Robby was not sure you would trust yourself to be human in the workplace. Watching you, talking with Shen was seeing the white shell of an egg crack. The yolk wasn’t pouring out, but steeping out through the crack as the part of yourself Robby had seen briefly came to fruition under Shen’s graze.
“I apologize then.” Robby mumbled, scratching the side of his beard while turning his face away.
“I’m messing with you, Robby.” You responded with a slight whisper, before walking over to one of the workstations. You put down the coffee before briefly logging in.
Robby was staring at the back of your head, and he saw you pull up the chart for the patient in North 4. He carefully stepped closer, leaning forward slightly to capture some of your attention. “Have you heard anything?”
He saw the pinch of your brows as you continued typing. He then placed his hands on the side of the desk beside you, leaning in to keep the conversation private. There was enough space between the two of you, compared to how you stood with Shen. Robby didn’t think you’d be fine with an intrusion. “From any of the places you applied?”
You lightly opened your mouth ahing as it hit you what he was referring to. In response, you shook your head. “Still awaiting a response from Presby and Mass General.”
“And what about here?” Robby dragged the words, hoping to ease the conversation slowly.
There was hesitancy in your fingers. Although you were already stretching them in between keystrokes, your hands paused completely before continuing. Carefully licking your lips, you nervously laughed. “I am working on it.”
You eyed him from the corner of your eye, holding back the curl of your lips. Robby shook his head, “I’ve noticed. I’ve been eagerly expecting an email from Admin about my thoughts as ER chief.”
“What do you plan to tell them?” You asked easily, while keeping yourself physically busy.
He could see how interested you were in the response, but something still held you back from taking a leap. PTMC was more than a safe choice, in his opinion. There was a lot of work done outside the hospital that you could benefit from. Educational seminars, academic work, even humanitarian efforts. Robby didn’t have time to smile for the cameras, but you could definitely do the work better than him.
“That this hospital has more to lose than gain if they didn’t hire you.” Robby admitted shamelessly. He didn’t have anything else planned, because that was the only truth Admin needed to know.
He knew they would dig for any liabilities to hiring you. During the internal review, there were a lot of questions of who failed to do what, but he knew they were covering everything that was pertinent to document. Although upset from the publicity that came from the incident, and the fact you had been assaulted while attempting to do your job, Gloria was slightly more uptight than usual. Nothing new in Robby’s eyes, and nothing that should concern you about the hiring procedure.
‘That’s generous.” You commented with an even tone.
He struggled with the same acceptance as you did. With your recent streak of bad luck, you were having an even harder time accepting accolades for your work. Robby didn’t mind reminding you, especially if it meant you’d give yourself grace to make a decision meant to benefit you. “I’m not the only one who believes it.”
With raised eyebrows and a crooked smile, you finally turned to him, staring up to meet him in the eyes. “Did Caleb send you to sniff out my intentions?”
Robby chuckled with a toothy grin, one hand scratching the side of his beard. “No, I guess we just happen to think alike.”
You finished typing a couple more sentences before logging out of the computer. You spun the chair lightly, standing up beside him. He took one careful step back, but there was still little space for anyone to interfere. “Like I told Caleb and Shen, I will submit a formal application for an attending position. I just want to test my options first.”
You shrugged, grabbing your coffee. “I don’t exactly look forward to packing up my life after finally getting rid of all my boxes.”
He saw you shift slightly, ready to leave, but something kept you in place. You stared at him thoughtfully, “Truth is, I haven’t exactly done anything to prove I’m worth keeping around.”
“That opinion is subjective.” He remarked, lightly grinning to prevent you from disheartening yourself.
“If you say so,” You scoffed, pushing the chair into the desk, one hand still grasping the back. “Caleb has tried. Shen and even some of your residents.”
“At the end of the day, it’s my decision to make.”
Offering him a tight lip smile, you slipped around him, barely brushing his shoulder.
The Pitt was at a standstill for once. No one would dare say the Q-word aloud, but everyone was in silent agreement of the fact. There was a lull in traumas and they were making steady progress with their patient in chairs. He thought they were surviving for now. It was only 4pm after all.
He was sitting down at the nursing station, getting some charting and other administrative emails done. It was boring to say the least, but he had put off enough of his duties. He knew he needed to get done as much as he could before leaving for his sabbatical.
Some of it though, didn’t pertain to the work at PTMC. He had a personal interest he currently endeavored himself to prioritize. Making sure his residents were well equipped for their next phase in their education—and although you weren’t his resident (let alone a resident)—he felt as responsible for your future.
After everything that had occurred in his department under his guise, he owed you that much.
If everything with Richman hadn’t occurred, you wouldn’t feel as insecure as you did. You were under the notion that this hospital wouldn’t want you, and Robby wouldn’t tell you, but he felt you were blinded by your own narrative. A narrative that was self-sabotaging.
He knew Caleb would notice. While preparing for the internal review, they had a moment alone and Caleb had confided in Robby what he hadn’t told you.
“I don’t think I’ve seen someone as driven and enamored with her patients as she is, and I don’t think I could trust anyone else to teach the residents besides her.”
When Caleb smiled, Robby knew it was the truth.
Robby didn’t argue that fact. He could trust in you to advocate for your patients. You’d fight him over the right plan of care if necessary. He learned to respect that fact, challenge it when necessary, and relent to your decision when you were right. If there was anything Caleb could equally respect, it was that.
It would be a challenge for Caleb to relearn how to navigate without your help.
Robby continued searching his inbox in relation to you and a new emergency psychiatrist. He didn’t have much of a powerful say as to whether or not you’d be hired for the position, but he knew Gloria would want his input; especially considering he wouldn’t be here after you started as an attending physician. They would need to know he can trust in someone to navigate for three months without his presence.
He didn’t find anything when he searched your name in the search engine.
“Hey Robby.”
When he lifted his head, he heard Lupe approaching him to where he sat. When she mentioned your name, that piqued his interest more. “I have a girl, Stephanie Robles, in chairs looking to speak with her. I tried calling for her, but got nothing.”
Robby sighed out heavily, leaning back in his chair. “I can call her down. Did she state the reason?”
Lupe shrugged, “She said she was told to stop by if there was ever an emergency. Poor girl looks like she’s been through it.”
He furrowed his brows at that. He was wary about the sudden visit. With the aftermath of the Richman case, they were all told to be on high alert for anyone trying to sneak in a statement; but Robby doubted this was the case, from the way Lupe put it. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone. “I will let her know. Put Miss. Robles in the family room for now.”
Lupe nodded, stalking away with urgency to attend to her duties. Robby clicked on your contact, bowing his head slightly to obscure the outside noise. It rang a couple of times before clicking to life. “Hi, is there an emergency?”
“Sort of.” Robby started off, noting the serious tone in your voice. “Someone came in chairs looking for you by the name of Stephanie Robles. Sound familiar?”
“Yeah, is everything okay?” You huffed out; he could hear wind gushing through the speaker as if you were speed walking.
“I’m not sure. Lupe said she didn't look so great. I had her put Miss. Robles in the family room for you.” Robby informed, standing from the chair to walk over to the family room. He thought it’d be a better idea to meet you there before letting you walk in alone.
“Perfect. I’m on my way down.” You rushed out before hanging up.
There was urgency in your voice and based on what he heard, you were rapid in making your way down. He had only stood by the door for a couple minutes until you came over, practically striding. He had his hands in his jacket pocket, watching you carefully. Your eyes were focused on the room, ignoring his curious looks.
When you caught the brunette girl, curled on the couch, clutching her knees close to her chest, you sighed. The relief was perceptible from where Robby stood, and he was even more interested in what your connection was. With your hands on your hips, you finally acknowledged him. “Thank you. I’m sorry if I missed any previous calls, I was in a meeting with Caleb.”
He hummed, pulling his hands out to rub them together. He would ask what the meeting was regarding, but there were other pressing matters to question. He watched Stephanie, before returning his gaze on you. “She hasn’t been here long, but Lupe was right. She seems like she’s been crying nonstop.”
You frowned, obviously personally afflicted by the information. Even if you wanted to tear your eyes away from the solemn girl, you couldn’t. Something was compelling to keep a close eye on her. Robby hesitated for a moment, before he got the courage to ask. “How do you know her?”
Chuckling nervously, you faced away from the door to focus on Robby. “I lead a support group for survivors of traumatic events like PittFest. After that happened, I thought this would be a great way to connect with the community since I moved.”
Robby’s mouth twitched. He thought the idea was good. The city had been through tragedy before and the only thing that reunified the affected communities was the unison of people. He could see from the way you spoke that it meant a lot to you personally. It was evident in how you cared for Stephanie like she was more than an attendee of the group.
“I didn’t know.” Robby mentioned, shaking his head. His chest ached with shame. Had you not trusted him to tell him as much?
Furrowing your brows, you smiled. “Not a lot of people do. It’s one of those things I wanted to do for my sake.”
“Why’s that?”
There was a brief pause. You sighed, thinking for the appropriate answer. He knew there had to be a reason you didn’t bring it up. The two of you had only recently become friendly, but if it was only professional on your part, it wouldn’t be sacred. You readjusted your badge on your collar. “I guess I had to prove to myself that I wanted to do Psychiatry. Not because I lost the ability to do what I dreamed of doing since I was ten.”
Had he met you under less hostility, he wouldn’t have doubted your passion. He always knew the patients were a priority, even when he thought you were overstepping the ED to do so. He might have seen it differently at first, but he was convinced now.
“All the more reason for you to stay,” He joked, smiling and he could feel the wrinkle around his eyes.
You playfully rolled your eyes, letting your hands fall to your side. You peeked back inside the family room, sighing. “Thank you. I will reach out if I need anything.”
He nodded, taking a step back. You twisted the handle of the door, peeking in first so as not to alarm Stephanie. Robby could see her sit up and when her eyes landed on you, she almost burst into tears of relief. You closed the door behind you and he could make out the muffled voices. He lingered, staring through the window, to make sure nothing immediately alarming were to occur.
You approached her on the couch, taking the spot beside her. Wordlessly, she fell into your arm, letting you embrace her while hiding her face in the crook of your neck. That’s when he walked away. He didn’t want to overstay his welcome, and he felt the moment was too intimate for him anyway.
While he was passing by the North station, he caught wind of Dana approaching him. She tossed her hands, grinning. “You do realize we still have people in chairs?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you ran this ship.” Robby joked, pumping his hands with sanitizer.
Dana leaned against the north station, one arm resting on the counter. “How else do you think this place stays afloat.”
“And I greatly appreciate everything you do.” Robby assured, cheesing harder while shaking his head. He observed around the north beds, noticing most of them full except a couple. Then his eyes went back to the family room, desolate from the outside world, the perfect place to isolate from the travesties waiting outside.
Dana noticed him staring off somewhere. She tried following his line of sight with raised eyebrows. “Everything alright, Cap?”
He shook himself, facing Dana with a tight lip smile. “Yes. Do you mind keeping tabs on the family room?”
“Sure. May I ask why?” Dana questioned, not as defiance, but genuine concern with the way his voice quieted.
He put his hand on his hip, rubbing his forehead with the other hand. He sighed out your name, “She’s in there with a visitor, who seems distraught over something. I want to make sure there are eyes on the situation in case of anything.”
Dana agreed, her furrowed brows relaxing. In a motherly fashion, she examined him up and down with an approving grin. “Okay, I can do that. You know, it's nice seeing you two get along.”
He snorted, narrowing his eyes at her. “What are you talking about?”
“I remember when you two used to want to bite each other’s heads off.” Dana chuckled, endeared with the memories like there was something fond about it. Robby was personally glad the two of you could work in peace after he resigned to the concept of a chaotic department. “If she stays, it’ll make answering consults easier.”
Dana patted him on the shoulder before brushing past him. That was an understatement. He kept dreading the idea of having to familiarize himself with someone new, assuming the hospital found someone appropriate for the job. Even then, there was still a gamble at risk. Any doctor could look impressive on paper, it was their bedside manner and teamwork skills that mattered most.
You had paid your dues, and more to gain his respect along with everyone else’s. In his mind, there was no replacing you, and he wanted you to see that before you decided to run off again. He still had some time to do just that.
Robby had meant to keep an eye around the family room. When he did pass by a couple hours later, you were nowhere to be found. With a few back to back traumas, he wasn’t on the floor as much as he wanted to be. You must have slipped away a while ago. It was nearing shift change, and the chances of catching you before you left was slim. Robby always stayed later than necessary, but he had to make sure the night shift was calm to give him some peace of mind.
He had finished up with a trauma almost ten minutes ago. Jack was there watching the patient until Surgery took him upstairs. Robby was making rounds, checking patient rooms and around the hallways for anyone from the day shift. As he finished his rounds, circling back to the nursing station, he caught paramedics transferring a patient in.
Shen followed alongside the bed with Ellis. Robby paused, listening to the obscenities the patient was yelling. Shen and Ellis were attempting to get a report from the paramedics, but the man somehow yelled louder. Robby saw them walking into the open trauma room, and under the light, he saw the restraint on the patient.
Without hesitation, he followed behind a nurse, slipping into the trauma room. He was able to see the restraints more clearly. Shen noticed Robby standing by the door, with a concerned look on his face. “What happened?”
“This man assaulted an officer during an arrest and almost clipped me and my buddy here.” The paramedic announced, hesitating to transfer the patient onto the gurney. There was rattling as the restraints were tugged, echoing through the room.
“Methamphetamine intoxication. Classic signs of excited delirium.” Shen followed, blinking every time he heard the rattling noise. The patient continued yelling and trashing, even with his legs and hands restrained.
EMS and Ellis were exchanging vital signs. He was burning up. His heart was beating too fast and his pressure was sky rocketing. Without a second thought, Robby was gloving up. “Okay. We are going to have to make this quick.”
“We should chemically induce him.”
The response from EMS was drowned out from the sight of you coming in from the opposite side. The force you had pushed the door told him you came running down. “How’s the patient?”
“I didn’t know Psychiatry was paged.” Robby announced, trying to make his way towards you. The paramedics stood in between you and him.
“EMS said he was experiencing excited delirium.” You yelled over the man, watching him still thrash and yell. Grimacing slightly from the noise, you focused on Shen. “What did I hear about chemical induction?”
“We have to transfer the patient now before he goes into cardiac arrest.” Shen explained calmly. He was standing back from the patient, waiting for any indication of the next move.
Robby knew they needed more hands to transfer the patient. While he was still on the EMS gurney, his nurses were doing what they could to get initial vital signs, monitoring him before the worst were to happen. Robby was preparing to call for ketamine, enough so to induce him lightly. They couldn’t treat him if he kept bolstering.
“Just wait.” You called, extending both hands.
“What—“ Shen asked, furrowing his brows at how professional you sounded. It was like you were called to intervene. Everyone in the trauma room watched you skeptically.
“Let me try something.”
Robby couldn’t stop you though. You were now standing at his bedside. The EMT’s had stepped back, refusing to stand in the way of a doctor. Bending at the hip, you were close to the patient. He was still screaming profanities, circling his head to look at anyone in the vicinity.
“Hello,” You spoke up, loud but not demanding. He had heard you, looking you in the eyes before looking away. “You’re in the hospital.”
There was a pause and all Robby kept focusing on was the rattling of the binds. It was like a death march, and you were too close to the danger. He should be standing in between you and the patient, because the last time he had failed to, you were hurt. There was a domino effect of issues after, and he could’ve prevented it. Even though he slipped his way close to you, he still didn’t pull you back.
“No one is trying to hurt you.” You reminded the patient. There was nothing intimidating in your presence. It almost soothed Robby of his worry.
You had easy control of situations, always alert and calm when necessary. The switch between methods was seamless and when Robby heard the patient’s voice quiet, and his bound wrists and ankles ease up, he truly believed you were a miracle worker.
But Robby had experience with chaos. What seemed unpredictable sometimes wasn’t.
In an instant, he saw the patient’s right hand pull at the restraint, even more aggressive than before. That's when it all played out like a movie. The part tied to the gurney popped off, and Robby jumped quickly. He wrapped an arm in front of your body, over your chest, pulling you back quickly. You hadn’t expected the action, tripping over your feet as his mass pulled you in the direction of EMT’s, who also stepped back.
With an arm free, he winded it back, hitting the monitor one of the nurses brought around to get his heart rate and blood pressure. The metal crashed to the floor and a couple of nurses along with Shen attempted to hold his arm back, restraining it again.
Shen eyes flicked between you and Robby, who still had an arm around you, trying to keep you away from the chaotic environment. One of your hands ghosting his arm, convincing yourself of what just occurred. Doors were opening, with more nurses and security coming inside to attend to the emergency.
The patient was transferred with the added staff, everyone holding onto a limb to keep him in place. The minute he was put on the hospital gurney, the binds were adjusted rapidly, permitting him to thrash without harming anyone.
When Robby concluded the area was safe, he dropped his arm, resting his hands on his hips. What the fuck were you thinking?
“Are you hurt?” You asked, raking your eyes over his exposed arm. He had the sleeves of a gray undershirt rolled up his arm. He sensed a burning sensation on his arm, the impact of the leather irritating his skin.
Before you could dote over him, he pulled his arm away, and stared at you. “Out.”
The command was demanding without being loud. Shen and Ellis were watching though, and the hardened stare in his eyes told him he was peeved with the way the situation went. You opened your mouth, but he strided past you, brushing shoulders. He held the door open, watching you expectantly. Without argument, you followed.
He made sure to stand in front of the door as you two stood outside the trauma room. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“He was responding.”
“No—“ Robby cut in, shaking his head vigorously. “He was intoxicated.”
Both your hands fell to your side, head cocked slightly while you stared at him with raised brows. “You can’t be sure he wasn’t responding to me.”
“I know excited delirium.” Robby let out a dry chuckle.
He was annoyed. More so of the potential of a situation than your blatant attempt at doing your job. Had he not been there, had he not seen what was coming undone, you would’ve been struck again. Robby knew you did your job knowing of the potential risk, so it didn’t make sense why’d you throw yourself into the danger.
“He already assaulted an officer. He wasn’t deescalating.” Robby recited, clasping both hands behind his head. He couldn’t look at you without thinking of what could’ve gone wrong. He was more than annoyed. “What were you trying to prove back there?”
When the question stroked you, there was a pause. You had stopped glancing between him and the patient. With your sights straight at him, you were stunned. “Nothing—“
“You stood too close to an agitated patient.” Robby replayed, hoping the situation would alarm you as it did him. Why didn’t you care?
“What are you trying to make up for? Richman?”
You glanced away then, tensing your jaw instead of attempting an argument. It was futile, but he rather heard he was wrong; have you berate him over an absurd accusation than be right for once–because if that was the case, then you were looking for danger. As a punishment, or worst, retribution for what you might’ve seen as shortcomings.
Sighing, you shut your eyes briefly. “Everyone keeps telling me I did the right thing. Even Admin didn’t tear into it during the review, after it cost them some publicity.”
Robby bit his tongue. He wanted to shake you by the shoulder, wake you up to reality. No patient would be like Richman, and after what Admin considered a ‘freak accident,’ there was no reason to put blame on anyone. The doubt and lingering questions you didn’t ask about you staying as an attending in a few months made more sense. There was still a cloud lingering over you and you hadn’t addressed it.
“But what if they’re just telling me that because I only had a broken nose and nothing worse?”
Robby could see your skin shiver. All that was left after was faint scars on your hand from where the scratches were. He would see you absentmindedly touch or gawk at it. He could understand the impulse, but now, he knew it was just an awful reminder.
He shrugged, frowning. “It wasn’t a failure on your part.”
Robby imagined hearing those words. He heard it from Adamson, Dana, even Jack (when he was feeling wise). It seemed redundant at times. He was set on the type of man he was. Not worth the hassle of worrying for. He tried to make up for it, as if everyone were holding it against him. He was sure some of them were, but he did wish for the reminder at times.
“I don’t think anyone sees it that way. Not Admin or Caleb.” He listed off, self-assured because he had to be. For your sake. “I don’t see it that way.”
With a blank stare, you wrapped your mind around his words. He knew when you were listening or not. It was like your brain actively tried to read into words the way he’d assess a trauma in the midst of blood and chaos. You didn’t have to read into anything because Robby had meant it.
A small grin grew on your face. “You’re not giving up.”
He crossed his arms, glancing down at the sensation tingling in his arm. There was much, just red patched under the hairs on his arm. A mark from the impact. He chuckled at the implication of your words. “I don’t plan to, no.”
“I’d like to know I’d be leaving my patients and staff in capable hands.” He responded, glancing up at you curiously. Maybe he could pull it from you, but the situation was like pulling teeth. You were fighting the truth.
“No pressure.” You joked, looking back at the patient.
“I don’t think it’s anything you can handle. I’ve known that since the day I met you.”
With a raised brow, you bit back the coy smile tempting to spread. “Does flattery tend to get you everywhere?”
“Not without some effort.” He shrugged.
There was something mystifying, like the idea of toying with something no longer professional was more than entertainment. You two had tried to keep work about work. Even when the arguments got nasty, it was all still professional. That was until he spoke with Mrs. McGuire.
He could try to tell himself that the conversation they had was professional. That he was offering support for his colleague because that was the unspoken rule, but it didn’t feel like just a professional obligation. For Robby, it was the most personal he had been with a patient. After what happened with Leah, he had vowed to never treat with a personal affliction on his sleeve.
There was nothing objective when Jake came in the bed of a truck, cradling Leah and pleading with her to wake up. He didn’t follow his obligations when Jack argued about the amount of blood he was trying to supply to her limp body. And it didn’t feel impersonal when Jake refused to look him in the eye after notifying him of Leah’s passing.
Since then, he hadn’t heard of Jake, and he couldn’t blame him for it; but Robby promised to leave his baggage at the door.
Except, that day when Mrs. McGuire bordered the line of smiting you for doing your professional obligation, he was infuriated for you. It felt like no matter what either of you did, it didn’t please anyone. You, who had always maintained healthy professionalism with the fellow doctors and genuine empathy with patients; ideal professionalism. He almost envied it.
Robby was known to lash out in a bad mood. Langdon could attest to it. Dana picked it out the second she saw it. Jack would jab him, in hopes to get his point across. Yet, you didn’t let yourself be known by anyone else. Even with the quiet displeasure of how quick your life detoured, you did it with the same dedication. He didn’t see you lash out that resentment to anyone else, and he wondered why couldn’t do the same.
“I got a response from Presby.” You commented, gently gnawing at the inside of your cheek.
He cocked his head slightly, the grin gently coming off as he anticipated elaboration. “What did they say?”
“They made an offer. Still waiting for a couple more before I make my decision.” You shrugged. Would it be so simple to uproot and move? Presby wasn’t too far, but it was like moving to the West Coast for Robby.
PTMC was nice, despite all the shit Robby would complain about. Someone who was articulate and methodical as you could survive. Even when he itched to uproot and leave the dust the horrors he had seen within the walls, a piece of soul didn’t feel complete. “You said you had a meeting with Caleb earlier? Does that have something to do with it?”
You opened your mouth before closing it again. It wasn’t a shock that he picked that up. Truth was, he was relying on his assumption to be correct; because if it wasn’t, he might have to put in more effort. “If you must know, yes, I made an official submission for a permanent position. Still has to go through all the official channels first.”
His chest deflated and suddenly, relief. It was a step. He knew Admin would have a response before some of the other hospitals you could’ve applied to. Most of his correspondence with Admin and Caleb was looking for a psychiatrist to help with the load from the ED. “Perfect. I’ll be looking forward to the email.”
“Don’t get too excited. You’re not the only deciding factor in this.” You warned, chuckling with the sight of his crinkled eyes.
“Well you already have Caleb’s stamp of approval.” He shrugged, the tips of his ears turning pink. “I’d say his opinion carries some weight.”
“I don’t doubt it, but all they're doing is making an offer.” You clarified, shaking your head. “Nothing becomes official until I say so.”
“Why did I get a page for a trauma?” You called, jogging over only minutes since the page came your way.
Robby was already standing outside of trauma 2, hands on his hips, as he seemed exasperated. He motioned his head to the inside of the trauma room. When you stared through the glass, you finally saw the young male--no older than twenty--laying on the gurney. He was obviously distressed, tossing his head from side to side, tears falling down his cheeks unrestrained.
What stood out most to anybody looking was the mangled look of his left leg. The bone was protruding out and it seemed almost impossible to reattach and salvage. You frowned at the sight, clearing your throat then turning back to Robby. He sighed, “19-year-old, Jason Bergs, Motorcycle vs SUV. Partial amputation on his left leg from the accident.”
“Looks bad.”
“That’s not the worst part. He’s refusing treatment because he’s an athlete on a scholarship.” Robby sighed, keeping his voice controlled, but the circumstances were not great.
He was a victim in an accident, too young to be expected to make a heavy decision without counsel. Robby knew from the moment he was wheeled in that he was a patient who would need extensive treatment. The sooner the possible the better, but no one had expected him to fully reject it, when it could very much save his life. “Park had come down, and said there is a high possibility of an amputation. That's when he started rejecting treatment.”
“Not surprised.” You responded, keeping an eye on the patient. Inside, Whitaker and Mohan were becoming a bit restless with the verbal rejections he was making. Garcia was even in the room, taking a back seat as she restrained herself from making an obvious remark. “Does he have any relatives?”
“Dana is contacting them, but I don’t think they’ll make it before the inevitable.” Robby sighed, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck.
You remained quiet for a moment. Something was oddly familiar in the situation. A young, aspiring individual working hard to accomplish what they had spent years aspiring to do—then have it ripped from their possibilities. He was fighting reality. Robby knew if the kid saw it from the clinical perspective, he would understand the gravity of his physical condition, but he was overwhelmed with the fate waiting for him.
“So, what’s the concern? That he’s incompetent to make rational medical decisions?” You questioned, entering into the clinical aspect of your involvement.
Robby shook his head, crossing his arms. “He made comments about preferring to die rather than amputate his leg. He even told some of the nurses to stop administering the pain medication.”
It was a cry. He wasn't wailing for his parents, or for them to get rid of the pain, he was begging for them to keep the one mangled limb attached. Robby couldn’t make the executive decision, and he didn’t want to provide false hope, but even he could tell what the chances were. Most people would focus on the pain, but while being a teenager with a physical dream, it meant ideally keeping all limbs.
You widened your eyes in horror. “You’re thinking a suicide risk assessment? I think the situation is too dire to perform that—“
“In order to send him up to surgery, we need him to at least agree with the procedure.” Robby interrupted, passionate that came with his predicament. He was disheveled from the arguing back and forth with an emotionally distraught patient. “Garcia doesn’t feel comfortable transferring if he proceeds to be volatile and Park won’t operate until the patient consents.”
It was only 2pm, but he could use a break—or at least some assistance with his current issue. He was exhausted. You stared at him with uncertainty. Time was of the essence and he needed to exhaust all his options, ASAP. Robby chased the look in your eye, moving his head slightly to remain in your line of sight. “Look, I know I’m asking for a lot, but I could really use someone who could empathize with his current situation.”
You glanced at him one more time. He was being earnest with his plea. Robby as of late, didn’t find a reason to argue. It was like the trauma of the Richman cases bonded you. His empathy wasn't pity or just convenience, it was a reaction after watching your challenges. He had watched you be hard on yourself time and time again. He could oppose every judgment you made about yourself, or he could help you see it the way he and your attending do by providing a stage for you to perform.
You pushed through the doors first, holding it for Robby to follow behind you. Heads spun in your direction and something like relief washed over them. Whitaker and Mohan were still on the bedside, their voices quieting. You motioned them over with your head. “Has there been any progress?”
Mohan shook her head while Whitaker fidgeted with his hands. She sighed, “He is still refusing the treatment. Garcia said she can’t wait until he dies on the table to operate.”
Robby glanced over at you. While you let out a small sigh, you acknowledged the three of them, slowly making your way to the bedside. You pulled over a stool, to be leveled with him on the table. Sitting down, you noticed him continuously stare at the ceiling. “Hello, Jason.”
“I already said I don’t want surgery.” Jason groaned, his forehead dabbled with sweat. “Not if you’re going to cut it off!”
His voice boomed off the walls. You didn’t flinch. Robby knew you were typically unfazed, even when you had reservations about a case. His body was tense though, already playing out every worst-case scenario from where he stood by the doors.
With your hands visible on your lap, you sucked in a breath. “Let's slow down a bit.”
“My concern right now is you’re in pain.” You mentioned, speaking softly yet firmly to capture his attention. He had labored breathing, and apart from the machines, you were the only audible person in the room. “I understand you refused the pain medication. Can I ask why?”
“Because I know you guys will do the surgery once I’m knocked out.” Jason accused, spitting the words out with spite.
“The pain medication is meant to block the current pain your body is experiencing. They can administer a dosage that will keep you awake.” You explained, “And trust me, no one here wants to go against your wishes. We are here to aid you in the best way we can.”
Jason's breathing became heavier, a mix of the pain and resentment of the situation. He was in between a rock and a hard place—except there was no visible escape that benefited him at all. “Which means cutting my leg?”
You bat your eyelashes. Robby was now heavily focused on your reaction. Something had struck on your heartstrings, because for a brief moment, you had looked away from him. He imagined you envisioning yourself on the table. From what you’ve shared, the weight of your diagnosis was more than any ambitious surgeon could handle.
There was a choice for medication, which would provide a comfortable life, but you never want to live comfortably. The excitement of being a prosperous neurosurgeon had been stolen from you, and even though Robby was convinced Psychiatry was your calling, he was sure it stung.
“Look, I’m not a surgeon, but what I can say is our surgeons make the best assessment with the most desirable outcome.” You assured, leaning forward to try and reach into Jason’s reason. He was too emotional. Too invested in the future to acknowledge the problem he was currently in. “They aren’t making judgments lightly, and if they think amputation is necessary, it’s because all other options have been exhausted.”
“But Jason, this doesn’t mean you can’t have an equally good quality of life afterward.” You continued softly. Robby grasped his arms tighter, feeling his own chest constrict within itself.
“You can’t tell me it gets better.” His voice wobbled. His lips were trembling and he was fighting the rest of his tears. His cheeks were still stained, but he was withholding himself. “You don’t know what this feels like.”
If time weren’t an issue, Robby was sure you would’ve sat there and told him everything. About how you had wanted to be a neurosurgeon since you were 10, but life had thrown you a curveball that made it impossible. He could see you hesitate with the decision, before you sagged your body further. “You’re right. I have no idea what this feels like.”
“But I do know what it feels like when your life changes so suddenly that you don’t recognize yourself anymore.” You assured, nodding your head to try and remain professional. Nurses and the couple of residents in the room were staring. Robby’s weighty gaze burned on your skin more than the rest.
He was the only one aware of what you were alluding to. It was an intimate detail that told everyone why you were closed off and only clinical in the workplace. It wasn't because of your displeasure of your work, but because you were preparing for horrible fear to repeat itself.
You rubbed your hands on your slacks. “And maybe it won't get better at first, but with time, there are still endless possibilities for you to make the most of your life.”
Although shaky, Jason was taking evener breaths, he was still in obvious discomfort. “I won’t be able to walk anymore.”
“Not the way you did before.” Robby intervened from the foot of the bed. He still had his arms crossed. He looked away from you before you could blatantly notice his staring. “But with rehab, a prosthesis, and a lot of work, there is a very real chance you can walk again.”
“And what if I can’t play soccer?” Jason questioned, choking back tears.
Regardless of whether he could see it or not, you smiled softly. “Then we help you figure out who you are besides soccer.”’
He started nodding his head, more breathless than before. Mohan asked him if they could administer pain meds and he finally agreed. You stepped away to allow them to work without interruption. Robby noticed how you strayed off in the corner, watching Jason more agreeable to the treatment.
Robby had saddled up beside you, staring at you thoughtfully. Keeping your attention on Jason, he positioned himself in front of you. “I don’t think I could’ve convinced him without you. I know Mohan was racking her brain with every method taught in med school.”
When you finally looked up at him, he had a soft smile. His crow’s feet made him softer, and he was genuine with his compliment. You shrugged, offering a closed smile. “He needed someone to tell him the truth, and someone to tell him he could survive it.”
“I couldn’t have done both either.”
His eyebrows twitched. He wanted to add something, but the door across the trauma room opened, and Garcia wandered in. She looked down at the patient, then at you and Robby huddled in the corner. “How are things looking here?”
“Jason, do you consent to the procedure?” Mohan asked, standing over him. From the corner of the room, Robby and you saw him catch his breath.
He nodded vigorously, “Can that doctor come with me? I don’t want to be alone.”
Garcia, Mohan, and Robby looked for you. Taking a step forward you went around the other side of the bed, putting a careful hand on his arm. “Of course. We have someone contacting your parents, so they should be here soon.”
Jason gasped lightly, the tears streaming down his face again. Garcia, rigid and detached, pulled out her spectra link. “Surgery is a go. I’ll get the transfer team down.”
She turned her back to the patient, speaking in a hushed voice. You stared down at Jason's leg. Then, looking up from his leg, Robby raised his eyebrows at you with a silent question. You gently pulled away from Jason, walking back to Robby. “Are you sure about this?”
The last thing you needed to do was reassure him, but he felt morally responsible since he dragged you here to pull him out of a sticky situation. If the case was too emotionally charged, he wouldn't blame you for pulling away. God knows there were times he should’ve.
“I’ll stick around until they get him in the OR.” You whispered back, checking back to Jason over your shoulder. “Once he’s out and awake, I can do a proper suicide risk assessment, just in case. I’ll work with his case manager to follow up if anything of concern comes up.”
Robby agreed silently. Behind him the door opened and Santos stuck her head in, looking up to Robby. “Are you busy?”
Before he could respond, you put a careful hand on his bicep. He glanced down at your hand before meeting your eyes. “We should be fine.”
“The transfer team should be here in a couple of minutes.” Garcia noted, putting her spectralink away.
Pausing for a moment, he took in Jason’s calmer body language. He was redirected to you when you pulled your hand away. He gave one firm nod before following Santos out of the trauma room.
Robby groaned, stretching his hands over his head. The clock was nearing the time night shift would be coming in, but they couldn't come in any sooner. His feet were achy and there was a kink in his back from when he transferred a patient earlier. He tried stretching as much as he could, but he couldn’t get rid of it.
He had spent all day on his feet and he was waiting eagerly for Shen to come in. While staring up at the patient board, he mentally analyzed what the day shift had weeded through. It wasn't a lot. The patient board was still lit up with a long list of patients. He was only glad he was almost on his way out.
The sound of doors sliding and wind gushing in hid under the noise of nurses, doctors, and techs passing around the ED. Robby didn't move his head until he caught a familiar figure walking towards the central station. Jack trudged in, carrying his backpack with one strap. Robby crossed his arms, furrowing his brows. “I thought you had tonight off.”
“I did.” Jack confirmed, he slipped off his backpack, putting it on the desk to dig for his stethoscope. “I switched with Shen. He had some last minute dinner plans or something that came up.”
Robby raised his eyebrows, a bit surprised by the news. Shen was punctual, taking his new responsibility as an attending seriously, even with his Dunkin. He didn’t take days off, except the one occasion he was sick and Robby told him to stay home. He especially didn’t make last minute switches in schedule.
“I think the kid has a new girlfriend. He’s been acting stranger than usual.” Jack offhandedly said, adjusting his badge on his shirt. He approached Robby with a small smirk. “I’ve noticed him hanging around that psych fellow. Do you know if she’s single?”
Robby froze. Why did Jack think he knew anything of your intimate life? Because you worked on the day shift? It was a premature assumption, that Robby was somehow looped into your personal life. He couldn’t have been the only one you got along with, considering some of his residents seemed fond of you. It would be absurd to think he was the only one who knew anything concerning you.
If there was any truth to Jack’s insinuation, Robby would also like to know the truth. There wasn’t ample opportunity for you and Shen’s schedule to align; and if he was willing to take a night off, there had to be something serious between the two of you.
Jack stared at him weirdly, his smirk settling wider on his face. “You good, brother?”
Before Robby could respond, Dana came up beside Jack, looking at the two attendings.”EMT’s en route. Two victims, GSW after a robbery attempt.”
Jack immediately reached over to grab gloves from the desk. After Jack yanked some out the box, Robby followed in suit. Jack stared at him, watching him slip them on. “What are you doing?”
“I’ll leave after this one.” Robby assured, both of them walking over to the ambulance bay. Jack had yelled out to a couple of the residents, telling them to wait on stand-by.
When the double doors opened wide, there was a slight breeze that hit them both in the face. It was only a couple minutes until the first ambulance parked in front of them. Jack advanced first, waiting for the back doors of the ambulance to open up. EMT’s announced vital signs, and the scared teenage boy moved his head in bewilderment.
“Where’s Gabby?!” He called out. Jack and Robby noticed the blood stain on his pant leg. It had already been cut to access the source of the bleeding. “Please tell me she is okay!”
“Who is Gabby? Was she with you when you were shot?” Jack questioned while they brought down the gurney. He was grasping onto the handles, leaning over to speak with the kid. He had a wide eye stare of someone who witnessed something they shouldn’t have at his age.
“Yes! Please, you have to tell me where she is!” He exclaimed, his lips trembling as they began wheeling him inside.
Robby and Jack heard sirens approaching, coming in loudly. They both stared at the direction it was coming at and Robby waved him off. “I’ve got it, Jack!”
The ambulance parked behind the other, and Robby rounded his way to the back. The doors clicked open and the EMT in the back stood up. He heard the voices, describing her blood pressure, the source of the bleeding, and her current heart rate. As they lowered the gurney, he saw the semi-conscious teenage girl. Her brown hair was splayed around her face but what concerned him was the centralized bleeding coming from her abdominal-chest region.
“Are you Gabby?” He asked, staring down at her face. She was stirring a little, her words slurred as she attempted to stay awake.
It was a punch in the gut. The resemblance between her and Leah. Even Matthew, the boyfriend, had the glossy, wide eye stare Jake had sitting on the bed of a truck. When Robby finally saw Jake after endless texts and calls trying to locate him, it felt like breathing for the first time. Then he saw Leah, and he knew something that Jake didn’t know.
The gruesome loss. The blood stains and the coldness touch of life giving up.
He wanted to keep Jake from that, and even when things didn’t work out with his mother, there was a bond between them that worked because of it. All of that went away once Leah was pronounced dead. Robby became the person he always was due to the cost of his job.
That’s why when Gabby was pronounced dead, his hands trembled. He didn’t cry. He didn’t have enough tears to do any of that. Instead, he stood in front of the plaque thanking the frontline first responders who aided during the PittFest mass shooting. It was recently installed and Robby hadn’t been there for the unveiling, obligations be damned. He didn’t need the reminder, but Gloria kept insisting it was one step towards healing, not regressing to the painful memory.
Robby tried steadying his breathing. His eyes skimmed the engraved message, but he was hardly reading what it said. All he knew was he didn’t need ‘thank you’s’ for failing. It was immoral in his opinion.
“Hey, you’re here pretty late.”
He turned his head at the sound of the voice. It was approaching, and when his eyes landed on you, he noted the satin dress hanging around the curvature of your body. You stood out, mostly because it wasn’t everyday a woman sauntered around in a beautiful dress.
Rubbing at his jaw gently, coarse hair scratching his fingers, he hummed. “So are you, it seems.”
You stopped beside him, but instead of looking at what he was staring at, you kept your eyes on him. “There was an emergency with the patient we transferred from here earlier.”
“Are they okay?” He asked reflexively. He could vaguely remember sending patients upstairs. The whole day had become a blur and he couldn’t distinguish what happened before this last trauma.
“Right now, they are.” You responded curtly. There was a lingering question ghosting your lips. He stared down, avoiding the way your eyes were burning holes in him. “Are you?”
He didn’t even bother to respond. There was an understanding that neither of you had to say what was on your mind, because the other picked up so clearly with what wasn't being said. You were acutely aware of what was wrong without seeing him as often as the rest of his staff. Some of them did check in, but nobody lingered their eyes on him like they could offer salvation.
“Do you want to talk about it?” You asked quietly.
When he finally met your eyes, you seemed anxious for an answer. Maybe it was your professional nature, always trying to figure out someone’s mind before they even opened their mouth. Yet, he didn’t feel scrutinized or cornered enough to be defensive. He was aware there was gentleness he missed, and it lured him in.
“You don’t have any plans after this?” He motioned to your dressy attire.
You stare down at your dress, laughing. If you were tired, he wouldn’t have known how put together you were; unlike him, where his body was driven by exhaustion. “I did at some point. Canceled them when I realized I wasn’t going to make it.”
“At this point, I’d rather go home than to some fancy date.” You sighed, your hands falling lazily to your sides.
He stood still, letting your brush past him to the elevators off to the side. His eyes followed the movement of the dress, noticing it swayed lightly. You looked back at the lack of sound following you. “We can both drown out sorrows with some beer and wine.”
Robby hadn’t thought you’d welcome him inside your home. He had expected to go to the bar by the hospital. Quick and easy. Except when you sent him for the address to your apartment, he was taken aback. He had it in his recently searched location on his maps app, because he had dropped off ailments for when you were sick. He didn’t realize the two of you were close enough for that. He could count the amount of times he had been to Dana’s house with one hand—and he considered her a confidant.
He followed behind you, memorizing the path from the instructions you gave him. He noticed the new ‘Welcome’ mat outside your door. Walking in was a small hallway you led him down, before turning right to where your living room and kitchen were.
It was cozier than he expected. He wouldn’t have known you had just unpacked. There were filled bookshelves, plants, and a decorative rug that made the apartment feel like home. You motioned to the couch, “Make yourself comfortable. I’m just going to change out of this.”
You motioned your arms to the satin dress you were wearing. He had noticed it the entire walk up to your apartment. It was hard to ignore. Not that you stood out in a bad way, but it was different from your usual attire. The last time he saw you wear a dress was when Caleb had set you two up for a blind dinner date. He spent a long time thinking about you in that dress as well.
“So a date?” Robby called out, dropping his bag beside your kitchen island, making his way around.
“Yes. Caleb is always telling me I need to open up, be more social!” You responded from somewhere in your bedroom, he assumed. He rather stood awkwardly, unsure whether he should sit down or wait for you to come back.
He had stared at your living room, drinking in all your decorations. A couple frames, flat screen TV, and coffee books on the oak center console. He heard a door close behind him, and you had a small grin on your face. “I agreed to go on a date with a guy. I should’ve known that it wasn’t going to work out.”
Robby nodded, noting the sweats and tank top you were wearing. You wandered over to your kitchen opening the fridge. He stuffed his hands in his jacket pocket, coming up to the island to lean against it. “Is he someone from the hospital?”
When you turned to face him, you raised an eyebrow at him, curious. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
You extended a canned beer at him. He took it grateful, cracking the seal to break the awkward silence. He noted the second can in your hands, following his action. “Sure.”
He took the first sip while you hesitated, “So, what happened today?”
His eyes were now on his feet. There was a lot that had happened, but he couldn’t put it into words. It required too much context that Robby wasn’t comfortable sharing. It was like asking him to open a Pandora box of all his misery. It was bound to be messy and more trouble than anyone asked for. Your handles cradled the beer, but made no movement to drink it. “I heard about the trauma. Two teenagers, right?”
He furrowed his brows when he gazed at you. The art of you knowing was a mystery to him. You shrugged, “I ran into Kiara before I left. I assume it didn’t end well.”
“One of them died due to the extent of their injuries.” Robby responded, coldly calculated, protecting the source of the grief. He didn’t want to lay it on too thick just yet. He didn’t want to scare you away yet. “She was a 17 year old girl. Gabriella Lopez.”
You took a sip of the beer. He kept twirling the can in his hand, as if he were looking for the best position to hold it. He could see you in the corner of his eye, the way you continued to admire his side profile. “And the other?”
“He had a couple of grazes on his leg. Abbot stabilized the bleeding.” Robby sighed out, immediately picturing Jake. Despite being told to sit down, to stay away from the chaos of the red zone, he had tried to make his way to Leah, seeing the horrific sight of Robby performing CPR on his girlfriend. What should’ve been a fun time at a festival became a horror show and Robby wondered if Jake had the same type of nightmares.
“The worst thing to happen to him was losing his girlfriend.”
Robby’s composure was unraveling. He assumed he didn’t have any more tears to cry but he felt his eyes tearing up. He faced his head away, trying to hide the shame that had been metastasizing in him. You had put the beer done, rubbing them against the fabric on your thighs. “I’m sorry.”
He frowned, repositioning his head in a direction where he could slightly see you. “What for?”
You crossed your arms. “I guess this brought up some bad memories for you.”
That was an understatement. He bit back his tongue, sucking in a sharp breath. You continued after a beat. “I’m guessing something that happened during the PittFest shooting.”
The accuracy didn’t fail to amaze him. You knew him without him having to say a word. It was a relief to be seen without the effort. He was tired of trying, and with your steady stares and words, he could just let himself trust in you to figure out the rest. “Look, you don’t have to talk about it now, but whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”
That caught his attention. The firmness in your suggestion. He lifted his eyes, his eyelashes slightly damp from the few tears that sat on his eyes. You planted a hand on the counter, leaning in slightly. Offering a small smile, you drank up his expression. “You didn’t fail anyone then, and you didn’t fail these kids today.”
Coming out of your mouth, he could believe that. He wondered if this was the type of comfort you provided to your patients; or if you had softened for him with the time you spent working with him. He was unrestrained now, and he could confidently say you had managed to break down the wall he thought he put up months ago.
He sniffled lightly. There was still some rosiness on your cheeks. He could tell it was blush applied that you hadn’t taken off. “This date of yours, was it with Shen?”
You didn’t question the redirection. With the corner of your mouth curling, he sensed you liked him questioning his observation. The beers the two of you were drinking had been forgotten. The buzz in the room had nothing to do with alcohol and neither of you were fighting it. “And if it was? He’s single. I’m painfully single. It’s an ideal situation.”
Ideal. Not desirable. It sounded more like a step in a 5-year plan and less of a choice driven by the heart. He didn’t know what romance tasted like with you, but he could imagine it being like this. Banter under the warm kitchen lights, pretending not to notice a spark burning up into a flame. “But not what you want?”
You hummed, straightening his back. The action brought the two of you closer. If he moved just an inch, your chests would touch. Something about that thought made his chest warm. “I don’t know what I want, Robby.”
“Michael.”
He saw the twitch in your brows. He put down the beer still in his hand, “We’re not at work, so you can call me Michael.”
“That hardly seems professional, Michael.”
When the name escaped your lips, it sounded like a purr. You must have known what you were doing, tempting a man with low inhibitions. Anyone who spent enough time with you would feel the tension, and being alone in a room was asking for the burning sensation of heat.
“I think we’re past that.” He responded, his eyes tracing every curvature of your face. The space between your lips and nose. The curving of the corners of your lips.
It was an imposition on his part, to be so close in your intimate space. There was a reason he hadn’t been let in the door before, but today, something must have been different.
You were still leaning against the counter, your hands making no movements. His hand was curled, resting on the cold marble. He tried to focus on that sensation to hide the buzzing bodily heat under his scrub and long sleeved undershirt. It was impossible.
So when you leaned in slightly, he was picking up on something that was unrestrained from you. Stripping you of the title you put before what was personally you.
And he didn't know how to process the sensation of your lips on his. Suddenly, the warmth was an extension of your body latching on to him and even though your chests were still inches apart, he could feel it radiating lower in his body.
You detached yourself, staring at him through your lazy eyelashes. A part of you must have regretted it, but the surge in Robby to continue the connection was fervent. He pressed his body against you, bringing your lips back together like some battle for control.
He pushed you up against the edge of the counter, hands cradling your face. God, he couldn’t remember the last time he had even had a simple hook up. The twitching of his cock had made it apparent it had been a long time.
Soon both your mouths were opening, tongue and saliva mixing like some cocktail of previous suppression. He could taste the lingering barley from the beer, but the sensation of your hands gripping his shoulders was more intoxicating than the alcohol.
His lips kissed down your neck and your breathing was heavy. You craned your neck farther back, giving him access that felt illicit.
“Do you want me to–”
“Don’t stop.”
That was all he needed to hear. He was helping you yank off your top from your head, momentarily pulling away only to continue a trail of his DNA down your chest. His warm breath gave your skin goosebumps and it was until his tongue licked your pebbled nipple that you made an audible moan.
His hands had caged you against your kitchen island. When your hands pushed against his chest, he forcibly pulled himself away.
“The couch.” You jerked your head, pupils blown.
He was walking backwards, letting himself be guided by you as you helped him out of his scrub top and what he wore under it–tossing it aside to decorate the floor instead of his body. All he felt was the back of the couch, stumbling down onto it. You crawled onto his lap, slotting your knees on either side of him. When your lips connected again, it was hard for Robby to decide whether he wanted to focus on your hands traveling down his chest or the taste of you.
Your hands were making quick work of his button and zipper. His hands grasped your before you could unzip it completely. “Are you sure?”
In between the feverish kisses, your lips were smiling. You affirmed, “Just fuck me, Michael.”
He groaned, lifting you to stand. He barely hovered over the couch, just enough to pull out both his pants and underwear to pool at his ankles. While you slipped off your pants and he kicked his shoes to the side, he caught the cute lacy print of your underwear, seemingly one half of a lingerie set.
With amused eyes, he craned his head back while you settled yourself back on his lap. “Did you wear those for Shen? Hoping to get lucky?”
“Shut up.”
You smashed your faces back together. It was hard to distinguish who was more eager.
With your bare chest flushed against his, your fingers grasping at the ends of his hair, his hands gripping onto your hips, it was a blur of movements. He was bridging your pussy near his throbbing cock. It was almost standing with a mind of its own from how desperate he had become in five minutes.
This had to be a record for quickest erection in his fifties.
One hand traveled down between your bodies and his thumb immediately found itself on your clit, rubbing small circles. With the material of the lace against you, it added more pleasure. Your mouth was agape as you attempted to keep a steady breathing. Robby was enjoying the small whimpers that came with your breath ghosting his cheek.
“Are you that desperate?” He chuckled lightheartedly. The pad of his thumb could feel a dampness and he had to assume you were already wet before his fingers got anywhere near your pussy.
“Don’t act like you didn’t want this too.” You whispered, before burying your head in the crook of his neck.
Seemingly still aware of how to use your body, one of your hands tugged at his hard cock. Your hand barely wrapped entirely around him, but determined and with the premature cum on his tip, you jerked him off.
The groan that came from the back of his throat made your body vibrate. He was too inebriated to stop, but knowing the warmth of your pussy was right in his hands, his brain had other priorities.
He pulled his hand away, gripping your hips and rubbing your skin to catch your attention. “I don't have a condom.”
You pulled your hand away, lifting your head to admire the lust blown look in his eyes. “I’m clean and I take birth control.”
Robby nodded, tugging you closer. With ease, he grabbed his cock with one hand, positioning it right at your entrance. Pushing your underwear to the side, he took a steady breath at the bare sight of your pussy. It was glistening with wetness and he knew he was in for a night. Starting out slowly, his tip broke the tension first.
Your hands, that were holding onto Robby’s shoulder for dear life, tensed further. Your nails dug into his skin, but the stinging only made the pleasure better. You moaned loudly, and he suspected it had been an equally long drought for you. He paused when your walls tightened. He wasn’t sure he could push the rest of it in, but the way you looked down mesmerized, he knew he had to try.
“Fuck me–”
“Oh my god, Micheal!”
He was just thrusting the tip into you, working the rest of it in gradually. Your head was thrown back, moaning and gasping for air the further he pushed his cock inside. His own grunts and groans mixed with the sound of your bodies connecting.
“You feel so good, baby.” Micheal grunted out, completely enamored by how close he was to bottoming himself in you. The name slipped out, but in the haziness you both were in, neither of you paid much mind to the words spilling instinctively. “I won’t last long if you keep–fuck–squeezing me.”
Your back arched inward, your bodies impossibly closer. He heard the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in your apartment. He didn't need to look to know he was hammering the entire length and girth of him inside of you. His arms hugged around your middle, pulling you in to wrap your own arms around his neck.
“Michael, I’m so close–” You whined, and he swore he could feel something damp against his shoulder. Whether it was saliva or tears from the overwhelming thrust of his cock going in and out, he was pretty satisfied. He could almost feel your cervix with each push inward.
“Yeah? I’m almost there, baby.” He reassured, cooing in your ear. He was breathing in the scent of your shampoo. Something floral yet fresh.
He was lifting his body from the couch, keeping you in place while he did the work, trying to reach maximum pleasure in the position. With each moan ringing in his ear, he could sense your body was close.
“Micheal, please. Please.” You reverend
His own cock was twitching with the sounds of your quiet voice and the feeling of your walls closing in on him. He sucked in a breath, hands grasping your ribs, feeling your heart accelerate.
“Fuck!” He called out, losing his patience. “Come on. Let go.”
You both moaned loudly reaching your climax simultaneously. Robby released into you, and your body was twitching in his hands. Catching his breath, he slowly relaxed into the couch, your bodies still molding against each other. He could feel the mix of you both running down his thighs.
There was a moment while you two sat in the humidity of the two of you where it was just your hearts filling in the noise.
Eventually you chuckled, slowly pulling yourself away, keeping yourself up with your hands on his chest. He craned his head, resting it back on the couch, smiling in confusion from your reaction. You brushed some of his damp hair from his face, "That's one way to convince me to stay.”
With his cock softening inside you, he was still wasted with the sensation. Now that he thought about it, this was a long time coming. He chuckled, rubbing the back of your head. “All it took was some effort.”
Omg I have like a silly request for gnd this carrot has been circulating the whole Internet right now, and it would be really funny if Joe was the one who ended up bringing it home and the cats, and you are scared of it for some reason
⋆˚࿔ the girl next door (is not a grandma) drabble 𝜗𝜚˚⋆
issy talks: another one thank you! i'm not used to not posting a gnd drabble every week since august 21 is too far lol. sorry, love, this has taken too long @you8sblog, i swear i already started this. i love the cat video you sent me hehe 😽. lmao i had to stare at the picture for 3 mins to gain motivation to edit this.
pictures from @djospurnell
"No, you already moved it. You cannot redo your move."
The old man from 6D looked at you over the chessboard, completely unimpressed. "I didn't make a fuss when you touched your bishop."
"I did not touch it. My finger barely brushed it." You narrowed your eyes at him. "You're cheating."
"I am an old man with poor eyesight. I am incapable of cheating."
"I know you. We’ve been playing for four years."
He smiled innocently and moved his pawn. You were halfway through planning your revenge when your phone buzzed beside the chessboard. You glanced down and immediately smiled when you saw Joe's name.
joe: i have something for you
joe: youre gonna love it
you: oohh!! can't wait to see you 🩷
The old man raised an eyebrow. "Joe?"
"Mhmm. He said he has something for me."
"You look too happy." Old man said, moving his rook.
You put your phone down, trying to hide your smile. "Maybe I am."
By the time Joe made it home, it was nearly quarter to one in the morning. He had barely closed the apartment door before you opened your arms and pulled him into a tight hug.
"Hi, sweetheart." He hugged you tighter.
"Hi," you murmured against his shoulder. "How was the concert?"
"It was great. Everyone had a lot of fun." He kissed the top of your head before pulling away. "Oh, I almost forgot. I brought you something."
Your eyes immediately lit up. Joe reached into his duffel bag with the biggest grin on his face.
He pulled out a carrot. Wait, it’s not a normal carrot. This one had been transformed into some kind of tiny creature. Wooden sticks had been stuck into it for legs, and on its back, little circles on wooden sticks made up its eyes, and several toothpicks stuck out from its face like whiskers. And, it’s that a teeth??
You stared at it and at Joe. "What the fu–?"
Joe immediately burst out laughing. "Hey! It’s not that bad. It's a cute cat!"
"It's a rat with a carrot for a body!"
"It has whiskers! Look." Joe waved it in front of your face.
"Just because it has whiskers, it doesn’t mean it’s a cat." You stepped back a little. "It looks like it crawled out of a sewer!"
Joe was practically doubled over laughing now. "You don't like it?"
"I am genuinely afraid of it." That made him laugh even harder. Joe kept arguing it’s not a rat. "Get it away from me."
Joe looked at the carrot, then back at you. "I thought you'd like it. It reminded me of you."
You stared at him in disbelief. "How does that remind you of me?"
"It's cute?" he bit his lips, trying not to laugh again.
"It looks on drugs or something."
Joe's grin widened. "Oh, come on. Let's ask Ponkan and Cookie." He walked over to the couch where the two cats were lounging and held the carrot creature out toward them. "Guys, look what I brought home. Isn't he cute?" Ponkan immediately hissed. Cookie reached out one paw and slapped the carrot.
You pointed triumphantly. "SEE? Baby, throw it away."
Joe's expression changed immediately. Oh. OH. His shoulders dropped. His eyes became dramatically sad. "You really want me to?" He looked at you with the most tragic expression he could manage.
You hesitated. "Yes."
He looked down at the carrot like you had just asked him to abandon his beloved childhood pet. "Okay." His voice was suddenly quiet and wounded. "I'll throw him away."
Morning came, you woke up, and Joe was sleeping soundly in the bedroom. Good, he needed that.
“JOSEPH DAVID!” you shouted.
Joe ran from the bed to the kitchen. No shirt, messy hair, trying his best to wear his glasses properly. “Honey! Wha–what’s happening? Are we getting robbed?!” When he was finally fully awake, he saw you holding a feather duster.
“Really? You placed that carrot rat among my plushies, instead of throwing it away?” You used the other end of the duster to push the carrot away. There’s no way you’re going to touch that thing.
Joe laughed so hard at your annoyed face. Yes, he loves teasing you. He picked it up, and the other side began to soften. Yeah, he'd better throw it away.
I NEED A DRABBLE OF GND Obsessing OVER jō kīrī LIKE A YEAR AGO
⋆˚࿔ the girl next door (is not a grandma) drabble 𝜗𝜚˚⋆
issy talks: hahaha why did i accept this request again? so stupid i love it
You were lying on the couch, mindlessly scrolling through instagram and watching a video of a cat in a basket with the groceries while hugging the trays of eggs when your staff group chat suddenly pinged.
Your youngest employee had sent a picture. You opened i nd immediately burst out laughing.
It was Joe.
Or, more accurately, a very heavily edited version of Joe. His eyes had been made comically large, his face had been shrunk down, and the entire thing made him look ridiculously adorable, thanks to the filter. You stared at it for a few seconds before zooming in, laughing harder.
you: where did you get that 😭 let me save it
youngest employee: somewhere...
You immediately saved the picture to your phone. Then, because you were a loving and devoted girlfriend, you sent it to Joe.
you: didn't know you could get any cuter 🥹
joe: what do you mean?
you: *you sent photo*
joe: what the fuck
joe: sorry honey
joe: where did you get that
you: cannot tell you that, baby
you: you're so cute 😭
joe: please delete that
You stared at the screen, grinning. "Absolutely not."
And that was how the incident escalated. "Jō Kīrī," you murmured to yourself, scrolling back to the picture. "Jō Kīrī, Jō Kīrī kawaii..."
You had no idea how many copies you printed that afternoon.
You only knew that you ended up sitting at the dining table with a stack of paper, scissors, and the biggest smile on your face, carefully cutting out tiny versions of Joe's ridiculous edited face.
The first one went on the refrigerator, held up by a little magnet. The second found its way into your recipe book, functioning as a bookmark. The third mysteriously appeared inside Joe's guitar case. Another was tucked into the pocket of one of his jackets.
One was stuck beside the coffee machine. Another sat on the bedside table, directly beside his lamp. You even gave the old man from 6D a copy. And, because you apparently had no shame whatsoever, you put a tiny copy inside your wallet.
Joe discovered the refrigerator one first.
He stood in front of it for several seconds, staring at the tiny, wide-eyed version of himself. "Honey!"
You looked up from your coffee. "Mhm?"
"Why is this on our fridge?"
You glanced over. "Oh. I forgot about that one."
He slowly pointed at it. "You forgot? I literally can’t believe you printed this. How many did you print?"
You took a sip of coffee and smiled innocently, trying to think. "I also forgot."
Joe sighed and removed it from the fridge.
And he found them every single time. By the fourth one, he stopped asking. By the fifth time, he simply stared at you from across the room.
You smiled sweetly. "What?"
"You're obsessed with this picture." he held the picture he found in the bathroom.
"I think it's cute."
"It's horrifying."
"You have BIG eyes, Jō Kīrī ."
Joe shook his head, trying not to laugh. Then he noticed something sticking out of your wallet. He reached for it.
You immediately gasped. "Joe, no!"
He pulled out the tiny printed picture. He stared at it, then at you. "You even put this in your wallet?"
You smiled. "Of course. I can look at you whenever I miss you."
Joe's expression softened for half a second. Then he looked back at the picture. "First, I have better pictures. Second, you are using my dignity as a keepsake."
You laughed, reaching for him. "You're adorable. Let me have this."
Joe sighed dramatically, but he leaned down anyway and kissed your forehead. "Fine, just this one copy. No more printing."
You grinned. “Thank you. You could pass as a Sanrio character you know." You kissed his cheek.
Joe shook his head, smiling despite himself, and in the living room, one of those picture frames perfectly hidden, your tiny, wide-eyed version of Joe continued to stare into the distance, silently witnessing the entire thing.
issy talks: i'm very very sorry i forgot to add emoji anons and other mentions, im soooo sorry, pls forgive me🙁💗. also, i closed my request, i already have so much, don't worry i'll open it again soon...🩷
whoever edited this, i love you. i hope both sides of your pillows are cold, and when you try those claw machines, i hope you win on your first try.
hiii you can make a fic about siger!reader who is dating with joe and they went to djopala tour , so Kevin invited her to make a special concert with they and people drives crazy to that
and finally have a smut too
pleaseee make that 🙏🏼🙏🏼
love your work
hiiii!! firstly thank you SO much, that's so lovely of you to say
and oh my god YES to this idea!! singer!reader secretly joining joe AND tame impala onstage while she's supposed to just be there watching him??? i fear you knew exactly how to get me 😭 i especially loved the idea of joe being completely in his element as djo and then suddenly getting to share that stage with the person he loves too
thank you so much for sending this one in!! i had SUCH a fun time with it <3
they want to see you
Joe Keery x reader
Summary: You only came to watch your boyfriend open for Tame Impala; somehow, you end the night sharing a stage with him in front of thousands of people - and discovering that performing together might have been a dangerously good idea.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, smut, oral (m and f receiving), p in v sex, unprotected sex, praise, performing on stage, anxiety, reassurance, public relationship, fluff (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 6.5k
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
If you want to be added to my taglist, leave a comment to lmk!
You have become very good at watching Joe without being seen.
Not by him, obviously. Joe can locate you in a crowd with the unnerving accuracy of somebody who has spent years learning precisely where you tend to stand, and tonight is no exception; every few songs his attention drifts towards stage left, apparently involuntary, finding the narrow strip of darkness where you're tucked behind a stack of equipment with your arms folded comfortably across your chest.
The first time, you smile.
The second, you blow him a kiss.
The third, somewhere during the latter half of the set, you catch him looking and make an exaggerated gesture towards the thousands of people in front of him as though to remind him that he does, technically, have an audience.
Joe grins.
Then he turns back towards the microphone.
It's ridiculous how different he is up there.
Not unrecognisable, exactly. There are pieces of the Joe you know everywhere if you understand where to look: the little adjustment of his guitar strap before a song begins, the way he pushes damp hair away from his forehead only for it to fall straight back again, the almost bashful smile that occasionally breaks through all the swagger when the audience becomes particularly loud.
But there's something else too.
Something you don't get at home when he's wandering around barefoot looking for his phone while it's already in his hand, or sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter eating something directly from the packet because apparently obtaining a plate would constitute an unreasonable amount of effort.
Confidence isn't quite the word for it.
Freedom, maybe.
You know the feeling.
There is a particular kind of surrender involved in performing, that strange moment when the months spent pulling something apart in studios and rehearsal rooms finally become irrelevant because there is nothing left to alter. The song exists now. Thousands of people know it. Thousands of voices can throw it back at you.
Joe disappears into that feeling beautifully.
Tonight, you get to watch.
That's the arrangement. You have made this extremely clear.
This is one of the rare occasions when you're attending a show without being expected to do anything whatsoever, and you intend to enjoy every glorious second of irrelevance. No vocal warm-ups. No in-ears. No frantic conversations about set times or wardrobe changes. Nobody asking whether you can squeeze another interview between soundcheck and dinner.
You're here because your boyfriend is playing. That's it.
You even told Joe as much earlier, when he'd found you sitting on a road case backstage while everyone else moved around you in varying states of pre-show urgency.
"Don't get used to this," you'd warned.
Joe had stopped between your knees. "To what?"
"Having me follow you around on tour."
His hands settled automatically at your waist. "I kinda like it."
"I know you do."
"You could quit your job."
You stared at him.
"Become a full-time Djo groupie."
"Joseph."
"I'd get you a laminate."
"I have my own career."
"Pretty good laminate."
You'd started laughing despite yourself, catching the front of his shirt and pulling him closer. "Go play your show."
He'd kissed you once. Then again because apparently once hadn't adequately communicated whatever he'd been trying to say.
"Watch me?" The question had been so unexpectedly earnest beneath the teasing that you'd softened immediately.
"Always."
And you have.
From the first note.
By the time Djo finishes, Joe is soaked through.
There really isn't a more dignified way of describing him.
His hair is damp against his forehead, the collar of his shirt darkened with sweat, and he's still running almost entirely on whatever chemical cocktail live performance dumps into the human bloodstream when he comes offstage and immediately finds you.
Not his manager. Not one of the crew.
You.
His guitar has barely been removed before both hands land on your waist. "Hi."
You laugh. "You're disgusting."
"Thank you."
"You're literally dripping on me."
"Missed you too."
"You saw me about thirty seconds ago."
"Different."
Joe kisses you anyway. You allow approximately two seconds of it before laughing against his mouth and pushing lightly at his chest. "No. Absolutely not. Shower."
His eyebrows rise. "Wow."
"You're revolting."
"I just played a show."
"I'm aware. I watched the entire thing."
That gets him. You see the satisfaction arrive instantly. "The entire thing?"
"No, actually. Left halfway through."
"You're a terrible liar."
"I'm an incredible liar."
Joe's hands remain around your waist. "Favourite song?"
"I'm not feeding your ego."
"Favourite song?"
"You don't need this."
"Come on."
You pretend to consider it. "The one where Adam was really good."
Joe stares at you. You manage perhaps three seconds before laughing.
"You're such an asshole."
"And yet."
"And yet."
His smile softens.
There's still enough adrenaline running through him that he can't quite keep still, thumb moving absently against your side while crew members weave around the two of you and somebody calls something from further down the corridor.
You brush a damp strand of hair away from his forehead. "You were amazing."
There. Joe's expression changes in that tiny way you've learnt to recognise, arrogance evaporating the moment praise becomes sincere. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
His eyes drop briefly towards your mouth. "Thanks for coming."
You smile. "Wouldn't have missed it."
Somebody behind Joe clears their throat.
Neither of you moves.
The throat clears again.
Joe sighs and looks over his shoulder.
Kevin is standing a few feet away. "Am I interrupting?"
"Yes," Joe says.
You answer simultaneously, "No."
Kevin smiles.
Joe looks betrayed. "What?"
"Behave."
"I am behaving."
"You've been offstage for two minutes."
"Exactly. I've been behaving for two whole minutes."
Kevin watches this exchange with the patient amusement of somebody who has already spent enough time around the two of you to know that interfering is pointless.
Then he looks at you. "I've got a question."
You narrow your eyes immediately. "No."
Joe laughs.
Kevin hasn't even asked anything. "I haven't said it yet."
"I don't trust that face."
Kevin glances at Joe. "Does she always do this?"
"Pretty much."
"And you're still together?"
"Somehow."
You elbow Joe lightly in the stomach. "What's the favour?"
Kevin smiles.
And approximately thirty seconds later, your relaxing evening as somebody's completely professionally uninvolved girlfriend comes to an abrupt end.
"No."
"Come on."
"No."
"It'll be fun."
"Joe."
"It will."
You stare at him through the dressing-room mirror.
Joe, now marginally less sweaty after changing his shirt and attacking his face with a towel, looks back at you with an expression of such transparent excitement that you immediately resent him for it.
"You were supposed to be on my side."
"I am on your side."
"You said tonight I didn't have to work."
"I lied."
"Apparently."
Joe laughs, leaning against the counter beside you.
The proposition itself is simple. Dangerously simple.
Kevin wants you to come out during Tame Impala's set for one song. Joe will come back out too, guitar in hand, turning what would already have been a surprise guest appearance into something considerably more likely to break the internet before you've even made it back to the hotel.
There is enough overlap between your audiences that the reaction would probably be ridiculous. Which, according to Kevin, is precisely the point.
You turn towards Joe. "You knew."
His eyes widen. "I did not."
"You knew."
"I swear to God."
"You're enjoying this far too much."
"Because it's cool."
"You've already performed."
"Yeah, and now I get to perform with you."
The words land with considerably more force than he seems to intend.
You pause.
Joe apparently realises what he's said at the same moment.
His expression softens.
"Come on," he says again, quieter now. "When else are we gonna get to do this?"
You hate when he makes good points.
More importantly, you hate how badly you suddenly want to.
Performing together has always been one of those things people assume happens constantly once they discover two musicians are dating. In reality, your careers intersect far less frequently than anybody imagines. You've been backstage at his shows; he's stood in the wings at yours. You've sat in studios together and heard unfinished songs nobody else would hear for months.
But you've rarely shared the actual thing.
The stage. The moment after the lights go down when everything outside the next four minutes disappears.
Joe watches your resolve deteriorating.
A smile begins pulling at his mouth.
"Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
"Your face did."
"What'd my face say?"
"'I'm Joe Keery and I'm getting exactly what I want.'"
He considers this. "Pretty handsome face."
You groan.
He laughs and reaches for your hand. "Do it."
Your fingers fit automatically between his.
You look at him. There is something almost boyish beneath the grin now.
He really wants this. Not because it'll make headlines. Not because the crowd will lose their minds. Because he wants to play with you.
"One song."
Joe's smile breaks fully across his face. "One song."
"And then I'm going back to being unemployed for the evening."
"Absolutely."
"You are buying me a drink."
"Several."
"And if I embarrass myself-"
"You won't."
"Joe."
"If you somehow embarrass yourself, I'll do something significantly more embarrassing immediately afterwards."
You stare at him. "That's actually quite reassuring."
"Yeah?"
"Your capacity for public humiliation is enormous."
"Happy to help."
The hardest part is keeping it quiet.
Somebody finds you an in-ear pack. Somebody else produces a microphone. There is a hurried conversation about arrangement and where you're entering, followed by another about precisely which section Joe is playing because apparently spontaneity requires an extraordinary amount of organisation behind the scenes.
Then comes the waiting.
You haven't been announced. As far as the audience knows, you're still somewhere backstage watching the show.
Your phone, abandoned beside your bag, has already accumulated photographs people have taken of you arriving earlier with Joe, along with the usual speculation about whether you'll appear onstage.
You haven't looked at any of it.
Instead, you're standing in the darkness beside Joe while Tame Impala plays twenty feet away.
The crowd beyond the curtain is enormous. You can feel them more than see them.
Bass vibrates through the floor beneath your shoes, crawling upwards through your legs and settling somewhere behind your ribs. Stage lights flash through gaps in the wings, briefly illuminating Joe beside you before dropping him back into shadow.
He's got a guitar again. You look at him. He looks irritatingly calm.
"You're enjoying this."
Joe glances over. "A lot."
"I'm nervous."
That gets his full attention. "You are?"
"Don't sound so surprised."
"You play crowds this size all the time."
"So do you."
"Yeah."
"And were you nervous earlier?"
Joe thinks about lying. You can see it. "A little."
"Exactly."
He smiles. His free hand finds yours. It is such an instinctive movement that neither of you looks down.
"You're gonna kill it."
"You have to say that. You're sleeping with me."
"I'd say it anyway."
"Would you?"
"Probably."
You laugh quietly. His thumb brushes once across your knuckles.
Out onstage, the song ends. The resulting roar rolls through the venue.
Your stomach flips. "Oh, fuck."
Joe squeezes your hand.
Kevin's voice carries across the stage.
He talks for a moment, deliberately taking his time, letting the audience settle before mentioning that there are a couple of friends he'd like to bring back out.
The crowd begins reacting before any names are said.
Joe looks at you. "Ready?"
"No."
"Cool."
"Joe."
He's grinning now. "Too late."
His name is announced first.
The noise becomes deafening.
Joe steps out, immediately swallowed by light, and you watch from the darkness as he lifts one hand towards the crowd.
Then Kevin says your name.
For half a second, you genuinely cannot process the sound that follows.
It isn't cheering so much as one enormous collective scream.
You laugh from sheer disbelief.
Then you walk out.
There are moments in your career you know you're going to remember while they're still happening.
This becomes one of them almost immediately.
The first thing you see is Joe.
Not the crowd. Not Kevin.
Joe.
He's a few metres away beneath blue-white stage lights, guitar hanging against his body, and the expression on his face when you emerge is so absurdly proud that you nearly laugh before you've reached the microphone.
The audience notices. Of course they do.
The screaming somehow gets louder when Joe extends a hand towards you and you take it for the last couple of steps, his fingers squeezing yours briefly before you move into position.
"You good?" he asks away from his mic.
You nod. "You?"
His grin answers for him.
Then the song starts.
Everything else disappears.
That's the trick of it.
You can spend ten minutes beforehand thinking about how many people are watching, how many phones are pointed towards you, how many clips will be online before the song has even finished, but music has always possessed the remarkable ability to make all of that irrelevant.
The opening settles into your body.
You know this song.
Not merely because you'd just rehearsed the structure backstage, but because you've heard it countless times, through speakers at home and headphones on flights and from Joe's phone while the two of you were getting ready somewhere.
Your first line arrives.
The crowd answers instantly.
Joe looks across at you.
And there is the problem.
Because you've watched him perform before.
Joe has watched you.
You've simply never had to deal with the distracting reality of him looking at you while you're both doing it.
His attention should be on his guitar.
Mostly, it is.
But every so often his eyes lift. Find yours. And something private passes between you in a room containing thousands of people.
Not staged. Not rehearsed.
Just the familiar there you are that exists whenever you find each other across a crowded room, except tonight the crowded room happens to be an arena and Joe happens to have a guitar strapped across his chest.
You smile halfway through a line.
Joe catches it. His mouth twitches.
Kevin sees the entire thing and looks thoroughly entertained.
The audience, unfortunately, sees it too. A fresh scream erupts from somewhere near the barricade.
You nearly lose your composure. Joe absolutely does.
He turns away from his microphone laughing, shoulders shaking briefly before he manages to recover.
You give him a look.
He mouths, "What?"
You shake your head.
Later, people will upload that exact moment from approximately forty-seven different angles.
For now, it's yours.
The song builds.
You stop thinking.
Your voice rises above the instrumentation and Joe moves closer during the final section, not enough to turn the performance into something artificially romantic, but enough that you become intensely aware of him beside you: the heat radiating from his body beneath the lights, his shoulder occasionally brushing yours, the familiar concentration in his face as his fingers move across the guitar.
There is something intoxicating about it.
Not simply being onstage.
Being onstage together.
You've seen this version of Joe from the wings so many times, watched him become sharper and louder and somehow more himself beneath stage lights, but standing inside it with him is different. You understand suddenly why he'd looked so excited backstage.
He gets to see you here too.
Not as his girlfriend. Not as the person waiting after the show.
As you. An artist. His equal.
When you turn towards him near the end, Joe is already looking at you.
You don't know who smiles first.
The final note disappears beneath the crowd.
You barely have time to lower the microphone before Joe is beside you.
His arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you against his side as Kevin joins you, and the three of you acknowledge the audience while the venue seems intent on becoming progressively louder rather than calming down.
You're laughing. You can't help it.
Joe says something beside your ear that you don't catch.
"What?"
He leans closer. "I said you killed it."
You turn your head.
His face is inches from yours.
Adrenaline has brightened his eyes, hair falling untidily across his forehead again, and for one moment you forget completely that several thousand people can currently see you.
"You're biased."
"Still true."
You kiss his cheek. It's quick. Almost nothing.
The audience reacts as though you've proposed marriage.
Joe's eyebrows shoot upwards.
You burst out laughing. "Oh my God."
He looks towards the crowd, then back at you. "Think they liked it."
"Subtle observation."
Kevin is laughing now too.
Eventually, Kevin has a set to get back to. You and Joe make your way offstage as the band begins slipping into the next song behind you, his hand settling against the small of your back as he follows you into the comparative darkness of the wings.
The moment the curtain hides you, you turn around. "Holy shit."
Joe looks euphoric. "Holy shit."
You throw your arms around him. He catches you immediately, guitar trapped awkwardly between your bodies until somebody mercifully appears to remove it before either of you damages an expensive instrument.
"That was insane."
"I told you!"
"Don't."
"I told you it'd be fun."
"I hate when you're right."
Joe pulls back just enough to look at you. "Say it again."
"No."
"Come on."
"Absolutely not."
"Just say, 'Joe, you were right.'"
"I would rather go back out there alone."
He's laughing when you kiss him.
It isn't particularly dramatic. Just adrenaline searching for somewhere to go.
His hands settle at your waist, yours briefly catching in the damp hair at the back of his neck before somebody walking past makes an exaggerated noise of disgust.
You separate. Joe doesn't remove his hands. Neither do you.
"Hi," he says.
You laugh. "Hi."
"You were really fucking good."
"So were you."
"Yeah?"
"Don't fish."
"I'm not fishing."
"You are constantly fishing."
His grin widens.
People are moving everywhere around you now, crew members hurrying past as the next song thunders through the walls, congratulating you as they go, somebody already holding up a phone with what appears to be a video of the performance despite the fact that you left the stage approximately ninety seconds ago.
You catch a glimpse of the screen. Then another. And another.
"Oh, Jesus."
Joe looks over. "What?"
"I think the internet noticed."
He peers at the phone. A clip of the moment you kissed his cheek is already circulating.
Joe watches it once. Then looks at you. "That's cute."
"You are not allowed to become one of those people who watches edits of his own relationship."
"Why?"
"Because I'll leave you."
"No, you won't."
The confidence is appalling. You stare at him. Joe smiles and kisses your temple. "Come on."
"Where?"
"Backstage."
"We are backstage."
"More backstage."
You narrow your eyes.
There's something different in his expression now.
Not dramatically. Nobody else would notice it.
You do.
The stage adrenaline hasn't disappeared; it's merely changing shape, settling lower, turning the space between you strangely charged now that neither of you has a performance left to concentrate on.
Joe's hand slides into yours. "You coming?"
You let him lead you down the corridor. "Depends."
"On?"
"Whether you're about to spend the next twenty minutes telling me you were right."
He glances backwards. "I wasn't planning on talking that much."
Oh.
You look at him. Joe's mouth twitches.
"Joseph."
"What?"
"Nothing."
He squeezes your hand and keeps walking.
And considering the expression on his face when he opens the dressing-room door, you suspect neither of you is particularly interested in checking how the performance is doing online just yet.
The room is small, the air strangely still after the noise outside, and the mirror on the wall catches the two of you as Joe closes the door behind him: your hair wild from the stage, your blouse slightly untucked, his chest still rising too quickly beneath his shirt. For a second, neither of you says anything. You can still hear the concert through the walls, bass reduced to a distant vibration beneath your feet, and your body hasn't quite understood that you're no longer standing beneath several thousand watts of light with an arena full of people screaming back at you.
Joe turns towards you.
The expression on his face isn't quite the grin he'd been wearing onstage. There's still something euphoric about it, something almost disbelieving, but beneath that is the look you know considerably better, his attention dropping briefly to your mouth before finding your eyes again.
"You have no idea what that did to me," he says.
You laugh, breathless. "What did?"
"Watching you." His hands find your waist, pulling you closer until your palms land against his chest. His heart is still hammering beneath them. "I've watched you perform before," he continues, quieter now, "but being up there with you? Jesus Christ."
"Joe-"
"I'm serious." His thumbs press absently into your sides. "You walked out and everybody lost their fucking minds."
"They were excited about the surprise."
"They were excited about you." You roll your eyes, but you're smiling, and Joe catches it immediately. "And then you started singing," he says, "and you kept looking at me like-"
"Like what?"
He stops. Apparently, despite writing songs for a living, language has abandoned him. "Like you."
Your eyebrows rise. "Profound."
"Shut up."
You laugh, and Joe kisses you before you can say anything else.
The kiss is hungry almost immediately, all of that leftover adrenaline apparently discovering somewhere new to go, and you catch at the front of his shirt as his hands tighten around your waist. There is nothing particularly graceful about either of you now. You have spent the last half-hour being watched from every conceivable angle, aware of cameras and lights and marks on a stage, and there is something almost relieving about being somewhere nobody expects either of you to look composed.
Your hands are still shaking. You don't notice until Joe does.
He catches one when you reach for him again, fingers closing gently around your wrist, and for half a second you think he's teasing until his expression changes.
"You're shaking."
You look down. He's right. Your fingers are trembling inside his, the residual adrenaline having worked its way into every muscle now that you no longer have a microphone to grip.
"I'm fine."
"I know." His thumb brushes across your knuckles. "Adrenaline?"
"Probably."
Joe smiles. "Still?"
"I was onstage in front of God knows how many thousand people ten minutes ago."
"You do that for a living."
"Not with you."
That shuts him up. Only briefly.
His thumb moves across your hand again, and when you look at him, some of the hunger in his expression has softened without disappearing entirely.
"You were fucking incredible up there."
"You've mentioned."
"No, I mean it." Joe pulls you towards him until you're standing between his knees. "I knew you'd be good. Obviously I knew you'd be good. But then you walked out there and-" He laughs softly, shaking his head. "I don't know. I was proud of you."
Something warm catches beneath your ribs.
You try to rescue yourself with teasing. "You sound surprised."
"I'm not surprised."
"You sound a little surprised."
"I'm trying to be nice to you."
"Terrible job."
Joe looks up at you, fighting a smile. "I almost missed a chord because you kept looking at me."
You stare at him. "You did not."
"I did."
"Professional."
"Yeah, well, you were distracting."
"You were staring."
"So were you."
Heat creeps pleasantly into your face, because unfortunately he has you there. You think again of those few minutes beneath the lights, Kevin somewhere to your left, Joe's shoulder brushing yours while thousands of voices rose beyond the stage, and how strangely easy it had been to forget all of them whenever Joe looked across at you.
"I couldn't stop looking at you either," you admit.
Joe goes very still. "Oh."
You laugh. "Oh?"
"Yeah. That's not helping."
"Good."
His mouth finds yours, and the kiss isn't soft; it's hungry and open, his tongue sliding against yours as your hands grip his jacket and pull him closer, eliminating what little space remains between you.
His hands find the hem of your blouse and push it upwards, breaking the kiss only long enough to pull it over your head before letting it fall to the floor. The air is cool against your skin, but Joe's hands are hot as they move over you, and when his mouth follows, you gasp and catch at his shoulders.
"You're beautiful," he murmurs against your skin. "Every fucking time."
You pull him back up before he can say anything else, kissing him hard enough to make him laugh against your mouth. Your hands are still trembling slightly when they disappear into his hair, adrenaline lingering stubbornly in your bloodstream, and Joe notices.
Before he can say anything, you silence him with another kiss, but Joe is already moving lower, hands making quick work of the rest of your clothes before guiding you backwards onto the couch. The vinyl is cold against your bare skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth of his hands as they part your knees, and then his mouth replaces them.
His tongue finds you, the first touch wet and warm, a shock that travels through your entire body. You shout his name, and your fingers find his hair, gripping as he moves against you, as his tongue circles, presses, slides into you. The room narrows to the sensation, the wet heat of his mouth, the sound of your own breathing, the way he groans against you as if he's tasting something he's been starving for.
He takes his time. He brings you to the edge, pulls back, then builds again, slower, deeper, until you're gasping, your thighs trembling against his ears. When he finally lets you tip over, it's not sudden - it's a slow unravelling, a heat that spreads from your core to your fingertips, a cry that tears from your throat, that you don't try to muffle.
He stays there, his mouth gentle, until your breathing slows. Then he rises, his mouth wet, his eyes dark, and he pulls you up to meet him. You taste yourself on his lips, and it's not strange - it's right, it's yours, it's the taste of the night you both just had.
Your hands find the button of his jeans, and you push him down onto the couch, his legs open, his cock hard and straining against the denim. You don't wait. You sink to your knees on the floor in front of him, your hands working the zipper, pulling his jeans down his thighs. He lifts his hips, and you pull them free, and then his cock is in your hand, hard, warm, the weight of him against your palm.
You don't look up. You lower your mouth and take him in, your tongue sliding along the length, your lips closing around the head. He groans - a sound that's low and raw and wrecked - and his hand finds the back of your head, not pushing, just resting, just grounding himself.
You work him until his breathing is ragged, until his hips are lifting, until his hand tightens in your hair and he says your name like a plea. You take him deeper, your throat relaxing, and you feel him twitch against your tongue, feel the heat building, the tension coiling in his thighs.
He doesn't let go. He pulls you away, his hands gentle but firm, tilting your face up. His eyes are dark, his mouth parted, his chest rising fast. "Not yet," he says, and his voice is raw, barely a whisper. "I want to be inside you when I come."
By the time Joe pulls you back towards him, you're both breathing as though you've somehow ended up onstage again.
The reverb from the arena still reaches the room in faint, intermittent pulses, another song carrying through several concrete walls, and you can feel it beneath your feet while Joe presses his forehead briefly against yours.
"Still shaking?" he murmurs.
"A little."
His mouth curves. "Good."
"Why is that good?"
"Means I wasn't imagining how insane that was."
You laugh softly. "You weren't."
For a moment, the two of you simply look at one another, and there is something almost ridiculous about the circumstances: half-dressed in somebody else's dressing room while thousands of people continue enjoying an entirely separate concert outside, your phone presumably detonating somewhere beneath your discarded clothes.
Joe brushes his thumb across your cheek.
"I'm really fucking proud of you."
The words land differently this time.
Maybe because there isn't an audience anymore. Maybe because he's no longer saying them while laughing beneath stage lights or while somebody walks past backstage. Here, with the door locked and his face inches from yours, there's nowhere for either of you to hide inside the joke.
You kiss him.
"Thank you."
His smile is small. "You're welcome."
Then your hand moves lower and whatever temporary sincerity had descended upon the room disappears from Joe's expression almost immediately.
"Oh, okay."
You laugh against his mouth. "What?"
"Nothing."
"Thought so."
You look at him - at the dark in his eyes, at the parted lips still wet from you, at the way his chest heaves like he's been running - and remember exactly why he'd stopped you earlier.
You press your palm to his chest, feel his heart hammering beneath the sweat-damp fabric of his shirt, and push gently before letting your hand slide lower, curling around his cock, still hard and slick from your mouth.
His breath catches. "Baby-"
But you're already moving, rising onto your toes to kiss him once more before taking his hand and turning towards the couch. Joe follows without resistance, and when you brace your palms against the cool vinyl and glance back over your shoulder, the look on his face makes something tighten low in your stomach.
His gaze travels slowly down your body.
"Like that," you tell him. "I want you like that."
Joe steps closer, his warmth settling against your back before his hands finally find your hips. For all the impatience that brought you into this room, he pauses there, one palm sliding across your lower back in a touch that feels almost like a question.
You answer by pushing back against him.
"Look at you," he murmurs near your ear, voice already rough. "Waiting for me."
"Joe-"
"I know."
He adjusts behind you, and whatever patience you had left disappears. You grip the couch harder as he teases you for another few seconds, until you look back at him and find his jaw tight with the effort of holding himself still.
You press your palms flat into the vinyl and push back, taking him inside you in one slow, deliberate movement.
The stretch is exactly what you needed - full, burning, the intrusion of him filling the ache you've been carrying since the first chord of the night. You gasp, your forehead dropping to the couch arm, your body adjusting to the size of him, the depth, the way he settles against you like he was made to fit there.
His groan is low and broken, a sound that vibrates through his chest and into yours. His hands find your hips, his thumbs pressing into the dip above your pelvis, and he steps close enough that you feel the heat of him against the backs of your thighs.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
Then he does.
The first stroke is slow - agonisingly slow - a long drag that pulls him almost all the way out before pressing back in, and your breath leaves you in a shudder as he settles deep again.
He does it again at the same deliberate pace, the rhythm settling into your bones like a second heartbeat, almost matching the bass still reaching you faintly through the floor.
Your fingers curl against the vinyl, nails scraping the surface, leaving thin white lines that fade almost as soon as they appear. The sound is small, barely audible over your breathing, but you feel it in your fingertips, a tiny anchor in the vastness of what's happening to your body.
"Like that," you hear yourself say, your voice muffled against your arm, barely recognisable. "Don't stop."
His response is a sound - low, wordless, a groan that vibrates through his chest and into your back where you're pressed together. His hands tighten on your hips, his thumbs digging into the muscle above your pelvis, and you feel the shift in his angle as he adjusts, the head of his cock pressing against a spot that makes you gasp, your elbows buckling.
"There?" His voice is rough, almost a whisper, and you feel the word against your shoulder blade, warm and damp.
You nod, your hair sliding across the vinyl, your eyes squeezed shut. "Yes. Fuck- yes."
His mouth brushes your shoulder as he settles into the rhythm, deep and steady, each movement dragging another sound from you.
Somewhere beyond the locked door, another song is underway, the music carrying faintly through the walls and vibrating beneath your feet, enough to remind you that barely any time has passed since you were standing beneath those lights with him.
"You know I almost fucked up my part because of you?" Joe says breathlessly.
Despite everything, you laugh. "You already told me."
"Still blaming you."
"You were staring."
"Yeah." His hands tighten on your hips. "Can you blame me?"
You can't answer when he moves again, finding that same angle and making your head drop forward.
"You were so fucking good up there," he murmurs. "Watching you walk out in front of everybody like that- Jesus."
"Joe, if you keep talking about the stage while you're inside me-"
"What?" You can hear the grin in his voice. "Gonna distract you?"
You push back against him sharply enough to wipe it away.
"Fuck."
"Thought so."
Whatever control he'd been maintaining begins to fracture after that. His strokes grow harder, your hips moving backwards to meet each one, until his chest folds over your back and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder.
"I've got you," he murmurs.
The tenderness of it catches you somewhere unexpected. His hand moves from your hip to your stomach, holding you against him as his mouth brushes your skin, and when his fingers eventually find yours against the couch, you lace them together without thinking.
"I'm not gonna last much longer," he admits against your shoulder.
"Then don't."
"I wanted to make it last."
You turn your head as far as the position allows. "We just performed together in front of thousands of people and then locked ourselves in a dressing room. I don't think tonight needs to be subtle."
Joe laughs, breathless and wrecked. "Fair."
His hand tightens around yours.
The pace changes then, not dramatically, but enough. The slow control gives way to something more urgent, and the pressure that has been gathering inside you builds with it, your breathing turning uneven as every movement pushes you closer.
"I'm close," you whisper.
Joe groans against the back of your neck. "Good. I want to feel you come around me. Right now."
That's enough.
Your body tightens around him as the release breaks through you, his name disappearing into the cry that leaves your throat. Joe keeps moving through it, hand locked around yours, until the worst of the trembling begins to subside and you realise he's still holding himself back.
Your hand finds his hip, pulling him deeper, and you push back against him, your voice low and steady despite the aftershocks still trembling through you. "Don't wait. I want to feel you come inside me."
It's all he needs. His rhythm breaks, the slow deliberation giving way to something rawer, more desperate. He drives into you, hard and fast, his hands gripping your hips, his forehead pressed to your spine, and you feel the moment he tips over, the way his body tenses, the low, broken sound that escapes his throat as he spills into you, hot and deep, filling you completely.
You hold him there, your body still gripping his, your hand still laced with his fingers where they rest on your chest. The light hums. The vinyl creaks. And in the small, locked dressing room, you both stay like that, connected, breathing, the aftershocks of your shared release fading into the silence.
By the time you eventually remember that the rest of the world exists, the song playing somewhere beyond the dressing-room walls has changed again, and your phone has become almost unusable. You stare at the lock screen.
Joe, beside you, is still fixing his hair. "How bad?"
"I have four hundred and twelve notifications."
"That's not bad."
You turn towards him. "Joseph."
"What?"
"Four hundred and twelve."
He shrugs. "You're famous."
"So are you."
"Yeah, but my phone's over there."
You follow his gesture. His phone is lying face-down on the opposite side of the room.
"That's your strategy?"
"Works great."
You laugh and open your messages.
Immediately, clips begin loading.
The entrance. The first verse. Joe laughing when the audience screamed after you looked at one another. Your cheek kiss. Several photographs of the three of you at the end. And, predictably, an alarming number of posts consisting largely of capital letters.
Joe appears over your shoulder. "Oh, that's a good angle."
You lock your phone. "No."
"What?"
"We're not doing this."
"I wanna see."
"You can look at your own phone."
"But yours is already open."
You shove it against your chest. "Go away."
Joe laughs and drops onto the sofa beside you.
For a moment, neither of you says anything. The concert continues somewhere beyond the walls, reduced in here to bass and muffled percussion, but the adrenaline is finally beginning to drain away, leaving behind that pleasant exhaustion you know well: ears still faintly ringing, body tired, mind nowhere near ready to sleep.
Joe's knee rests against yours. You lean into him.
"Hey."
"Hm?"
"You were right."
His head turns slowly. You immediately regret everything. "What was that?"
"Don't."
"No, no, I didn't hear you."
"Joe."
"Could you say it again?"
You shove his shoulder. He catches your wrist, laughing, and pulls you closer until your head lands against his chest. "I knew you'd have fun."
You settle there despite yourself. "Yeah."
His fingers move lazily along your arm. "Would you do it again?"
You think about the lights. The noise. Kevin smiling across the stage. Joe looking at you from behind his guitar as though sharing this particular part of himself with you was somehow the greatest thing in the world.
You smile against his shirt. "Maybe."
"That's a yes."
"That's a maybe."
"Pretty sure it's a yes."
You tilt your head enough to look at him. "Don't push your luck."
Joe kisses your forehead. "Wouldn't dream of it."
He's already pushing it, of course.
His arm tightens around you, another swell of music reaching through several walls as Tame Impala's set carries on without you, and your phone begins vibrating yet again on the cushion beside you.
Neither of you reaches for it.
For another few minutes, the internet can lose its mind without you.
jack abbot who is in love with you. and that’s okay! because you already knew! you knew that he looked for you in the crowded pitt, regardless of the incoming, his heart demanded you by his side. you knew that he needed you pulled flush against his chest before he could fall asleep at night. you knew that he would hold onto you forever and never let you go.
jack abbot who is in love with michael robinavitch. and that’s also okay! you just don’t know about it. but yknow, they’ve been friends for a really really long time, it’s only natural to develop some sort of attachment to a person after knowing them for that long. it was a sort of comfort, being in love with robby, a reminder of better times, when the two attendings were not weighed down by the patients they saw pass through the hospital. it’s really not his fault he’s in love, he just doesn’t plan on doing anything about it.
michael robinavitch who is in love with you. which is once again, l okay! it’s just, that’s the reason why he has the two of you watch over his house whilst he’s on sabbatical. he assumed knew that the two of you would fuck, he just hoped it would be in his bed. for comfort of course! the guest room is not nearly as nice as his own, and he practically insisted you two stay in his bed. you just don’t know about the camera that he has in his smoke detector, he got it by accident okay!!!, and you just don’t know how closely he watches your face on his too big ipad when you come around jacks cock.
michael robinavitch who is completely in love with jack abbot. which is once again, you guessed it! completely okay!!! he just didn’t realize that fact until he was checking in on the two of you through his camera app and saw you riding jack. he should have closed out of the app when he noticed that he couldn’t even see you, hips down covered by a thin sheet and the above by your unruly hair. he could only see jack. jack, with his head thrown back. jack with hands clenching and unclenching. jack with his face screwed up in pleasure. and jack, with his nose buried in robby’s pillow when he finally came. it’s not his fault he’s saw that. but he does plan on doing something about it, and he leaves after he finished dragging his hand up and down his cock.
I have a request, it came to me while reading your last story. This time, imagine a reader who's away from home, either for work or visiting family, and Joe and Luke are left alone for a few weeks. Luke has never been separated from his mother before, so he misses her terribly and compares everything Joe does to his mother's. Joe also misses his wife. When they FaceTime, they can't really talk properly because Luke is so eager to talk to his mother, and at the end of the week, they're just complaining about each other. The only thing the reader can think about while listening is how similar they are. Something like that. I hope you have a good day <3
“seven sleeps”
☆ dad!joe keery x mom!reader ☆
hi!! first of all, i’m SO sorry for the super late update 😭 i’ve been incredibly lazy lately lol, then i went on a trip, and on top of that i just started college, so life has been a little all over the place. but i’m finally back with another one shot <3
thank you so much for all the love on the last one and for always sending me requests!! i seriously read all of them even if i can’t answer every single one. i hope you guys enjoy this one 🤍
summary: after reader leaves for a week to help her mom pack up her house, joe and five-year-old luke are left on their own. they’re both used to being apart from reader every now and then, but this time there’s no halfway visit, no weekend together, just seven long sleeps… and a little boy who keeps reminding joe that mommy does everything differently.
word count: 3.4k
warnings: fluff, established relationship, family dynamics, five-year-old luke being attached to his mom, tiny bit of angst but mostly comfort, no use of y/n
Whenever Joe worked somewhere for more than a few weeks, you and Luke usually went with him. Rental apartments became yours surprisingly quickly once Luke’s sneakers appeared beside the door and his Lego pieces started spreading across the living-room floor. On shorter trips, you might arrive a few days later or visit over a free weekend. Joe did the same when you traveled. One of you almost always found a way to meet the other halfway.
Distance was normal.
Spending the entire week apart was not.
Luke sat cross-legged on the bedroom rug, sorting gray Lego pieces into small piles beside the unfinished neighborhood set he and Joe planned to build while you were gone. At five, he understood perfectly well that you were leaving for seven days to help your mother pack before moving. What he had not understood until that morning was that neither he nor Joe would be joining you at any point.
“We’re coming on Friday, right?” he asked without looking up, fitting two bricks together before pulling them apart again.
You stopped folding one of your sweaters. Joe, who had been sitting against the headboard with a sweatshirt spread across his lap, lifted his eyes toward Luke.
“Not this time, buddy,” he said.
Luke finally looked up. His eyebrows pulled together as he glanced between the two of you, waiting for the part of the plan that made sense. “Not even for the weekend?”
You crossed the room and lowered yourself onto the rug beside him. The Lego set covered nearly half the floor: a small house, a garage, a flower shop and a park that Luke had decided needed far more trees than the instructions provided.
“I’m only going for a week,” you explained, resting one hand against his knee. “Daddy has work here, and you have school. This time you’re staying in New York until I come home.”
Luke looked toward Joe again, as though he might reveal that you were wrong.
Joe set the sweatshirt aside and joined you on the floor. “I wish we could visit. The timing just didn’t work.”
“Oh.”
Luke returned his attention to the Lego roof in his lap. He did not cry or complain. He simply nodded once and reached for another piece without attaching it anywhere.
Joe ran his fingers gently through the hair near Luke’s crown. “We’ll finish the whole neighborhood before Mommy gets back.”
“The garage first,” Luke reminded him quietly.
“The garage first.”
By the time you reached the airport, Luke was talking normally again. He spent most of the drive explaining that the Lego bakery could not be built before the garage because people needed somewhere to park, and Joe accepted every rule with the seriousness of somebody reviewing actual construction plans.
The terminal was busy enough that the sound of suitcase wheels and announcements blended into one continuous hum. Joe carried your luggage while Luke walked between you, holding your hand and swinging his stuffed dinosaur from the other.
Just outside security, you crouched in front of him and fixed the collar of his sweatshirt even though it was already straight.
“Be good for Daddy.”
“I am good.”
Joe made a quiet sound beside you, but Luke ignored him.
“I’ll call tonight,” you continued, smoothing your thumb over Luke’s cheek. “You can show me whatever you build.”
“The garage.”
“Of course. The garage.”
You opened your arms, and he stepped into them immediately. You lifted him onto your hip, kissing his forehead while he wrapped both arms around your neck. For a few seconds, the goodbye felt ordinary.
“You know I love you?”
Luke nodded against your shoulder. “I love you more.”
You smiled and lowered him carefully to the floor. “I’ll see you in seven sleeps.”
You turned toward Joe, who stepped closer without needing to be called. His hand settled around your waist, drawing you against him while Luke remained beside your legs. The kiss was slow and familiar, carrying none of the hesitation of a new relationship. You had kissed in enough airports to know exactly how long you could allow yourselves before one of you became tempted to cancel the flight.
“I’ll miss you,” Joe murmured when you pulled back.
“I’ll miss you too.”
His forehead rested briefly against yours. “Call when you land.”
“I always do.”
“I know.”
You were still smiling when two small arms suddenly wrapped around your leg.
Luke pressed his cheek against your jeans and held on tightly. When you looked down, his eyes had already filled, the tears seeming to surprise him as much as they did you.
“Oh, honey.”
You crouched again and pulled him close. He buried his face against your shoulder, his voice muffled when he admitted, “I wanted to come too.”
“I know.” You kissed his temple, keeping one arm around him while Joe knelt beside you and rubbed slow circles between Luke’s shoulder blades. “I wanted you there too. This week just didn’t work.”
“We always come.”
“I know.”
A couple of tears slipped down his cheeks. He was not sobbing or panicking; the sadness had simply caught up with him at the exact moment you needed to leave.
“But you’re picking me up next Saturday,” you reminded him, wiping beneath his eyes with your thumbs. “And I’m going to hug you first.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Joe handed him a tissue from his pocket. Luke blew his nose with exaggerated concentration, then looked at you with damp lashes and a much steadier expression.
“Can you find my red truck at Grandma’s?”
You laughed softly. “I’ll look for it.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
The tears disappeared almost as quickly as they had arrived. By the time you waved one last time and vanished into the security line, Luke was already asking Joe whether the airport sold cinnamon pretzels.
It did.
Twenty minutes later, he was walking toward the parking garage with sugar across the front of his sweatshirt, talking about the Lego garage again as if he had not cried at all.
The house felt quieter when they returned, but not dramatically so. Your coat still hung beside Joe’s in the entryway, and the coffee mug you had forgotten to rinse sat near the sink. Luke ran upstairs once to tell you something about a taxi they had seen before remembering you were gone, but he came back down without mentioning it and settled on the living-room rug beside the Lego set.
Joe joined him, and they worked until your name appeared on his phone around six.
Luke answered before Joe could reach it.
“Mommy.”
Your face filled the screen, hair pulled back and one of your old sweatshirts hanging loosely around your shoulders. Boxes crowded your mother’s dining room behind you.
“I landed.”
“I know.” Luke held the phone far too close to his face. “I cried, but it stopped.”
Joe glanced over from the half-built garage.
You smiled gently. “I know. I was there.”
Luke seemed satisfied that this detail had been properly recorded. He turned the camera toward the floor, the image shaking as he showed you the garage walls, the tiny red toolbox and the Lego flower he had placed beside the driveway despite it belonging to another part of the set.
You listened to every explanation before asking Joe whether he had remembered the empty suitcase in the trunk.
Joe looked toward the front door.
He had not.
“You’re going to forget it,” you said.
“I’ll get it later.”
“You left the Chicago suitcase in the car for three days.”
“That was different.”
Luke lowered the phone and looked at him. “Mommy’s right.”
Joe nodded, accepting the betrayal without argument. “Thank you.”
After Luke became distracted by the Lego instructions again, he propped the phone against a stack of booklets and returned to building. Joe sat with his back against the couch, one hand near the garage in case the wall collapsed.
“How’s your mom?” he asked.
“She handed me a box before I took my coat off.”
“Sounds right.”
You smiled, and for a moment neither of you said anything. Luke hummed quietly on the rug between the phone and Joe, making the call feel less like a formal conversation and more like the three of you sharing a room.
“I miss you,” you said.
Joe’s expression softened immediately. “I miss you too.”
Luke pushed the garage toward the phone before the moment could become anything larger.
“Mommy, does the sign go here?”
The first comparison happened at dinner.
Joe made grilled cheese and tomato soup, cutting Luke’s sandwich into four triangles the same way he had done dozens of times before. Luke ate the first few bites without complaint, then turned one triangle over and studied it.
“Mommy makes them smaller.”
Joe paused with his own sandwich halfway to his mouth. “The triangles?”
Luke nodded.
Joe looked at the plate, considered arguing and decided it was not worth it. He took the knife and cut each triangle in half.
Luke examined the eight new pieces. “That’s too many.”
Joe remained still for a moment before setting the knife down.
Luke had already chosen one and dipped it into the soup, completely unaware that he had made the request impossible to satisfy.
The comparisons continued during bath time. You put the bubbles in after the water because they became bigger. You rinsed Luke’s hair with the plastic cup while keeping one hand across his forehead. You apparently selected striped pajamas after baths rather than dinosaurs.
Joe followed the instructions whenever they were reasonable. He understood almost immediately that Luke was not truly criticizing him. He was tracing the shape of your routines, locating you in every small difference around the house.
Understanding did not make it less tiring.
That night, Luke lay beside Joe in the big bed while you watched through FaceTime. He showed you a tooth that was not actually loose, then settled against Joe’s side while they finished a picture book.
When the fox appeared, Luke looked up.
“Do Mommy’s voice.”
Joe glanced at your face on the phone. “I’m not doing her fox voice.”
“Please.”
You tried not to smile while Joe attempted it. The first version came out so deep and strained that Luke stared at him with genuine concern.
“He sounds sick.”
“I said I couldn’t do it.”
Luke asked him to try again. Joe kept the second attempt closer to his normal voice, slowing the words the way you usually did. Luke considered it before giving a small nod.
“A little better.”
By the final page, his eyes had closed.
Joe finished the story anyway, one arm curved around Luke while his thumb moved slowly across the front of his pajama shirt. You watched them from your mother’s guest room until Joe looked toward the screen.
“He’s okay,” he said quietly. “He was fine after the airport. He’s just noticing you’re not here.”
“I thought he might.”
Joe carefully tried to move his arm. Luke tightened one hand around his shirt without waking.
You smiled. “You’re not carrying him to his room.”
“He has a bed.”
Joe looked down at him, then pulled the blanket higher over his shoulder.
“I’m not carrying him.”
He left the phone propped beside the lamp after that. You remained connected while both of you settled beneath separate blankets, talking quietly about the attic, Luke’s red truck and what time you would call the next morning.
“I wish you were here,” you admitted once the room had gone dark.
Joe’s eyes stayed on the screen. “Me too.”
The week was not dramatic. Luke went to school, played with Emma, ate normally and spent every afternoon adding buildings to the Lego neighborhood. He laughed, talked constantly and stopped asking how many days remained whenever something else caught his attention.
He was simply moodier around Joe.
You used the blue bowl for morning cereal. You cut strawberries lengthwise. You tied shoelaces with smaller loops. You used less toothpaste and apparently placed the straw on the opposite side of the water bottle.
At the grocery store, a teenage girl asked Joe for a picture while Luke compared cartons of strawberries. Joe agreed, smiling for the photo before returning less than a minute later.
Luke held up one carton. “These are the ones Mommy gets.”
“They look exactly like the others.”
“These are better.”
Joe accepted the strawberries without questioning the inspection process.
At home, he cut them into quarters.
Luke watched from the kitchen island. “Mommy cuts them long.”
Joe placed the knife down, turned the next strawberry and sliced it lengthwise.
“Like this?”
Luke nodded.
Joe finished the entire carton that way, then pushed the bowl toward him. Luke ate one piece and seemed perfectly content.
“You miss Mommy,” Joe said.
It was not a question.
Luke nodded. “Do you?”
Joe leaned against the island. “Yeah.”
“A lot?”
“A lot.”
Luke considered this before pushing the bowl toward him. “You can have one.”
By Thursday morning, Joe’s patience had begun wearing thin.
He crouched in the entryway tying Luke’s shoes while Luke watched each loop form.
“Mommy makes them smaller.”
Joe retied them.
“That one’s too tight.”
Joe sat back on his heels. “Buddy, I need you to choose. Small loops or loose shoes. I can’t make them both.”
Luke looked down at the laces. “Mommy can.”
For several seconds, Joe said nothing. He was not angry, but the exhaustion showed clearly enough that Luke’s expression changed.
Joe sat on the floor instead of standing. “I know you miss her. I know she does things differently, too. But you’ve told me how Mommy does everything all week.”
“I’m just saying.”
“I know.” Joe kept his voice gentle. “I’m trying to make things the way you like them, and sometimes you tell me after I’ve already done it. Then I change it, and you want it the first way.”
Luke picked at a loose thread near his knee.
“I want Mommy.”
The frustration left Joe immediately. He placed both hands around Luke’s waist and drew him closer until Luke stood between his knees.
“I know.”
“It’s taking long.”
“She comes home in two sleeps.”
“That’s still long.”
Joe rested one hand at the back of his neck. “This week feels weird for me too.”
Luke looked at him. “You don’t like when she’s gone?”
“No.” Joe glanced around the entryway at your shoes beneath the table and your coat still hanging beside his. “I like when all three of us are here.”
Luke leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Joe’s shoulders. Joe held him close until Luke finally murmured that the shoelaces were fine.
They arrived at school seven minutes late.
That evening, Luke reported the conversation during FaceTime.
“Daddy doesn’t like when you’re gone.”
You looked toward Joe, who stood at the sink loading the dishwasher.
“I know.”
“He likes all three.”
You smiled. “I like all three too.”
Joe dried his hands and came to stand beside Luke. Your eyes met through the screen, and his expression looked lighter now that Luke had finally put the feeling into words.
“One more day,” you told him.
“I’m counting.”
On Friday, Joe and Luke finished the Lego flower shop and made an airport sign together. Joe drew the letters lightly in pencil, and Luke traced them in pink marker before covering the remaining space in flowers, hearts and three figures holding hands.
This time, nobody stood inside a phone.
The lilies Joe ordered arrived while they were still working. Luke touched one unopened petal carefully.
“Mommy likes these.”
“I know.”
“You missed her a lot.”
Joe placed the flowers in a vase. “I did.”
“Me too.”
Saturday afternoon, they reached the airport far earlier than necessary.
Luke held the sign against his chest while Joe carried the flowers. Several people recognized him while they waited. Most only looked. One man asked for a quick photograph, and Joe agreed without making it important, returning to Luke less than a minute later.
“How long?” Luke asked.
“She landed.”
“Then where is she?”
“Getting her suitcase.”
“That takes too long.”
Joe rested one hand on his shoulder. “I know.”
You appeared through the doors five minutes later.
Joe saw you first. His whole expression softened as your eyes found him across the crowd.
Luke followed his gaze.
“Mommy!”
The sign tipped sideways as he ran.
You released the suitcase handle and crouched in time to catch him. He threw both arms around your neck, and you lifted him easily, laughing into his hair while he wrapped his legs around your waist.
“You came back.”
“I told you I would.”
“You took long.”
“I know.”
He did not cry this time. He only pressed his face against your neck and held on.
Joe reached you a few seconds later. He set the lilies beside the suitcase and placed one hand around your waist. You turned toward him while still holding Luke, slipping your free arm around his neck.
The kiss was warm and unhurried, carrying all the affection that daily calls could not reproduce. Joe drew you closer despite Luke between you and kissed your forehead when you finally pulled away.
“I missed you,” he said.
“I missed you too.”
Luke lifted his head. “He really did.”
Joe looked at him. “Thank you.”
“He bought flowers.”
Your eyes moved toward the lilies. “You bought me lilies?”
“Luke helped.”
“I’m giving them,” Luke clarified.
Joe lifted the sign from the floor. You read every uneven pink letter and studied the drawing at the bottom.
“You’re not in the phone now,” Luke explained.
Your expression softened. “No. I’m not.”
At home, Luke followed you upstairs and sat on the bedroom rug while you unpacked. When you pulled the red truck from between two sweaters, his entire face brightened despite the missing wheel.
“You found it.”
“I promised.”
“Daddy can fix it.”
Joe entered carrying your toiletry bag. “Tomorrow.”
Luke accepted the answer and began driving the tilted truck across the floor.
You had barely finished placing the last sweater in the closet before reaching for Joe. His arms circled your waist automatically, pulling you against his chest while Luke played beside you.
“How was the week?” you asked.
Joe looked down at your son. “Long.”
“Was he awful?”
“No.” His hand moved slowly across your back. “He was just in a mood.”
“He missed me.”
“I know.”
You lifted your face. “And you?”
Joe leaned down and kissed you again, softer now that there was no airport crowd moving around you.
“I missed you.”
That evening, Luke showed you every part of the Lego neighborhood from the beginning. Joe sat on your other side, one arm resting behind you against the couch. When part of the garage roof shifted, Luke looked toward him.
“Can you fix it?”
Joe pressed the piece back into place.
Luke nodded, then handed you several green bricks. “You do the trees.”
You smiled and began arranging them around the park.
The roles had returned to normal.
Later, Luke climbed into your bed before either of you invited him. When Joe reminded him that he had his own room, Luke looked toward you.
“Mommy was gone seven sleeps.”
“Just tonight,” you decided.
Joe knew the decision had already been made. He climbed into bed on Luke’s other side, resting one hand against his back while you smoothed the hair from his forehead.
“Mommy?” Luke murmured as his eyes began closing.
“Mm?”
“Daddy missed you all day.”
You looked across at Joe. “Did he?”
Luke nodded. “He thought it.”
You smiled. “I missed him all day too.”
A few minutes later, Luke was asleep between you, one hand curled into your sleeve and his body turned toward Joe.
You reached across him until your fingers found Joe’s beneath the blanket.
“He said he doesn’t like when only one of us is here,” Joe whispered.
“Neither do I.”
“Me either.”
Luke shifted closer to him. Joe automatically pulled the blanket higher around his shoulder.
You watched the movement, smiling softly. “He’s exactly like you.”
Joe looked down at him. “He spent the whole week saying you’re better at everything.”
“He’s stubborn.”
“So are you.”
“He complains.”
You raised your eyebrows.
Joe considered that and let the argument disappear before it began.
The bedroom was warm, Luke slept while touching both of you, and downstairs the lilies were beginning to open beside the finished Lego neighborhood.
Joe brought your joined hands toward him and kissed your fingers.
“Next time, we visit halfway through.”
You smiled.
“Next time, we go together.”
Joe nodded, his thumb moving slowly across your knuckles.
“That too.”
thank you for reading!! 🫶 i know this request was pretty simple, but i thought it was really sweet. i hope i did it justice. as always, thank you for all the support, reblogs, comments and requests. they genuinely make my day. see you in the next one!! 🤍
grayson having a pretty rough day with his mom in his toddler stage while joe is in the studio recording. he’s having tantrums and meltdowns and just not being himself and reader gets super overwhelmed and can’t take it after a while and calls joe and you can take it from there with any ideas!
i was thinking maybe joe comes home and sits grayson down before helping to calm you down and he’s like “you’re not gonna talk to your mom like that and disrespect her because she’s my wife” if that makes sense?
Growing up
pairing: husband!joe x baby!grayson x fem!reader
warnings: fluff, grayson throwing a tantrum, joe saves the day, soft!joe, overwhelmed reader, guilty!grayson kinda??, i think that may be it lmk what i missed!
word count: 1.67k
a/n: thank you for all the grayson asks i wasnt expecting that many!! this was so fun to write, and it made me realize how bad i need Joe :c anywho i hope you guys enjoy!!
Today had been a disaster.
It all started when you woke up. Your head was aching, your body was sore, you felt extremely nauseous- And if that wasn't bad enough, Grayson was having one of those days, and Joe was out at the studio all day.
As you lay on the sofa trying to catch a break from the chaos circulating in your home, Grayson's wails grew louder and more persistent, along with the unruly ache behind your eyes. You'd do anything to get him to take a nap.
Grayson was sat on the floor, sobs causing his cheeks and under eyes to turn a deep shade of rose. His fists were clenched, and his little chest was heaving.
"Grayson, baby please-" You whispered, pressing your palms into your eyes.
"Please- Please stop crying.." Your voice was shaky, and very overstimulated.
You had never expected motherhood to weigh down on your shoulders as much as it did. You couldn't blame Joe for being at the studio either since that was his job, and as much as he wanted to stay back with you- It just wasn't an option.
With a desperate sigh, you tossed the blanket off of your lower half, and dropped down to the carpet where Grayson was. It took you a moment to try anything, pressing the balls of your palm into your eyes seemed to dull the ache and encourage you to make a move.
"Come here- Please, for mommy." You held your hands out for Grayson, trying to beckon him towards you.
As expected, he completely ignored your offering and turned to his crying fit again. But this time, his hand raised and came down on your inner arm.
The action took you aback. Grayson had never once accidentally or intentionally tried to swat, or hit you. It shouldn't have surprised you as much as it did, but it made your heart ache, and your own tears start to flow.
"God-" You whispered, drooping your face into your hands. You were clueless. How were you supposed to fix this? He couldn't even acknowledge you.
With a heavy sob, and tears following down your cheeks, you stood up and grabbed your phone. Even though you didn't want to pull him out of work just because you couldn't handle your child, its almost like your body refused to do anything else.
Your phone rang a couple times, before the line crackled on, and Joe's voice cut through.
"Hey babe, need something?" He spoke. The happy tone in his voice just made you cry even harder. What you'd give to have a laugh instead of bawl your eyes out.
"Joe, I need you home- I can't handle him." Your sobs made him freeze, The amount of guilt he felt flooding through his body was like a wave crashing into shore.
"Yeah- yeah I'm on my way love." He swallowed, brows furrowing in both concern, and confusion.
"I can't- I can't even take care of my own baby!"
"Don't say that. M'on my way now, your okay." He spoke to you softly. His voice was sweet like a lullaby.
"Okay-" You hiccuped.
"I'll see you in a minute, I love you honey." He murmured.
"Love you."
The call ended quickly. He regretted leaving you, he regretted thinking you'd be okay taking care of a toddler while under the weather, he regretted today entirely.
Joe shoved his phone into his pocket, and swallowed. He took off his headphones, and stored his guitar pick. Wes, and Javi shared a look.
"Hey man, we just started-" Javi spoke
"I know, I'm sorry. Stuff's goin' on." He huffed, grabbing his backpack.
Javi winced at his response. The crew knew not to drabble in on his family life like that. Especially with Joe being so new to fatherhood.
"Shit. All good dude, tommorow then?"
"Yeah, maybe. Gotta go." Joe moved quickly towards the door.
Joe tried his best to not speed down these roads. He just wanted to get home to you and apologize, and help you manage Grayson. He felt like an absolute dick.
The moment he got home, Grayson turned towards Joe. This is what this was? Grayson wanting Joe instead of you? What a great way to make you feel loved.
"Hey, buddy." He whispered, sliding off his shoes by the door, along with his jacket, before kneeling down to take Grayson into his arms.
He glanced over at you, stressed, crying, tired. He'd never seen you this broken, and he wishes he never did. He always hated seeing you upset.
With grayson on his hip, he moved over to you, kneeling so that he was eye level with you. His free hand reached out to stroke your cheek, brushing away the strands of hair stuck to your cheeks.
"Hey.." He mumbled, nudging his nose to yours.
"I- I don't know what to do. He hates me-" You sobbed into your hands.
"No. No he doesn't baby.. I promise you he doesn't." He spoke softly.
"He hit me, Joe.." You could see the concern flush into his eyes.
"I... I'm gonna go talk to him, ill get him down for a nap, then we can talk. Sound good?" His voice was so bittersweet and fond. You could tell he really cared.
"Yeah." Your not was weak, shaky hands moving from your eyes to wipe the sticky tears off your face.
Joe stood back up and sighed. He could barely hold it together. With Grayson now quieting down, he trudged off to the kitchen. He was not happy, but he wasn't fuming. Grayson was a toddler, barely 4. Hitting was just something he needed to know was unacceptable.
Joe crouched down, plopping Grayson onto the floor Infront of him. He took his little hands into his larger ones, and looked him in the eyes.
"Hey. Listen to me buddy." Joe's voice was soft.
Grayson looked at his dad with guilt, and tears in his eyes. Did it make Joe sad? Obviously, he was such a softie for Grayson.
"I know.. Your not having a good day, and that's okay- Happens to me too dude. But.. But hitting mama is a no no. Kay'? " His voice was grounding, slightly stern to make sure his words stuck.
"You hurt mommy's feelings earlier. You hurt my feelings. We do not hit. I'm not mad at you, we all make mistakes- But i want you to go say sorry to mommy. Okay?" He searched Grayson's eyes.
His eyes were full of tears, his chin was wobbling, his lower lip was jutted out. He tried to stay strong, but he just couldn't stand his baby crying.
"Hey.. its okay buddy." Joe took him into his arms, hugging him tight.
"I sowwy-" He sobbed into Joe's shoulder.
"I forgive you, but you have to go say it to mama. You hit her, not me." He gave his sons back a firm pat.
Grayson nodded, little pitiful sniffles and whimpers leaving.
"Cmon." Joe stood back up, resting a hand on his shoulder to guide him back to you.
You were sat on the sofa, trying to control your breathing, and steady you racing heart. The small footsteps approaching you made you jump.
"hi baby." You sighed, heart still aching.
His chin started to wobble again, and his eyes turned glossy and wide.
"I sowwy mommy." He whined, soft sobs leaving his lips.
With a heavy heart, you reached down and pulled him into your lap, hugging him with a firm grip.
"Its okayy.. Hey, mommy isn't mad bubby.." You speak to him.
He nodded into your shoulder, trying to muffle his cries into your neck. No matter how hard you tried, you could never stay mad at Grayson.
Joe stepped in, sliding his arms around Grayson and bringing him back to his chest. He looked down at him, and for a split second he could've swore he saw his newborn again.
"I'll go put him down." Joe swallowed.
A few minutes had passed and Joe joined you once more downstairs. The second he got to the couch, his arms wrapped around you, and he dropped into the cushions, spooning you. His nose was nuzzled against your jaw, and his breath was warm against your neck.
"I shouldn't have left this morning. I'm so sorry." He sighed.
Your eyes automatically shut when his warmth seeped into your body. Your fingers laced with his, and your legs tangled together.
"Not your fault. I need to learn how to take care of my child. I can't even do that. I shouldn't even be a mo-" He cut you off.
"No. Do not say that. You are an awesome mother, parenting is hard, managing is hard- It's not your fault at all. I mean, I'd cry too.. I knew something was wrong when I left. I'm always gonna beat myself up over that."
You suddenly rolled over to be chest to chest with him. Your leg swung over his, and your arms circled his body.
"I just feel like.. He likes you more. I mean the second you got home he practically lunged for the door." You whispered.
"No, your his mother. If anything he loves you the most. I mean your the milk lady. I would love my milk lady more too.." He snickered at his joke.
You giggled at that. What a dork.
"Not now, Joe." You giggled.
"Sorry."
"Mhm."
One of his hands slid down to rest on your lower back, tracing circles against your soft skin.
"But for real- You are a great mom. I don't know what I'd do without you, or Grayson- Half of me would be missing. And I'm sure that's how it is for him too. Don't put yourself down over a tantrum or two, he's a baby, he'll grow out of it." He spoke softly.
Listening to his voice, and feeling the rumble of his chest against your body made your eyes flutter shut. What's not to love about falling asleep against your beautiful, comforting husband?
prompts: [04.] pulling them away from a party after hours of relentless teasing.
[34.] their composure cracking for the first time, they finally stop holding back.
hope you enjoy this one, babe! | cw: jealousy, public make out? 0.6k words
jack was sure you were out to get him and robby.
it is another gala night, another night neither the three of you truly enjoyed participating on, hating the fact that you have to kiss rich capitalists asses to get a sliver of humanity from them.
neither men have been in your presence for more than five minutes all night, surviving only on stolen glances and sneaked touches on the small of your backs.
right now robby and jack stare at you from the bar, and what a fucking sight you are; midi black dress that hugs you in all the right places, showing just enough of your décolleté to grab attention and still be tasteful, heels that elongates your enticing legs and make up that only accentuates your features (robby would like to give a special shout out the the red lipstick that he has been wanting to smudge all night).
the night has slowed down, the crowd has dwindled, but for some reason, antoine fournier, this french aristocrat that loves to play the philanthropist, has you all for himself in a corner too far away from them.
antoine laughs too obnoxiously, leans too closely, tries to get his knobby slender fingers on your elbows, but you are a pro at this. smile way too sweetly, in a way that only robby and jack know it is fake, but the untrained eyes find it to be kind and lovable. you squeeze his forearm, go in for a hug and–
“i’m going there.” robby finally breaks.
“i’m going with you.” and jack follows.
they arrive with antoine saying something about how beautiful the french riviera is during the summer, and how he would love to host you in his beach house there any time.
robby’s voice break whatever you have going on when he calls you by your honorific and your last name – which he really wanted to be his, but you refused to change after the marriage, and he understood why – and introduced himself and jack to antoine again for the hundredth time (just like he did every gala).
“dr. robinavitch, dr. abbot, mr. fournier just donated twenty million dollars to the pediatric oncology wing’s expansion, can you believe that?” you tell them, voice laced with excitement and the tiniest bit of sarcasm, which, once again, only robby and jack notices.
“that’s great, honey! we thank you, in the name of the pittsburgh trauma medical center, for your generosity, antoine.” robby says with his PR trained voice and jack’s hand in your waist tightens when he stifles a laugh. you nudge him in the ribs.
“now, if you excuse us, antoine, gloria is looking for this one.” jack tells him as he starts to pull you away before you can properly tell antoine goodbye.
the men guide you towards the elevator, pressing the button to the 20th floor – where your rooms are located – with too much force. the door barely closes when both of them round you against the metal wall like herd dogs, each taking place against one side of your neck.
“what has gotten into you?” you taunt.
“you’ve been teasing us all night.” jack starts and squeezes your ass roughly.
robby is not far from the same predicament jack is, except robby found himself squeezing your breasts. “fucking antoine?”
you laugh at him. “he’s good donor.”
jack bites the junction your neck and shoulder hard, and you can hear robby say “he wants to fuck you” between your moans.
“only you can fuck me.” you whimper.
“good girl.”
domesticblisss 2026 comments and reblogs are appreciated. dividers by andromeda-graphics
