in carcosa

I'm Sydney - 21

[intermittentacademic]

Shark Eyes

Part Two

Fem!reader x exfwb! Brendon Park, Fem!reader x future! Jack Abbot

A/n: Mama decided to dip her toes into smau. This is my tumblr debut hi 😏. Ik is crazy self indulgent that’s my bad. I’m gonna be real idk if this is gonna be more abbot x reader or park x reader yet because im greedy and want them both. I might even indulge in Robby later if anyone even reads this who knows 😛

Summary: reader is an R2 and lives w Dennis and trin, she had a fwb situation w park the shark until he ghosted and now she’s bitter. Anywayssss im trying to find a nickname that isn’t fucking sunshine and it’s HARD🫩🫩🫩

[sweetestcowboy]

NOTHING IS A GIVEN!

୨ৎ pairing .ᐟ.ᐟ  brendon park x resident!reader

୨ৎ summary .ᐟ.ᐟ you were suddenly put back on the day shift--temporarily. things with park had simmered, but there was an awkwardness whenever the two of you clashed. you weren't easily convinced park the shark could be taught new tricks. while assigned to mentor the new MS4, you come to realize what you didnt miss of the shark's troubled waters.

୨ৎ tags/warnings .ᐟ.ᐟ female reader, no use of y/n, no physical description, park still being a bit of a jerk, trauma cases, medical inaccuracies, verbal intimidation, public criticism, slowburn!!, professional tension, emotional repression, gruff x sunshine, lowkey mutual pining, unreliable narrator (emotionally), forced proximity

୨ৎ authors note .ᐟ.ᐟ. omg part three y'all!!! i didn't expect to come this far when i posted the first part, but i am constantly inspired to do more. keeping up with the hayley william inspired titles because i love that woman.

୨ৎ word count .ᐟ.ᐟ 18.9 k

prev: can't get much stronger!

How you were stuck pulling the day shift for Sully didn’t make sense. They could’ve assigned Reddy, the co-chief to take over leaving Dr. Revere as the only fourth year as nights. Emmick’s explanation was that it wasn’t her choice. You’ve worked days before. Park thinks you’re the only one who can adjust, she shrugged. 

You had gone on a tangent when you video called Sully.

He was off in Chicago arranging for his permanent move in three months. An official tour of the hospital he’d be working at, viewing apartments he had seen only in photos, and spending time with his long distance girlfriend since med school.

He was currently enjoying his life while you were trying to readjust your body to the day shift. 

You spent enough time being nocturnal you forgot how prickly the sun was against your skin. When you walked out of your apartment and to your car, you resembled that of a vampire seeing the sun after a hundred years of darkness. Your eyes were bloodshot red from the restless sleep and the intrusion of UV rays to your retina. 

After hand off, you were assigned to work with a new fourth year med student previously working with Sully. She was a mousy girl with two braids and a pink stethoscope. She barely spoke when you introduced yourself to her, but you brushed it off as nerves. That made the most sense when you realized she kept eyeing you like a kid with a stranger. 

It wasn’t until you bought her an ice coffee from the café downstairs that she eased up.

“How did you get pulled into the day shift?” Maura questioned, walking alongside you through the emergency department. She was lighter than before. You assumed the caffeine must have energized her spirits.

You scoffed, hands swaying beside you as you walked. “I have the misfortune of being friends with the chief resident, which I guess means I’m his assigned coverage.”

“Sully?” She questioned, fiddling with the digital chart in her hand.

You nodded your head with a small grin. “Yup. He gets the luxury of jumping ship while I’m stuck covering his shifts.”

“Is day shift that bad?” She asked. You both stopped before reaching North 3. “I mean, I know about Dr. Park, but apart from that?”

Pumping hand sanitizer on your hands, Maura followed your lead, both rubbing your hands. You shrugged, “He’s a good surgeon with not so great social skills. Apart from that, I’m just too used to the darkness.”

Maura laughed lightly, before shaking her hands to dry off the rest of the hand sanitizer. She grabbed the tablet she tucked in her arms, staring down at the chart. “Charlie Braun, 26. Fell while rollerblading at a local park.”

You hummed, paced beside her before stopping at the open curtain of North 3. Smiling at the brunette man sitting up on the bed, lightly flinching as he adjusted his position, Maura continued. “Closed fracture. Neurovascularly intact. Ready for reduction.”

“Does that mean you can fix this?” Charlie tried to joke, chuckling dryly as he attempted to put a smile.

With your hands behind your back, you approached the left side of the bed where Maura had positioned herself. Grinning at Charlie brought a sigh from him. “That’s the expectation, Mr. Braun.”

“Please call me Charlie. Mr. Braun is my father.” He threw his head back, taking in steady breaths.

“Nice to meet you, Charlie.” You concluded while straightening your back after hovering over his arm. Turning to Maura, she straightened her posture. “Walk me through your neurovascular exam.”

She hesitates for a moment. The smile on your face, encouraging and thoughtful of her confidence which didn’t demean her. Charlie noted the quietness, curiously deciphering the looks the two of you were sharing. Maura’s hands clammed against the device, and you closed in to relax her from the pressure.

You read the notation. You knew exactly what she had checked and she did a good job at translating her notes, but there was one thing. You were mostly glad you caught it before anyone else did, especially from Park. Before she could open her mouth and verbalize the thought, you shook your head. “Let’s go over it again.” 

You gently pulled the tablet from her hand, motioning your head to Charlie. With a steady breath, she pulled out a pair of gloves from the wall before approaching Charlie’s arm. Her hands moved gently around his hand and wrist, announcing every response to stimuli. This time she went over the median nerve distribution. Lifting her eyes up at you, she noted the nod you gave her, acknowledging the error efficiently. 

When she concluded with the textile and questions for Charlie, she yanked off the gloves, relieved. Offering her the tablet again, you faced Charlie. “We will proceed with the reduction, Charlie. We will move you to pre-op soon to fix that up nicely.”

The toothy smile he gave you somehow made the room brighter, like his anxiety about the whole thing was dissipating with the constant reassurance. He shook his head eagerly, glancing at you then Maura. “Thank you both.”

“No problem. We will see you soon.” You excused the both of you, walking away from the patient room to the nearest sanitized dispenser. You noted the weary glance Maura made towards you as she followed at your heels. You brought her farther away from the patient room before turning to her.

With your eyes set on her, she tightened her shoulders, the small bangs on her face bouncing. “I’m sorry for not checking the median nerve. It was a stupid mistake.”

Folding your hands behind your back, you waited for a beat before speaking. “Do you know why we check the median nerve?”

When Maura paused, you noticed the shift in her eyes. She was still embarrassed she needed correcting. Sully taught her for a couple of weeks now, and the self-disappointment was evident in her small frown. “Because swelling can compress.”

“And if we miss it?” 

“Permanent dysfunction.” She sighed out, the truth of the matter evident. 

“Exactly.” You confirmed, not tensely but appreciative she understood the consequences. One step closer to performing to the best of her abilities. The silence made her look at you funnily, expecting some other fault for you to throw at her, as if it was too good to be true. “I read the notes from the first exam, apart from that, everything looked good.”

Maura smiled shakily. The resemblance between her and you from the beginning of your intern year was uncanny. Working alongside Park provided pertinent insight on how the rest of your residency would go. The good thing was you weren’t molded exactly to Park’s image. You didn’t scowl at every mistake and you didn’t bully Maura into correcting it. Your trust in her built her trust in herself.

Mouth slightly agape, you heard the call of your name from off to the side. Simultaneously looking for the source of the voice, at the nearest nursing station you saw Park nodding his head over at you. He was at a distance that would let anyone with acute hearing pick up what you two were discussing. Knowing your luck, you shouldn’t be surprised to see Park.

“Go ahead and chart the new observations, then I’ll go over surgical planning with you.” You told her warmly, letting her escape while she could.

One anxious look at Park, the clench of his jaw as he acknowledged her feeble presence, had her practically scurrying to the elevators by the trauma rooms. You made sure she was out of ear shot before coming up beside Park. “What brings you down here, Dr. Park?”

“Trauma paged,” He responded curtly. Looking past you, he eyed the small girl you focused on opening her up professionally. If looks could kill, Park would have you all hanging in a meat locker. “How’s the med student?”

Taking the chance to look behind you, Maura was already stepping into the elevator, chatting it up with an OBGYN resident sporting pink scrubs. “Maura is picking up quickly. I don’t know if she wants to do orthopedics, but she’s doing as good as some of the R2’s.”

“She made a mistake.” Park announced the obvious. When you turned back to look at him, you tightened your lips. Exactly what you were waiting for. 

Park hadn’t changed much since you transitioned to the night shift. He was still observing, watching where you’d linger, questioning you post-operations. Apart from the small consideration he had for you after the pile up on the interstate, there wasn’t anything remotely different.

He still guarded and protected his placement and responsibilities. You didn’t expect him to be mushy, but you weren’t eager to be working the day shift either. 

With an upside smile, you agreed blandly. “She’s learned from it.”

“She has a delayed reaction and she can’t remember basic neurovascular exam requirements.” Park opposed, as if looking for you to admit the flaw.

It was easy to say she messed up, to do the work, and tell her she needed to fix it. It took more work having her recognize the lapse, redo it for her sake, and remind herself why it is important. It was efficient for her education and the lives of the patient she would work with.

“Maura is new. She is a med student here to learn.” You restated. Park knew that, but it didn’t interest him. They were excuses to him. Cover-ups that put patient lives at risk.

You knew better than to feed into his wants. This wasn’t a debate more so than a jab to get a reaction from you. He probably was aware of your dissatisfaction for having to work the day shift for the next two weeks. You didn’t exactly come in bubbling with excitement, especially if it meant it granted Park the Shark ample opportunities to grovel his teeth into you.

With a tight smile, you looked up at him. “Anything else you have to say about the med student I’m responsible for?”

He eyed you curiously. It felt like being back in his office again. He was too busy thinking in his head to warrant you a verbal response. The tick in his crossed arms had you wondering what exactly he thought of you now. The slightly presumptuous demonstration of loyalty to a med student you just met probably didn’t rub him the right way. 

“Welcome back to day shift.” He said blandly, before passing around you.

“So, have you heard anything about Sully?” Emmick’s voice rang as she came up behind you.  

Handoff with the night shift had just begun. You had made past the first shift of 10 you’d have to work with Park. So far it was looking to be manageable. You were not optimistic that you two would be close friends by the end of your small stint. If the last conversation you two had was an indication of how your next two weeks would go, you believed you two still had some air to clear up in order to work together.

You smiled as Emmick offered you a paper cup, the aroma of coffee hitting your nose. With your free hand, you cautiously grabbed the cup from her. “He’s enjoying himself. Maybe too much, considering he still has to come back and finish off three more months of his residency.”

“The boy is excited. It’s his first, adult job.” Emmick joked, briefly sipping her coffee. 

Continuing to follow the small group of residents making their way to post-op, Emmick slowed down, curving to stand against the wall of the hallway. You hesitated, flashing her furrowed brows. She eased you with a smile, motioning you closer. “I may have heard you had some thoughts about your life after residency as well.”

With a tight lip smiled, you scrunched your face. It was one time. You had offhandedly mentioned to Sully about moving to Chicago. He had caught you one morning on his day off surfing through fellowships in the Chicago area. You had considered specializing in adult reconstruction (after the plentiful trauma surgeries you had worked on). It was a lucid thought after having worked 12 hours and running off the little after taste of an energy drink. 

You weren’t serious, but you were willing to plan a backup option if your fourth year plummeted.

“Did Sully tell you something?” You questioned, tucking the tablet in-between your rib and your arm. You stepped aside as other surgical staff passed down the hall.

She shrugged, diplomatic yet curious. “Nothing worth repeating, but I believe in proactive action.”

“I think you should strongly consider where you want to go.” She advised–earnest in her investment. 

When Park talked about life after residency, it was a lecture on proving his teachings were not absent. He was looking for his resident’s work to prove he had done his job properly. With Emmick, it was a mentor trying to help them land on the final steps of their training. She wasn’t holding your hand, but merely standing by your side to choose between all the beaten and narrow paths.

“There are many good fellowships down in Chicago. Many of which you would excel at.” She teased, the crinkle in the corner of her eyes matching her smile lines. “I spent my residency and fellowship there. I also met my wife. It brings me fond memories.”

You chuckled nervously, grasping the cup tighter. “Did Sully put you up to this?”

She had an indescribable look on her face. Skeptical by your question while entertained with pushing your buttons. Not frustratingly like Park would, but to stimulate you to use your brain like in surgery. While straightening her shoulder, she eyed you carefully.  “No, but I know he’s trying to persuade you.”

“He’s just—“

“Looking out for you?”

Emmick interrupted gently, enamored with your flustered sense of speech. She had seen residents circulate as much as air. She always had an embarrassing story of a resident. You always wondered what she might say about you, especially if you left.

You sagged, defeated and aware it was just the two of you in the hallway. She offered an apologetic smile, “I’m sure he means well, but you have a lot of potential to use wherever you go. Whether that’s here or elsewhere.”

The scoff that left you had her curling her lips higher. “Here? With Dr. Park? And you? I couldn’t possibly measure up to those standards.”

“Anything can happen.” She suggested, obviously more open minded then you were. When did you become so pessimistic? “I may not always be here. Brendon will probably rather die than transfer out. I always told him he was too comfortable.”

You laughed. The royal throne the Admin at PTMC created for him was so high; he didn’t let anything intimidate his position. It was laughable. The idea you could rumble the floor he stood on. The third-year resident Park abhorrently corrected, openly for humiliation. You would prefer a public execution to rid you of your misery instead.

“But, that can change too. Don't underestimate the power of your charm.” She winked at you, which made the color rise on your cheek.

Before you can oppose or deflect into something that didn't include talking about Park and you, Emmick straightened her stance, looking past you with brightened eyes. “Park, how was the day shift?”

You immediately spun around, hoping to not see exactly whom you two were talking about. It took everything in you to flash him a polite smile as you begged to whatever high authority could hear you that Park’s ears did not pick up anything about him. 

His hands swayed, muscles probed by the tight sleeves of his scrub top. He looked at Emmick with the scrunched lips and tight jaw. “Enlightening.”

The monotone response didn’t sound enlightening. You peeked at the watch on the inside of your wrist. The two of you hadn’t been gone for long, but for Park, any delay is unnecessary. He then moved his sights on you, tablet tucked away with the coffee in your hand. He eyed you down, like some high school kids caught without their hall pass, before turning back to Emmick. “Do you make it a habit to distract the residents?”

Emmick grinned, shaking her head. “You don't scare me, Brendon.”

Her hand landed on your shoulder, flashing you her dashing smile. Distracted, she pulled the tablet from your arm. “I was just catching up with my star pupil that you’ve so selfishly pulled from the night shift”

You look at her suspiciously. Selfish? Park the Shark was cruel and brusque, but never did that amount to selfishness. If anything, the one redeeming quality you could agree on was his selflessness. He did everything on behalf of patient care, even if his methods were unorthodox. 

“You still have R&R. I could’ve switched any of them for Sullivan, Marla.” He quipped back, not too intrigued with playing a game. His eyes still hooded and although misery was his best company, he seemed comfortable making the jokes with Emmick.

“Except you didn’t.”

You had bowed your head at that point, wondering how inappropriate it would be just to slip away without so much as an excuse. It wasn’t the type of limelight you wanted over you. With every passing second, you awaited Park’s sharp jaws. Considering you weren't anywhere near the other residents (where you should be), your blood pressure spiked with anticipation for the subject to pop up.

“No hard feelings, Park. She’s pretty special, isn’t she?” Emmick mumbled as she brushed past his shoulder.

When you lifted your head, your gazes met and she had on the same playful smile she was using with Park. She didn’t elaborate more as she departed towards post-op, leaving you and Park standing alone with each other. With an awkward laugh, your hands relied on the coffee cup to hide the sudden discomfort of the desolate hallway,

His head craned to watch Emmick disappear, and when she was far away, he set his sights on you. Emmick complimented every one of the residents, shamelessly. What she hadn’t done was practically shove you down Park’s throat. There was little reaction to the rhetorical question, except the crossing of his arms.

Suddenly embarrassed, your brain fumbled to form a coherent thought. “We were just talking about my life after residency. Inappropriate timing—“

“What is Emmick trying to convince you to do now?” He questioned, his forehead pinching ever so slightly.

“Nothing.” You responded, quizzical of the question. Now? A gnawing sensation picked in your stomach at the idea of Park and Emmick speaking privately about anything regarding you.

Knowing Emmick, she was hopelessly trying to convince Park to oppose the antagonistic view he had on his residents. Referring to them as humans still learning instead of cogs in the machine. You didn’t think that meant defending your character behind those closed doors. Shaking your head, you sighed. “She was checking in with me about my plans after residency. It was bad timing, but she is my attending.”

“While you’re on the night shift,” Park recalled curtly, tucking his head barely to stare at through his long eyelashes, wispy while also emphasizing his dark blue pupils. “Right now, you should be handing off to the night shift so you can go home like the rest of your co-residents.”

Nodding once, you began making your way around him. There was no reason to erupt in some disagreement over an argument that he was right about. You kept your head down while you walked down the hall and you noticed the sounds of footsteps following behind you. Trying to ease your body with the coffee, you took a hasty sip. 

“I know Emmick managed to convince you to move to the night shift, but you should make your own decisions over what you do after your residency.”

You stopped in your steps, spinning around with raised eyebrows at your attending. That wasn’t what you told him when you gave him your monologue. You hadn’t even mentioned what Emmick had told you because it had little to do with the actual reason. Meanwhile, the actual reason was standing right in front of you.

The idea was to be civilized with Park, to move onto the night shift as smoothly as possible. So far, it was working. He continued to linger in ways you didn’t expect. He’d ask a question or remind you of your responsibilities. What you didn’t expect was for it to feel different. 

He had stood up to you from Dr. Norton. He had gently (compared to his previous nature) been considerate after 30 hours on the clock. None of that was residue of the attending who had belittled you in the hallways. Echoes of his name and his methods of teaching you as his resident were fading.

None of that meant that you had turned over a new leaf. There was still time to convince you otherwise. Instead of letting the slight bitterness of his tongue sour your mood, you offered him a tight lip smile. Regretfully, you were still hopeful you were wrong about the type of attending Dr. Brendon Park was. “That’s the plan, Dr. Park.”

He folded his arm, his chin elevated. There was no need for the power play. You made it clear there was no competition between you and him–not that you felt you had an inkling of the talent he had. You were confident in your work as yourself, but not nearly enough in the work he considered perfection.  

“That means not letting Sullivan convince you to do what he wants either.” He sharply followed.

You were sure he had seen the small retraction. Now, you were definitely confused. To you, it was clear Park didn’t have excessive personal concern over his resident. He didn’t ask them courteous questions about their days off or their aspirations or goals. It mattered little to him. As long as it didn’t make him look bad, it seemed to be the most concern he had. 

“What makes you think I’m going to Chicago?” You incredulously asked, your eyebrows curved downward. He didn't need to elaborate to make his point. With Sully gone for the exact implication Park was making, it left little to question.

It was a major ‘eye roll’ situation. You didn’t want to repeat yourself. The only reason you had put your career on the line, shaming Park as if you had nothing to lose, was for the opportunity of staying. If you had enough respect to your name and your work, Admin could potentially stand against Park the Shark’s opposition.

Sucking in a sharp breath, your hand brushed away the stray hairs tickling your face. “Dr. Park, I’ve made it clear my intentions are to stay at PTMC.”

“But, if that stops becoming an option, I will make sure to weigh my options out wisely.” You were satiating whatever prompted the conversation. Whether it was the grudge he still held or the fact you were talking with Emmick while working under his shift, it was making you nervous. 

He hummed deeply, and you were sure it was the end. Not that you wanted the last word, but you just wanted to go home to recharge enough to endure him the next shift. After this conversation, there was no doubt the alter of your sleep schedule was messing with your brain. Dr. Park was starting to appear more as a mentor than a dictator.

“It shouldn’t unless you don’t want it to be.”

You felt your lower jaw loosen in shock. Was it an endorsement? Whatever happened with Norton seemed like a slip-up. Just an excuse to not delay patient care, which was fine as long as your head wasn’t on a stick by the end of. The patient had survived, which was a win for all parties.

This surpassed that, and it created a whirlpool in your mind. Maybe you were reading too much into it. Brendon Park was complicated and you had decided long ago it wasn’t worth racking your brain over.

Before you could stop it, Park plucked the cup from your hand. You attempted to reach back for it, which only made him pull it farther from your grasp. With a straight face, he started walking away, your still warm coffee cup in your hand. “No drinking in patient care areas.”

You had tried to convince Maura to go home. It was your job to answer the consultations, no matter how late duty called. Therefore, when Annette found the two of you wandering past the nurse’s station, passing along the message from the ED, it left you answering the call. That is when you told Maura to pack up. She wasn’t being paid to put in the overtime.

She insisted, though. Arguing it was beneficial for her education to adapt to the demands of the job. You weren’t convinced she wanted to do orthopedic surgery yet. The drive would help her in a trauma unit like the ED or General Surgery.

When the door swung open of Trauma 1, you saw the small fleet of ED staff including Dr. Shen, Langdon, and King. Among the sea of gray and black scrubs, you caught the plum scrubs from across. With her hair tied back, it was easy to make out the huff and grin she sported, as if she was surprised to see you. “Where have you been?”

While pulling out a pair of gloves, you chuckled. “Dr. Walsh, haven’t you heard? They’ve put me on the dreaded day shift for the next couple of weeks.”

Walsh rolled her eyes playfully, arms folded. “Of course, Park did. Just a cloud of misery.”

“If it’s any consolation, we love having you around, shark pup.” Langdon huffed out, working beside Dr. King, who smiled and nodded enthusiastically.

Your eyes began to put together the scene. A conscious male patient on the gurney, hooked to monitors and medications. What you had neglected was still standing towards the corner, watching like a deer in the headlight. Walsh, with her dog-like scent, cocked her head to the side, staring straight behind you. “Who’s Bambi over there?”

When you glanced over your shoulder, you caught the wide eye stare she gave Walsh. You just realized she did look like a doe. Pointing a finger internally, she swallowed thickly. “Me?”

“Play nice, Walsh.” You playfully jabbed, which earned you a playful surrender of her arms. With a polite smile, you acknowledged everyone before turning back to the med student. “Maura, MS-4.”

“Meet Dr. Walsh, night shift surgical attending.” Your hand pointed in her direction, like serving her on a silver platter. Walsh liked to joke she was royalty if Park was to be the residential predator. With a military background, she was one-step away from earning a crown. 

Maura waved a shaky hand–somehow, more intimidated humanizing Emery Walsh and her devilish smirk. “Nice to meet you.”

“I wish it were under better circumstances.” Walsh jerked her head to the patient. Maura finally took the invitation to take the leap of fate, while you were already at the bedside, leaning over the patient.

“What is your name sir?” You asked softly, yet loud enough over the monitors, chatter, and sounding of machines. 

His breath was trembling and his line of sight glued to the ceiling. Despite the fact you tried to slip yourself into his purview, his state of shock was overcoming him. The C-collar keeping his face upward didn’t make it any easier to assimilate to his surroundings.

“Nate.” He shakily let out,

“Hello Nate.” You responded, a smile gracing your lips, even if he couldn't see it. Indicating to Maura to your right, you clasped your hands. “We are from orthopedic surgery and we are going to take care of you, alright?”

He hesitantly tried to nod his head, the morphine masking most of the pain he probably felt in his neck and collar. You turned to Maura, capturing her attention, pushing her to focus. “Maura, go ahead with the neurovascular exam.”

Maura stared at you, uncertain and something relative to scared. With a firm nod, she finally listened. You pulled away, wandering over to peek at the imaging. You saw her hands go over to the open tibial shaft fracture. Stalling at first, then she touched the deformed leg. Walsh was watching the examination, asking the patient to move his foot and toes. She’d notice the small grimaces on her face. “You aren’t squeamish are you, Maura?”

“Emery.” Came the warning sign from you, supervising the examination. Maura eyes were fleeting between the two of you, mostly nervous Walsh was sniffing out a flaw she hadn’t nipped away. Your eyes remained on her as you came closer to the bedside.

“Yikes, first name.” Walsh joked, shaking her head humorously. There was a sound behind you, like the door opening, which you paid no mind to. “Did you learn that from Park?”

“It works, doesn’t it?”

That sound did call for your attention. With your eyebrows shot up, you spun quickly, alarmed. Park was already snapping on his own gloves, examining the matching, caught-off-guard stares from you and Maura. Annette knew the consultation had been answered, meaning the party wasn’t necessary. You wondered whether he already knew of the consult before you came down—wanted to test your patience when you should’ve been long gone with the rest of day shift. 

His name was the only thing that could come out of your mouth at first. He approached the bedside to your right, closer to the patient's head than his legs, where most of your concerns lie. With his towering height, he didn't need to lean over to see the fracture. It was an odd sensation to feel his bicep brush against you, the room suddenly stuffy.

Tearing your eyes from looking up at him, you looked over at Maura, putting on an easy smile. “Maura was just about to tell me what she found from the neurovascular exam.”

If she wasn’t nervous walking in, she was shaking now. Up to this point, you had managed to hide her from the great white shark. It wasn’t pity so much as mercy. If she had any desire to apply for orthopedic residencies, she didn’t need the likes of Dr. Park ruining her hope. He considered dreams thoughtless actions. You had conferring ideologies. You hummed, “Thoughts?”

She cleared her throat, acutely aware everyone had their eyes on her somehow. Park and you were more expectant than the others. Retracting her hands, you could notice the flushed look on her face. “I think everything is intact.”

“You think?” Park asked rhetorically. 

Her body deflated in an instant. It was like a bad dream. All the embarrassing moments you recalled of yourself as an intern, trying not to make a fool of yourself while failing miserably. Accepted in a trauma-1 hospital in the orthopedic surgery program, you always feared to be out of your depth. You didn’t see yourself having the qualifications to match. Maura had some qualities you wished you had at her age instead of flipping around like a fish out of water.

Before Park could inquire punitively about her vague answer, you inched closer. “What do you feel uncertain about?”

Instead of looking at Park's formidable disapproval, she turned to you for some assurance. This would be unfit for a resident. Park always preached about hesitancy and lack of preparedness. Nothing was worse than showing up to a consultation like a deer in the headlights. While Maura was a medical student, she still had many opportunities to turn it around in her favor. She gnawed at her lower lip, “I don’t know. It didn’t feel right.”

“Do it again.” You instructed firmly. It wasn’t a demand, but it was a firm redirection from the clouds in her head. You knew the fog was hard to navigate. Her own mind was playing tricks on her. With the pressure to perform with Park in the room, you could sense it was in control of her rationale.

She agreed, placing her hands back on the patient’s leg. While she re-asked Noah to enact some movement, you were watching his face for stimuli.

“Present.” Park announced while Maura continued her exam. He circled around you and Maura, to the x-ray machine towards the double doors. He leaned over the machine, soaking in the images.

“Noah. Twenty-three year old male involved in a motorcycle collision with an open tibial fracture.” Maura began, still checking the tibial nerve. She continued reciting what she was able to pick up from the administered medication and vitals.

Your eyes caught the retraction of her hands, and she seemed more at ease with the second go. Park picked up the silence, eyeing the med student from behind. She sighed, stepping back to confirm with both you and Park. “Neurovascularly intact.”

Her sight stopped back at you, earning a subtle double-thumb up from you. She repressed the chuckle. Walsh continued presenting to Park about the other surgical concerns not regarding orthopedics; you noticed the continuous flexing of his toes. Glancing over at Noah, he still grimaced as if something was wrong but he hadn’t acknowledged it. 

Maura picked it up and she waited to follow your directive. Positioning yourself at the end of the bed, your hand went to test the nerves for yourself. “Noah, does this feel the same as the other foot?”

There was silence in the room, waiting for Noah to answer. A pause then a small groan. “No, actually.”

You nodded, and when you looked to your right, Park was already standing there. Leaning in, you kept your voice low. “I think his sensation has decreased.”

Park’s jaw ticked as he examined the leg from where he stood. You motioned for Maura to switch places with you. When she reserved the spot, her hand followed the same movement yours did to reevaluate the nerve. Carefully watching her eyebrows furrow and relax gave you a clue as to what she was feeling. “What nerve?”

“Deep peroneal.” She responded with no hesitation.

“What compartment?” You followed up. 

A pause. “Anterior.”

“What does that mean?” Your chest was beating rhythmically. Park might be concerned over the constant questions he considered prompting, but you gave no indication of the answers. She was coming up with them based on her knowledge. Under the shy exterior, her brain was picking up quickly what you and Sully had taught her in three weeks.

“We need to keep reassessing him. This could be compartment syndrome.” She concluded, releasing a heavy sight that came from making her way to the end of—what felt like—a riddle.

You tried to keep your smile professional, but you knew the crinkle in the corner of your eyes gave you away. “Good.”

Feeling as elated as Maura, your eyes wandered behind her to your attending. When you two locked eyes, he relaxed them from the narrowed, curious look he had when trying to make something out. Giving him a tight lip smile, you raised your eyebrows at him, inviting anything pertinent to the case.

“How did you get roped into the consultation?” Was the question that escaped his lips. So he didn’t know what he was walking into.

Pulling your gloves off and tossing them into the nearest bin, you shook your head. “Annette caught us by pre-op 2. Guess we were unlucky.”

The response was sufficient because he gave you one nod. He didn’t appear to want to elaborate on the matter. Maura stared confused about what to do next. She suddenly remembered she was over an hour into her scheduled rotation. From the look Park gave her and you, he noticed that fact as well. His head jerked upward, “Head up and let Annette know I’m down here, then go home.”

There was a sternness in his glare, but the longer the two of you stayed locked on one another, it lacked the bite he usually had. The one that didn’t require words or even the movement of his jaw. In the past three years, you had hyper-fixated on his subtle movement to read him. You knew every twitch and strain you did nerves in Noah’s tibia. It told you a story without the need of complicating words. 

Park always warned not to trust patients so easily. They’ll lie through their teeth even if you were the only person who could save him, he told you on your first pelvic reconstruction. You wondered whether that truth could be applied to him as much as the rest of you. While sanitizing your hands, you sighed. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”

“I sure hope not.” Park snorted, shaking his head. He was looking down at the patient’s leg, ignoring some of the questionable looks from the ED staff. Even Walsh was stunned in her place.

She pressed her lips together, unable to obscure the curve in the corner of her lips. She turned to Shen at the head of the gurney, the snapping of her gloves echoing. “I will book the OR.”

Walking behind Shen and towards where you and Maura stood by the door, she pointed a finger at Park. “It’s on you if he dies before then, Brendon.”

You caught the small twitch of his nose before slipping out the door. Walsh followed with her hands on her hip. Maura stayed close behind, yet far enough to not be noticed. You could recognize the technique anywhere, except it didn’t work nearly as smoothly as she had hope. Walsh was searching for her, facing her with arms crossed. “Impressive, Maura. I’m sure you didn’t learn all of that from Park.”

Walsh playfully glanced over at you while you pressed the up arrow for the elevator. Maura folded her arms in front of her, polite and back to her reserved nature. “I mean, he’s a good surgeon…”

The words ran out like printer ink. Endeared, Walsh chuckled; she softly hit your arm with the back of her hand. “I see you haven’t taught her everything.”

When the elevator doors slid open, the three of you settled in and Walsh pressed the floor button. The humming of the elevator buzzed as it came to life, sliding upwards. She stood beside you while Maura was in the opposite corner, fiddling with her badge. Walsh admired Maura. “You still have the wide, glossy eye, childish fear of Park the Shark.”

“It goes away with time.” You joked. When Maura looked at you through her lashes, you winked at her.

She was already learning her way around the hospital. Even if she went into another specialized surgery program, she’d take with her the processes she was learning with you. You could see she didn’t want to disappoint what you had seen in her when she’d stall or shrink within herself. It was hard to convince someone to not drown with the presence of Park in the room.

But you had done so; and even if it’s not Park, you were sure she’d need it to survive somewhere else. 

The elevator stopped and Maura was the first one to exit, leaving you and Walsh walking side-by-side. You could sense her lingering eyes and she leaned in, her arm pressed against yours. “That’s what I was talking about, by the way.”

Awkwardly chuckling, you furrowed your brows, staring at her blankly. “What do you mean?”

She scoffed, shaking her head in feign disappointment. “Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t going to spell it out for you?”

Your face fell at the echo of her voice, recalling that dawn in the break room. You had performed a surgery on your own, thanks to Dr. Emmick. She had trusted you. Park never reciprocated that sense of trust. That sensation reconstructed what being a surgeon meant, but now, you were worried you had overreacted. Maybe Park wasn’t some figure of evil coming out to get you. Was it wrong of you to try to stop it before it got worse?

“Park the Shark doesn’t just remind residents to go home.” Walsh clarified a knowing glimmer in her eye. When her spectralink rang, she gave you a farewell in the form of a nod before continuing further down the hall.

You hadn’t realized how much you slowed down until Maura was several feet ahead of you, watching you speak in hushed voices with Walsh. Maura waved at Walsh as she passed by, waiting for you to approach her. You gave her an upside down smile, “You didn’t have to wait.”

“Well, I wanted to invite you to this taco truck that me and some other med students are going to.” She offered politely. 

You had to be almost four years older than her, mid-twenties, although she looked barely old enough to drink. It was obvious she was flustered by the idea of inviting someone she considered superior, more than halfway done with a residency and attending-bound. You didn’t see yourself as much different than her.

Nodding, more enthusiasm than she was expecting, it eased the tension in her shoulders. A mix of the post-shift stress and the nerves. She sighed, smiling wider. “I know hanging out with med students probably isn’t your version of fun.”

“Nonsense.” You lazily waved your hand. “I was a med student too once. Plus I’d like to get to know you more outside the hospital.”

The two of you walked shoulder to shoulder. Your hand stuffed in your scrub pockets while she continued fiddling with her badge. “Unlike Dr. Park.”

“He’s a difficult person to understand.” You muttered, bowing your head. 

If anything Walsh implied had merit, it just confirmed what you and the rest of the residents assumed of him. He was too complicated personally, but too good of a surgeon. Apart from the fact his molars did oddly resemble those of a shark, he did impressive work. Everyone cursed his strength. If only he weren’t so good, then maybe it’d be easier to hate him.

Instead, people aspired to be him—or at least tolerated by him.

It took you time to realize you were wasting more energy than making worth of your training. Yet, the longer you were forced to spend with Park, there were new vines growing in the place of dead weeds. It was strange to feel as acknowledged by him as you did with Emmick. As if, the two of you could jest, like friends more than colleagues, or a mentor-mentee.

If the two of you could get along, respect the work, and learn boundaries for each other, you could see yourself even liking Park for once.

“You’ll have to come visit!” Sully’s girlfriend, Josie, yelled from wherever she was in her apartment. You could hear the echo bounce off the walls and the only person in fame was Sully. He sat slumped on the couch, the computer he was video calling you sitting on his lap. “I don’t get why Sully keeps you over there.”

“She is afraid of getting attached.” Sully responded, grinning back at you. This is what you get for agreeing to a FaceTime call on your lunch break. The surgical department was mostly doing scheduled, non-emergent surgeries. You had spent most of the morning in surgery, scrubbing out at the perfect time to sit and eat.

“Says the guy who keeps trying to persuade me to move to Chicago.” You retorted back, taking a bite into your sandwich. With your phone propped on your water bottle, you clearly saw him roll his eyes.

Josie slumped beside Sully, leaning closer to be in the camera view. She had her hair tied back in a ponytail, sporting a pink tank-top. She smiled into the camera, one hand braced on Sully’s shoulder. “We could all be roommates! It’d be fun!”

You hummed, frowning in disagreement. “I don’t think I want to be your guy’s third wheel.”

She shrugged, recovering the optimism of a child. It was ironic since she worked with kids. She was the ideal physician any parent would want. “We can settle on neighbors.”

“I can also fix your single dilemma.” She gleamed, which earned a chuckle from Sully who already expected whatever his girlfriend was about to say. “I know some cute doctors who would die to meet you!”

You snorted, pushing down your food with the lukewarm coffee from the morning. “You sure they’ll be into the long distance thing?”

“It wouldn't be a long distance if you moved.” Sully retorted. It was your turn to roll your eyes. This was a never-ending debate, not just between you two, but the other residents as well.

With Sully gone, all the residents had been asking the same questions. It would be casual conversation turned into interrogation. It didn’t make sense why anyone would want to stay willingly, but when they thought about it, they’d nod. You had concluded they were compliant to the idea no one else would want to deal with Dr. Park except you.

With your sandwich almost meeting your mouth again, you rapidly pulled it away, staring at Sully. “Are we really going to have this debate again?”

“Forget about that. Right now, you still have time to decide.” Josie mediated perfectly, smiling between the two of you. The lovesick look in Sully’s eyes told you everything he felt for her. If only she knew, he was hiding an engagement ring in his nightstand he bought almost six months ago. “But, I would like to meet the woman who’s been after my heart even through video calls.”

Sully’s face immediately morphed into something childishly envious, mouth agape as he continued staring at Josie. You covered your mouth to suppress your laugh. With one hand clutching his chest, he scoffed. “I’m right here.”

“I can’t let you ruin my chances of meeting my soulmate!” She exclaimed, her smile widening the longer Sully remained wounded.

“Sweetie.” He pleaded softly, now frowning. It was comical watching the two of them. It also reminded you how pathetically single you were.

“I’m messing with you.” She sighed, pressing a brief kiss on his lips. You visibly saw color come back to his previously mortified expression. 

“You guys make me sick.” You coughed as you mistakenly swallowed down a piece of your food too thick to pass down smoothly.

“Don’t avoid the subject.” Sully warned while Josie stood up from the couch at the sound of something ringing in the background. 

“Once you have a full furnished apartment over there, then we can talk.” You joked, chugging the rest of your coffee down. 

Sully pointed a finger towards the camera, a small grin on his face. “Don’t tempt me with a good time. By then, I might have convinced you to pack your bags.”

You mockingly nodded your head. You tried reminding him Chicago wasn’t that far, nor were the time zones much different. The two of you could always text or call and once you settled into your last year of residency, visit.

“How are things over there? Playing nice with Park?” Sully transitioned the conversation. The couch beside him dipped again, and Josie came into view.

“Is that your scary attending I keep hearing about?” Josie questioned. Park was notorious even to the ears of those who didn’t know his face, His reputation surpassed the walls of the hospital. He would spend most of the resident’s program being their worst nightmare. It came to no surprise that it would seep into their personal lives. 

Sully grinned, shaking his head. “He’s not scary. He’s mean more than anything.”

You agreed without hesitation before leaning back in the chair, readjusting the wireless earphone. “Things with Park are fine. I have mostly been finding reasons to stay away from him. I just can’t wait to go back to night shifts.” 

Before you could follow up with some weird encounter of your day or anything regarding Park, the breakroom door swung open. You lifted your head from the phone and a thick figure poked his head in first. Park had one hand braced on the doorframe, his eyes landing immediately on you, in the solitary breakroom. With raised eyebrows, you both stared at one another, the anticipation increasing with the ongoing silence.

“Have you eaten yet?” He asked, the same cadence he’d speak in when demanding someone to present a trauma in the ED. To anyone unfamiliar, it wouldn’t seem remotely friendly, but you heard the subtle muttering from Sully who was equally confused through the phone.

You quickly confirmed, scrunching up the plastic wrapper of your sandwich. Your brain was still stuck on the question. When did it concern Dr. Park if you ate? He stepped into the break room, letting the door close behind him. “The patient in pre-op 5 still needs to sign some forms, but Delgado and that new med student couldn’t get anywhere with the parents. I have a labral repair to scrub into.”

“Is that the 16-year-old scoliosis correction?” You inquired, completely ignoring the conversation between Sully and Josie. You were glad Park couldn’t hear the ruckus. You were sure he hadn’t even noticed the fact your phone was propped up vertically. 

He gave you a curt nod, before shaking his head. There was visible frustration in his face. “Parents are getting cold feet and we can’t rely on the words of a 16-year-old child. They’ll listen to you more than Delgado.”

Your eyes widened in disbelief in his words. He had a lot of trust for someone who felt there was such a thing as ‘too much’ empathy. Slowly a smile was growing on your face. “That’s a lot of faith to put on a person.”

He scoffed and even though he pressed his molars together, you sense he was repressing something he didn’t want known yet. “Am I wrong?”

You weren’t sure how to answer that. On one hand, this could all be a ploy to test ego. See whether all the compliments and validation from Emmick was finally getting to your head. He didn’t indulge the animalistic necessity to satiate the hunger in his residents for the verbal acknowledgments. It was an unknown practice.

On the other hand, he could be—for once—genuine. You weren’t sure if that was something tangibly visible or what you were overthinking, Since talking with Walsh, it put ideas in your head you didn’t want to entertain. Not because you didn’t believe in the slightest she was being dishonest. On the contrary, Walsh specialized in slipping it in her jabs and sarcasm. Those who got along with her understood her cryptic way of talking.

It meant obsessing over every nuance then on after. Thinking of the possibilities you might have misread everything since before you spoke to him in his office. You didn’t need to start doubting your ruinous decision months after.

Instead, you gave him a tight lip smile, “I can try. I don’t like making promises.”

“Well, if you can’t, I don't have much hope for anyone else. So, make sure you do.”

It felt less of a threat and more of an attempt at a joke, bordering on flattery. This had to be a trick. All Brendon Park knew how to do was speak in one-sentence monologues, unless the situation called for more; and typically, that was when someone fucked up. Then it’d turn into suave hooks and jabs, where the opponent is more so struggling to survive than to keep up. 

Right now, your chest tightened at the expression on his face, relaxed. You wondered if you hadn’t eschewed your relationship, if he would laugh at the joke.

“I will make sure to pull out all the stops, Dr. Park.” You wittily gave him a lazy salute. That earned something of a scoff and a snort. 

He still stood by the door. The corner of his eyes crinkled slightly enough to disturb the usually clean canvas of his face. He was almost ten years your senior even if he didn’t look like it. Whatever he did to maintain his muscular stature and pristine skin was working for him.

From your earphones, you could hear Sully mutter a question, asking if he was still there from the silence that befell the room. Eventually, Park affirmed with a nod before walking out the door briskly. The sigh that escaped was audible to the microphone. With your eyes back on the illuminating phone, Sully and Josie stared back with wide, expectant eyes. 

Josie broke the silence first snickering, “That’s your attending? Dr. Park?”

“Why are you saying it like that?” You questioned when you heard the little melody she added to his name, like there was something amusing about it.

“Because he doesn’t sound like the person I keep hearing about.” She snickered harder, one hand pressed against her cheek.

Sully frowned, but there was a matching mischief in his eye. “Trust me, he is never like that.”

You stood, tossed the rest of your trash, before grabbing your phone and water bottle by the handle. You caught the smirk on Josie’s face. She was insinuating something with her look alone, which made you stop in your tracks. She readjusted herself on the couch she was sitting on. “Is he hot?”

Sully exclaimed her name, a laugh escaping him that edged around a cackle. With one hand on the door handle, you sputtered. Hot? Of all the things, she could have asked you. Now she’s put a dreaded idea in your head. Thinking of your attending in an aspect HR would not approve. There was no way you could put into words whether he was attractive enough to your liking. That was surely crossing boundaries. 

“Josie!” You whispered sharply. “In no way am I going to entertain that question.”

“What?” She asked, offended by your offense. How could she possibly find nothing wrong with that question? She also worked at a hospital for crying aloud. “I just asked if he was hot, not if you wanted to jump his bones.”

“Josie!”

“What the fuck?”

There were overlapping voices between you and Sully who both felt slimy about the topic. Sully wouldn’t disagree if you said Dr. Park was the social standard of attractive, but to personally identify him as such, you could hear him imitating gagging noises. Engrossed in your current debate, you had opened the door, head bowed while arguing to the screen. Too distracted and slightly disgusted, you had lost track of what was in front of you.

Not until you bumped into a mass of something that was most definitely not a wall randomly placed in the middle of the hall. You clutched onto your phone tighter, alarmingly jumping back. Two hands settled on your biceps, right as you almost tumbled backwards. While trying to push space, your feet hadn’t planted gracefully. 

When you looked up, pulling the phone into your chest, Park was staring down at you. His eyebrows knitted together and the heat of your face felt too hot to touch. He was now wearing his matching scrub cap, covering any evidence of his perfectly gelled hair. It somehow chiseled the rest of his face; Sharper edges that could make you bleed to the touch.

You opened your mouth to say something before he beat you to it. “Who the hell are you talking to?”

That’s when you remembered the ongoing call you were still having, without even thinking you quickly pressed the red button, cutting Sully and Josie from pestering them with burning questions. The last thing you heard was the utterance of ‘Park’ from Sully until the call ended. You sighed, stuffing your phone in your pocket, putting on a shaky smile.

It was then that the warmth of his hands on your arms tingled, and as you shifted, he finally pulled them away. “Sully was just checking in on me.”

Park hummed, crossing his arms. It was clear when Park didn’t like something. A surgical plan, post-surgery care, or the staff he was unfortunately stuck operating with. It never occurred he might not like you talking so much about Sully until now. The small scrunch of his nose told you that much might be true, but it didn’t make sense.

“Came back to tell you ED needs a consult. Sounds like an ORIF case. Take care of that with your little puppy before speaking with the spinal corrections kid.” He informed you, immediately brushing past you. 

Huffing out, you spun. “What if they go into emergency surgery? I could be stuck in there.”

“Handle the consult,” He advised, stopping to turn back to face you. There was a hand trying to ease any concern over conflicting schedules. You weren’t exactly put off by the suddenly full plate, but still frazzled over the bump and his hands on your arm. “Delgado will jump in if surgery is anytime soon. I just need someone competent down there right now.”

You cocked your head, “And Delgado isn’t?”

There was a pause. He had never spoken so briskly about another resident in your presence, surely not a fourth year resident. Maybe he was suffering separation anxiety with Sully being gone. He pressed his lips in a thin line before shaking his head, “For whatever reason, Robby, Garcia, and them like you. I don’t need to hear about one of my residents fucking up while I’m scrubbed in. Especially not from Garcia.”

There was desperation in his tone. Help me by doing this for me. He would never outlandishly say it, but the shift in his eyes trying to read yours was enough to convince you. “Okay. I will try to calm the tides on the floor and the ED. Do you have your pager?”

“I gave it to Annette, along with my cell.” He jerked his head over to where Annette was most likely stationed. His hands rested on his hips.

“If anyone pages or calls for anything pertinent until then, I’ll handle it with Maura.” You assured, it would’ve sounded presumptuous, especially if Delgado were here. It wasn’t like you to go over the head of your senior resident. You wouldn’t do it to Sully, but he also acted as if you two were equals and not at different levels of the surgical hierarchy. 

You only waited long enough for him to give you a resigned nod in agreement. Whether or not he was comfortable allocating some power to his resident, he wasn’t left with much of a choice. You didn’t make any promise that you were the most capable to solve whatever emergency may occur, but you were willing to try. You could use this as a perfect chance to demonstrate leadership he may otherwise shrug off.

Continuing down the opposite end, you still listened for his movements. Your ears picked up the small thuds of his footsteps, slowly unrecognizable the further the two of you parted. Once you rounded the corner, you pulled out your phone to see the chaos you erupted.

SULLY 4m ago What the fuck is going on with you and Park?

You were almost done with your first week. If you had to classify it in comparison to the shifts you’ve worked on nights, you’d say it ranked somewhere under alright. Apart from the exhaustion of long surgeries and back-to-back travel from the ED to the surgical floor, everything else had been fine. Slightly manageable, which was your version of the brink of bad.

If you weren’t answering basic consultations or debriefing about surgical plans with Maura, you were in the OR. You had spent it mostly working, which for a change, felt like a reward and not a punishment. Park had sought you out more than once to run some consultation or reassigned cases he wanted you to handle. At first, it was as if he wanted you stuck in the OR instead of seeing you wander the floor. He’d even send Maura away with someone else when she could as easily sit in and observe.

“She could be of use elsewhere, instead of serving as a distraction, like how you should be more worried about what you can do for the patient,” He muttered the first and only time you had opposed. It was a bit snappy, considering he was already preoccupied with the emergency limb re-implantation the two of you had consulted. 

After that, you didn’t push the idea. Maura was doing fine, and you didn't want to put a target on her back. Park had a hard enough time restraining himself from criticizing her with you always in the vicinity.

You had just finished with an ORIF procedure that for some reason was scheduled later in your shift, just the right time to catch hand off. Assuredly, you made your way to post-op, figuring hand off was probably close to wrapping up. The first person you saw was Park, apart from the small handful of residents. Instead of immediately joining the fray, you walked to the nursing station, leaning down to speak to Sarah about turning over a new room.

With your eyes still focused on Park and the residents, you saw them move from patient in post-op 2 to post-op 6. That’s when you noticed Maura clutching to an electronic chart, the black bulky case appearing too big for her hands. Sarah was talking to you about the triage plan they came up with as the line of patients being sutured up increased. You were listening, arms on your hips, but your eyes picked up the horrific site of Maura presenting in front of Park,

She had presented in front of Park before, but with the messy bun, she managed to wrangle into a claw clip slipping, you could tell the poor girl was exhausted. A timid girl from South Carolina still didn’t quite know how to navigate a big city or large trauma hospital. She was swimming in a tank of larger fish, Park being the shark that stalks the rest of you. There was breath that came out of you while you watched alone from behind the nursing station.

“Definitive management.” Park asked, arm crossed as they stood outside the patient’s room. You could mostly make out the side profile of Maura’s face, while Park had his back to the patient, making him most visible.

“Urgent irrigation and debridement with operative fixation.” Maura responded, frowning slightly with the line of question. You hadn’t heard the entirety of her presentation of the patient, but you came to trust her judgment at this point. She was about to graduate from med school and become an intern at some hospital. You wanted her to know the trust that came with that responsibility.

“Why Cefazolin?” Park followed up. He didn’t have a chart like her in his hand. You were sure Maura must have mentioned it, but it was impressive the details he stored in his own head sometimes.

Maura didn’t rattle so easily, but the longer he stared down at her, waiting for her to react just made her body shiver. Even with the fleece jacket, you could see something of a tremble under the fabric. “Coverage for gram-positive organisms.”

“Which ones?”

You moved around the nursing station, remaining unnoticed by Park. What? This seemed excessive for a hand off. Oftentimes, those facts were assumed. Residents had more experience than med students, which meant they had unspoken understanding of certain decisions, but this? It felt like he was trying to make her trip.

Maura finally broke. Her shoulder sank lower and she readjusted the device to be held by her forearms, gripping the top edge. “Staphylococcus.”

“Which species?”

Silence. The long awaited slip up. The questions leading up to this agape mouth and glossy eye look she had on her face was watching the climax of a movie. There was a disaster in the wake, the audience gripping their seats as if they could brace for some fictional impact. The residents were watching the back and forth. You could sense the horror of the moment, something most of them have lived more than once. 

You had once stood in her place.

What would you add for a type III injury? When would you broaden coverage for farm contamination? How long do you continue antibiotics?

The questions followed one after the other. The more words he kept spewing out, the less she was able to stand confidently. It was like seeing a lion in the wild, forced to confront a force of nature, bared defenseless. A bad case of déjà vu. You could envision the narrowing vision and the sick dread in your stomach. From the way, her hands kept clamming on the device, tethering her dignity to a piece of metal and wiring. 

“You had all day to familiarize yourself with the patient.” His voice had a deeper base to it now. It sounded like he was the only source of noise around even though there were call bells, machines, and miscellaneous conversations in the perimeter. “There is no excuse as to why you don’t know this. Patient care is about understanding the condition and treating it.”

A storm alarm was playing in your head, warning you of waterworks and wobbly lips. Maura was only a step away from running off to hide in shame. He didn’t yell, he punctured with the sharpness of emphasizing. “Tell me why none of it stuck with you. Does the patient mean nothing?”

“Dr. Park,”

Your voice came from the back of the group. All the heads swiveled and Park’s eyes knew where to land. He may not have seen you approach, but the sound of your voice was undeniable. He recognized the intrusion in a second. It cut through the pause of his question and Maura’s lack of response. A pit settled low in your stomach. You felt reminiscent of the post-shift encounter between you and him in his office.

Hands still on your hips, you looked over at Maura who was hiding from you too. Even if she was grateful for the interruption, she couldn’t face anyone. You shifted your focus back on Park, arms still curved over his chest. “This is starting to sound like an interrogation instead of a presentation for handoff.”

He repositioned himself to face you. As he stared you down, you finally realized he could find you in any room if he wanted. There was an animalistic character to how he positioned his body from six feet away towards you. “She’s not answering the questions anymore. That’s the problem.”

“I can see that.” You affirmed, picking up the nervous glances from Maura. If the other residents weren’t nervous before, they were now. 

No one would expect a handoff to ‘escalate’ to this matter. Everyone silently agreed to just accept what Park gave. He was the attending, the rest were bottom dwellers. It came to a surprise to yourself that his name dare escape your mouth. The instinct was natural. Some might argue this would turn into a performance for anyone interested in watching, but this was more than that for you, Maura, and him

His eyebrows furrowed, appearing equally confused for your interruption. “She needs to perform under pressure.”

You chuckled, “She does.”

The fleet of eyes on you now grew. You were now standing on a metaphorical stage, interrupting a drama that had everyone on the edge of their seat. Maura and Park matched their expressions. Maura seemed more concerned over your objective. What sparked you as interesting was the retraction Park had. You were agreeing with him, but to what degree. You shook your head, “But, right now she ‘s trying not to embarrass herself. She’s stopped thinking.”

“If your goal is to see what she knows, this isn’t measuring that.” You motioned to the public entourage that had witnessed her shut down. 

You knew some of the residents would gawk at you after; acting like this was a form of self-sacrifice. Selflessly throwing yourself in the trail of Park the Shark. Except, that wasn’t the reason at all. Your vows were to do no harm. Surely, the medical board extends that vow to the fellows, residents, and med students. How could you perform ‘no harm’ without teaching it to others first?

You were holding your breath, but you didn’t see yourself giving up so soon. 

Before Park could get in the last word, a phone rang. Park grumbled to himself as he recognized the sound of his spectralink. He whispered something to Delgado who was standing opposite of Maura, before slipping between the two of them. Delgado stepped forward taking his spot, reciting the information Maura had presented, while simultaneously answering what Maura couldn’t. 

The rest of the handoff was a blur. Emmick joined sometime after, trying to make small talk with you while the group traveled from one patient to another. 

It was hard to focus when you were more worried with Maura. She kept towards the front of the group, but her head remained bowed, and she had instead passed the device off to someone else. She had taken a backseat in her own education from the wash up of self-reproach. The week after Park had chewed you up for what happened with Mr. Stevenson, you had fallen into the same pattern. He didn’t consider you worth the aggravation, so you hid. If you could obscure yourself in the work, keeping your head down and your presence unknown, you could work without dispute. 

That didn’t do you or the patient any justice. When you finally came to terms that your education mattered more than the validation you were chasing from Park, it made you center your work on the patient’s more. 

Departure was quick. Everyone dispersed quickly, including Maura. You went straight for the residents room grabbing your things to try to escape. Maybe it was smart Maura left instead of hanging around. She risked Park finding her to finish the lecture, and if she were still as wobbly as when you saw her last, it would only make matters worse. As you were rounding the corner to the elevators, you found a small figure standing in front of the doors.

“Maura?” You called out. Her braid flipped as she followed the sound of her name. You caught the light reflecting over her wet eyes. Her skin was red, as if she had wiped her face enough to irritate it.

She hummed, keeping her mouth shut. As you approached, you smiled at her. You saw the face she was putting on; pretending Park’s words didn't affect her. You had left in the same shambles before. The elevator door ding and you let Maura slip in first. It was quiet, up until the elevator started descending to the main floor.

Maura scoffed, brushing her bangs. “He’s awful.”

You stared at her before laughing. She was confused, but her body reacted in the same manner. There was an understanding between the two of you. That you two could laugh about how awful your experiences were. When your laugh’s settled, you leaned onto the elevator. “I used to work the day shift.”

“I switched over last year because of one of Dr. Park’s monologues.” You rolled your eyes, “There was a patient who just…slipped through the cracks during a MVA we had. He had developed compartment syndrome and when Park found out he was my patient, he ripped me a new one while transferring the patient up for surgery.”

“He told me I wasn’t worth the aggravation.” You concluded, the words clear in your mind. It was like ripping off stitches still too raw. 

Maura shook her head, a frown on her face. The elevator had stopped and the two of you stepped out, walking towards the main entrance, side-by-side. “How do you still manage to work with him, let alone for him?”

There was still a small spring breeze, but the rest of the humidity outside had your clothes sticking uncomfortably. You shrugged, “I stopped caring about what he thought of me and not my work.”

“I wanted to impress him since the moment I got here, and I worked my ass off for any acknowledgment.” You laughed at yourself again. Maybe the delirium of an adrenaline high like calling Park out in front of the rest of the residents was affecting your brain. “After that though, I forgot that I had qualities different from Dr. Park that helped me help patients. They weren't bad qualities, just different. Park is a stickler for doing it his way though.”

The two of you had stopped somewhere halfway between the hospital and the parking garage. She smiled back at you, slightly more hopeful than before. “Yeah, you're right.”

You stuffed your hands into the pocket of your fleece jacket. She recovered perfectly fine, which comforted you more than you expected. If she could learn to balance out her expectations and that of others, she could become a fine surgeon. She was eager, adaptable, and even when Park knocked her down; she was still one of the last ones to leave. Bumping her shoulder, you giggled. “I get that a lot.”

The two of you found your way in front of the elevator of the garage, waiting for the doors to open. She’s turned to you again, eyebrows furrowed. “You know, I’d find it hard to believe he doesn’t like you.”

“What makes you say that?” You questioned, narrowing your eyes.

She shrugged, “He respects you. I mean a lot of people here do, from what I’ve picked up.”

When the doors slid open, you clicked the button to the fourth floor while she pressed the sixth. She gripped onto the strap of her backpack, shrugging her shoulders. “I haven’t known him for long, but something tells me he wouldn’t just let anyone talk to him like you did at all.”

You remained quiet as you continued to stare at her. Her cheeks flared up and she started stumbling while trying to find words. “Thank you by the way. You didn’t have to risk yourself for some med student.”

“You’re going to be a doctor, Maura.” You remembered, grinning slightly. If today didn’t set her back, that’s what she had to look forward to. “You should act like one.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but you gave her a look. She knew better than to disagree with you. Instead, she sighed. “I’m sorry if he gives you a hard time about it.”

You waved your hand. The elevator dinged and you stepped forward, “Don’t worry about it. I can handle Park the Shark.” 

That earned a confident support from her. The two of you paid farewells and ‘goodnights’ and you only made your way to your car when the doors closed again. Sighing, a small groan escaped you. Despite what she may think, you were dying to know what to expect. If your relationship wasn't ruined, you sure caused a shit-show of it today. Even if Park did respect you, it wasn’t your place.

You couldn’t stand to watch it. Your body itched the longer Park kept talking, and it reacted to the painful memories of your own embarrassment. If it were so wrong, why didn’t he stop you the minute you said his name? Unless he wanted you to dig your own grave. At least that way half the work would be done.

What the fuck had you done?

SULLY 10m ago 6 image attached This is what you could be enjoying…

You chuckled as you tucked your phone, discreetly peeking at the message. You had an inkling this visit would be another way to coax you into applying for an attending or fellowship position at Mount Sinai—dragging you with him like a childhood toy he couldn’t part with. 

If it meant having to cover for him more times than once, you would have to think long and hard over that decision. Especially how your first week back on the day shift has gone.

It would be nice to have someone familiar in an attending position. At least you know you’d have someone you could trust and work well with. Except, you were enjoying life in Pittsburgh. You enjoyed your job, where you lived, and all the small friends you’ve made outside the hospital. Even if your boss was a prick most days, you could get over it with the nice company of everyone else.

Leaving would be abandoning the one place you felt home, even when Sully played a big part in that.

It was hard to complain about Park through a computer screen. He had too many questions about your current dilemma with Park, his strange behavior you didn’t know how to interpret. It had slipped your mind to mention what happened during shift change. It wasn't the type of conversation to have over the phone, plus nothing had come out of it yet. You thought you could spare yourself the interrogation from him for a while more.

“Are you having trouble?” The patient questioned. A 45-year-old woman required a split, questioned, looking down at her. She was sedated in the affected area enough to not be bothered by the pain.

Maura sitting at the bedside started the first step off, pulling at the hand before hesitating when it came to manipulating the wrist and wrapping the splint in place. The ER nurse beside her watched with a slight grimace as she withheld judgment. You leaned forward in your chair, watching Maura almost break a sweat as she tried to maintain composure for the patient’s sake.

She had been floating by since the other day. You were right about one thing: she recovered like a bouncy ball. 

“Maura, take a second.” You instructed calmly, noticing the tension from the nurse, Princess, and the patient, Leslie.

Listening to your instruction, she released the force she was putting on her hand and arm. Looking at her with raised eyebrows and a smile, she let out a breath she was holding. “What doesn’t feel right?”

“It’s not supported.” Maura breathier voice responded. The sleeves of her jacket pulled up halfway. She had stuffed her stethoscope in a pocket to clear everything around her face.

“What’s the purpose of the splint?” You questioned simply, watching her try to focus on the question and not the resistance materialized in her gloved hands. 

“To keep the fracture from moving.”

“Good.” You encouraged, eyes moving along the sugar tong split she was using. She would start strong and then her doubt kicked in and she could not proceed with wrapping the splint. From the way she’d look at the binding of the arm with the soft padding and rigid splint material. “What position are you trying to preserve in turn?’

“The reduction position.”

“Does your splint support it?”

Instead of answering, she quietly examined the wrist in the splint. She started readjusting it, without you prompting what movements to make next. With each breath, she made the necessary movement that when she applied the splint again you were sure she changed the position. When you glanced over at Princess, she had an easier smile on her face. 

As she lifted her head, she caught the two thumbs up you flashed her. She humbly tried to hide her smile, but you could see the curve of her lips as she bowed her head. When Leslie’s arm was wrapped and next steps were explained, the two of you excused yourself.

Walking alongside each other to the elevators, you could sense the little skips to her steps. You giggled lightly from the change in her demeanor, sensing the youth you missed having. “Good job. Just a word of warning, if you panic, your patients tend to panic.”

“I know. I just couldn’t get it right the first time.” She explained, deflating her ego a bit.

With your hands in your pocket, you nodded in understanding. “I get it. During med school, I spent hours staying up just trying to get it right.”

Right as you two were approaching the elevator door, one of the doors to the trauma rooms was pushed open. Halting in both your steps, the stocky, broad body of Dr. Park came at you two. He eyed the two of you like you were in the wrong department. His eyes landed on Maura, who clasped both her hands in front of her. 

Neither of you had talked about what happened. Considering you had the next few days off after the fiasco of a hand off, there wasn’t much of a chance to, You were partly grateful for the break, but the lingering questions of what Park might do to you when you came back lingered. You had missed him during hand off, and that kept the suspense in the back of your mind.

“Did you two need anything?” He questioned, mostly drinking in Maura’s shrinking figure.

You had warned her he fed off the scent of scared prey. He was an attending who wanted his residents to fear his judgment. If they weren’t worried about what he thought, then they weren't doing their job right. You had quietly assured her you were planning to work as many cases together as possible. Partly for her sake, but mostly for yours.

The longer you spent away from his sights, the less likely you were to be caught by him. That was the reason you were taking the ‘easy’ consultation. The bedside reductions and the non-emergent calls from the ED. They were all teaching moments for Maura and ways to hide from Park the Shark.

A win-win situation.

Except, it wasn’t working and you two had been caught. Hook, line, and sinker.

“Maura just got done with a bedside reduction. Applied a sugar tong splint. We will repeat the neurovascular exam and imaging for alignment.” You informed without hesitation. Maura was relying on you to take charge of communication with the intimidating attending.

With how she timidly stood, begging with wide eyes to be dismissed, you thought it’d be best she kept quiet. She didn’t need the attention.

“She will repeat neurovascular exams and imaging. You will be scrubbing in on surgery.” Park states, turning for the elevator without waiting for a response. You cursed his inflated ego. Of course, the one time you two meet, he is bossing you around. You weren’t going to fight it. Deep down you felt you deserved it. It was a cynical idea, but he was attending, and what said goes.

Stumbling over your words, you furrowed your brows approaching close behind him. “I’m sorry. In what case exactly?”

The glance to you over his shoulder was barely perceptible. It took you craning your head further to notice his line of sight on you. He curled his lips lightly before rolling his shoulders back. “28- year-old patient, entrapped in a hydraulic steel press. Limb salvage with a mangled extremity.”

You and Maura turned your heads to stare through the glass of Trauma 1, where the bustling ED team stabilized a patient. You could barely make out the status of the patient, but you noticed Dr. Garcia worked alongside Dr. Langdon and Dr. King to stabilize the patient.

The elevator door dinged, and as Park stepped in, you slipped behind him. Only a few steps behind, Maura slipped in as the doors began closing, pressing her body against the wall. You looked up at Park who seemed disinterested in

entertaining a conversation with the third-year resident he was stuck with. “I’m sure Delgado would like to sign up for it.”

“Did I ask for you to nominate someone on my behalf?” Park scoffed, twisting his neck lightly to look down at you. He was luring you further. He knew exactly what you were thinking from the look of your eye. Was Brendon Park messing with you?

Hands falling to your side, you sighed. “I just think you would prefer a fourth-year resident to assist you with a complicated surgery.”

“You’ve done enough on your own.” Park pointed out and it was hard not to distinguish a condescending voice from his tone. No thanks to him. If you hadn’t considered moving to the night shift, who knows what you would have or have not accomplished while under his supervision. “Delgado is stuck on the last trauma.”

“So, I’m what, chopped liver?” You joked, cocking your head to the side.

“You’re the third-year resident who is going to scrub into the surgery.” Park said simply.

The elevator door slid open and Park stalked out first. You hated the feeling of following behind him—all but confirming the ‘shark pup’ jokes made at the expense of your self-worth. Walsh still made jabs at you every so often when she was feeling particularly spunky. She’d shrug, tell you to feel proud of the fact you shook off his razor sharp teeth from your back. 

It’s a badge of honor to make Park the Shark broad, she had joked while in the midst of a surgery. You were skeptical of the ethics of the conversation in front of the scrub nurses. At least he finally might give to all those soft, human feelings.

You rolled your eyes at her. Feelings? Like it was possible for Park to have anything as perceptible as sympathy. He was the living embodiment of an industrial, surgical machine. His precision was clean, and his record impeccable.

In what universe would Park give in?

When you looked at your watch, you motioned to Maura attempting to keep up with you and both your bosses. “You should probably eat something.”

She nodded vigorously, eyeing Park nervously, awaiting him to object to your command. “I will be stuck in this surgery for a while. Find Lucia afterwards. She’ll keep you busy.”

Park stopped in front of the viewing and OR lounge to prepare for operative planning. You flicked your head to the side, silently pleading for Maura to run off. You were grateful one of you was able to escape the traps of Park’s jaw. 

You weren’t as lucky apparently.

When facing Park again, his blank expression didn’t give in to any disfavor of you. Even when his emotions appeared ambiguous, you could know to expect something later. He shelved his monologues for a timing where his words could wound. It wasn’t like to forgive and forget. 

“I should’ve apologized for what happened—“

“Are you good to scrub in?” Park questioned, his tone even. He wasn't remotely too interested to stem any concern on your part, but it did raise some alarms. Rendering you speechless, he rolled his shoulder. “I don’t need you passing out in the middle of surgery.”

Nervously smiling, you shook your head. “I’m good for surgery, Dr. Park, but we should talk—“

“About the surgery? I agree.” He interjected again. You were sustaining your patience with the strength of an elephant at this point. He never made it easy to want to like him. He pulled out his phone, staring down at something. He didn’t bother to lift his eyes again. “Anything else you’d like to redundantly speak about?”

You barely shook your head until he spun away, scrolling on his phone. This was going to be an eventful surgery, for reasons other than the actual procedure.

It took over an hour to prepare for the surgery. While orthopedics, along with vascular and trauma planned the order of repairs with the degloving and compromised arteries, it dawned on you the severity of the case. You were internally groaning at how irritating the fact was that you’d be stuck in a salvation surgery with Park. 

You had messaged Sully, telling him you’d probably miss the nightly video calls you’ve been having with him–a meaningful way to decompress from the day shift.

It was bloody and more gruesome than the injuries the poor worker came in. Nonviable muscle was the first to go, and in between incisions and removing the muscles, Park was staying centrally focused.

“So, Dr. Sullivan is almost on his way out.” Fatima cooed, earning a snicker from under your mask. You rolled your eyes at her, and she picked up the cue from beside you.

“Dr. Sullivan is shamelessly leaving me to deal with the lease of the apartment he invited me to live in.” The retort came out bitterly, but she could read in between the lines of the joke. The two of you including Sully had a good time while in the OR.

You eyed Park from the rims of your goggles, the black scrub cap hiding away the glistening of his combed, slicked back hair. While passing along the instrument to Park you turned back to Fatima. “Don’t worry, you will always remain his favorite OR nurse.”

She hummed, pleased by that statement. “I’m not the one he’s trying to drag to Chicago.”

The bumping of the music continued, something Reyes chose as the rest of the surgeons failed to guess the number Bailey (the anesthesiologist) was thinking. Garcia lifted his head from across the table, listening to the conversation. “Dr. Park, losing two of your well esteemed shark pups in the span of a year? You must be a repellent.”

Park glared at Garcia, which only fed her ego. She must be picking that up from Walsh. If he weren’t wearing the mask, the tension in his jaw would be more visible. He grumbled something, practically telling everyone to shut up without using the words. 

Once vascular began working in returning arterial flow, Garcia’s eyes landed on you mischievously. When you noticed, she had cocked her head to the side. “So, baby shark, going to abandon ship like your second half?”

Your eyes stayed glued to Reyes’ work near the patient's foot, “Why? Going to miss us when we’re gone?”

She narrowed her eyes, feigning offense to the insinuation. “You wish.”

“Oh, that’s confirmation if I’ve ever heard it.” Reyes intervened, announcing aloud before mumbling something to the nurse and Park. “We all know she’s a teddy bear inside.” 

There were small chuckles all around. Everyone silently agreed the prickliest of the bunch was Garcia. Despite the fact Park was dubbed the predator of the OR and entire surgical department. Garcia had the exterior of a cactus while Park had the canines of a shark. Somehow, the two were meant to coexist in liminal spaces like this moment. 

“Okay, check for arterial flow.” Reyes called out, pulling his hands away.

Moving closer to Reyes, you began gently lifting the heel. There was slight chatter as you and Park stared down at the paleness of the foot. Her ears were busy and her eyes kept looking at the external fixator. It was like the external fixator was making a buzzing noise. Lifting your head to look at Park, he was barely an inch away from touching shoulders. “Can we rotate internally five degrees?”

The rest of the noise finally silenced, and Park stared at you with the sunken, shadowed eyes. He had the same precision when he was reevaluating in real time his course of action. There was serious consideration as he stared at the metal, medieval-like device—pins stuck in places over the lower leg.

You were prepared for the interrogation. A divulge into why you thought what you thought. Park didn’t follow the instruction of others, and while you had posed a question more than an objection to the procedure, you expected pushback. He leaned over the external fixator, looking at the lack of movement from the artery and the leg they were set to salvage.

“Loosen it.”

Right as he nodded at you, there was movement to the frame, your hands directing it by minimal degrees. It was an unbearable wait as you watched the arteries and the foot, begging for there to be something viable to conserve. When the arterial flow did revitalize, the color of his leg had changed. The rosiness that came from lively limbs was apparent under the fluorescent lights.  You let out a sigh along with everyone else. Garcia whistled which made you lift your head. 

She nodded at you, appreciation and mutual respect. Then, her eyes landed on Park. “You sure you want to let this one go?”

You couldn’t see whether Park had acknowledged the questions. What you did notice was the shift in his feet. This man could stand hours over a table like a challenge he willed himself to beat. You two were barely a few hours in. He didn’t just shift for the sake of it. You concluded you were overthinking the action. He had dismissed your attempt at an apology. He obviously had no interest in racking his brain over you.

Surgery continued silently between the two of you. It was astonishing to you that there was still and unspoken partnership. It was also probably best that you two didn’t speak. The awkwardness was unfit for the operating room. It was fair to throw anyone else in between the unspoken differences the two of you had. Maybe it was inappropriate on your behalf to have a noticeable indifference for your attending, but it didn’t affect Park, so what was the harm? 

Garcia’s question rang in your head. Would he turn you down as a potential addition to the orthopedic department just for the distaste you left in his mouth? Park was considered ruthless at times. You knew exactly what the other residents meant when they threw that word. At this point, you couldn't put anything past him.

Surgery concluded after nine hours. The man had a leg, but the amount of follow up surgery still needed would take grit from his part. He was recovering in the ICU, which would bring his own troubles if he didn't make it past the night.

Once you scrubbed out of the OR, there were barely any day shifters left. When you made it to the dictation room, it was past 10 pm. You had decided you needed to call it quits. There was enough on your plate as it was. Moreover, if Sully heard you had stayed until midnight just to catch up with charting, he’d rip you a new one. 

You had solemnly packed your bag, draping it over your tiresome body. Anyone who recognized you down the hall knew to keep the greetings simple. You weren’t scheduled for a double and they could tell from the disheveled appearance of your civilian clothes, you were ready to go home. You were set on leaving until you approached the elevators. 

There was something left unsaid.

You couldn’t scrub off the anxiety of what Park thought of you now. You had publicly stood up to him and didn't even apologize for it (not that he let you anyways). You were going to end up just like Park if you didn’t do anything about it. He may not be familiar with the concept of apologizing, but it couldn’t be too late to teach an old dog new tricks.

That's how you found yourself walking through a pair of double doors instead. The beep of your badge unlocked the doors and you trudged through the dimly lit hallway. The day shift attendings were gone, and if there was anyone on nights, they were probably on the floor with how desolate the offices were.

The one source of visible light came from the Chief Orthopedics office. 

You grasped onto the cup of coffee tighter than before. It was a lame excuse, as well as a form of a truce, along with a protein bar from the residents lounge. You had doubts it would work in your favor but it was worth a try, You knew he’d read into your intentions, make some joke of your nice nature. Too kind to just let laying dogs lie. The two of you were able to power through 9 hours of surgery without a hiccup. You knew he considered that good enough without addressing the issue. 

When you approached the office, the door was slightly ajar. You called out his name first. There was silence and then a deep grumble that you made out as an invitation. You pushed the door open, lightly to not scare him (although you had never caught him off guard). Peeking your head in first, you saw the sight of Park leaning back in his chair. He was oddly more casual then his usual day to day. His combed gel hair wasn’t as shiny, no longer sporting his scrub cap. He had a few hairs that fell in front of his face, brushing his forehead. 

He rubbed a hand down his face after he saw who was at his door. He must have known from your voice alone, but maybe he was holding out hope it wasn’t who he expected. You closed the door behind you before extending the coffee towards him. When you got a view of his desk, there wasn’t much but a water bottle off to the side. Smiling, you still held out the coffee. “I thought you might be charting late. It’s just black coffee. I know you don’t do sugar or creamer.”

You put the cup down in front of him, along with the protein bar in your pocket. He lazily extended his arm, playing with the sleeve on the cup. His eyes remained on you. “What are you doing here?” 

“I was going to get some charting done—“

“No,” He interrupted swiftly, his fingers no longer twiddling with the sleeve. “What are you doing here?”

The emphasis on the word made it clear what he meant. The sanctity of his office. The same place you had so bravely announced your switch to the day shift. The same place you had told him that you didn’t approve his methods of teaching; like you had a say in the matter. You had preemptively nipped what you thought was a problem. Park felt otherwise in the matter.

You are now riddled with anxiety. He had seen right through you. Park the Shark could sniff out an ulterior motive. He had the previous time you paid him a visit in his office.

Nervously laughing, you tried to put on a polite smile. “Because our conversation was cut short before the surgery.”

“What conversation?” He asked, folding his arms over his chest. He had teased you when he reached for the coffee. He knows better than to cave in to handouts.

“I guess the better way to put it is my apology for my public indifference to your approach with Maura.” You clarified, clearing your throat. It was closing in on itself, enough so to cut out the words spilling halfway out your mouth. 

You didn’t understand why now—all of a sudden—you couldn’t speak to him like an adult. All the self-improvement you thought you made had gone down the drain. You were the same scared resident he met three years ago. With your sudden act of bravery, you should’ve acted and sounded different. How else was any of it supposed to be worth it?

Pulling out the seat in front of him, you pulled off your backpack, placing it beside you. Gauging his reaction, you saw his eyes track your movement. He didn’t expect you to sit down with the way he readjusted himself in his seat. With your hands in your lap, you rubbed them beside your thighs. “I didn’t intend to undermine you.”

“Your intentions don’t matter.” His voice was quieter to match the serious tone you had sent. If this was the way you want to approach it, he was entertaining it so far. “Sometimes you don’t intend to kill a patient, but with the wrong decision, you’ll still kill them anyway.”

One of the commandments all the residents learned. He always warned them about being the reason a patient didn’t make it out of the OR. He followed up with another warning: he didn’t need to hear sob stories after. He was cold-heartily teaching everyone to compartmentalize, whether he or she wanted to or not. Come to terms with what they did wrong, and repent for it later—preferably away from him. 

You sucked in a breath. He was right. Whether you intended to embarrass him in turn didn’t matter, because you already had. In the end, it made you no better than him. Shaking your head, you chuckled dryly. “I don’t know why I did it. I was looking at her, and all of a sudden, I saw myself in her place almost 6 months ago.”

Park didn’t respond. There wasn’t a place to. You could tell he was itching. He was expecting a sob story. All he saw in front of him was someone who let herself feel too much into the work. Meanwhile, he reserved his internal emotions for somewhere more private. The longer he stared, the less walls you saw obscuring his thoughts. He leaned forward, resting both arms on the desk. “You undermined me.”

“No, Dr. Park,” You corrected, gently, but with less restraint than before. “I interrupted because she wasn’t learning anymore. You just kept pushing after you accomplished what you wanted.”

“What’s that?”

“To prove we don’t know everything.” You answered rapidly. It wasn't anger or impatience. You just didn’t find any point in the song and dance when the two of you knew. “To prove there is always something for us to learn. She’s a med student. Don’t you think she knows that?”

“What she doesn’t need is lasting embarrassment that comes from whatever happened during hand off.” Your eyes were stuck on him. Not because you need to be right, and for him to have a relapse of judgment. This wasn’t retribution, it was a wakeup call. “How is anyone supposed to measure up to some standard that will always be unachievable in your eyes?”

He paused, furrowing his eyes barely. “Are we talking about Maura? Or you?”

Some lines must have blurred. You were blindsided by the thorns still sticking in your sides. Maybe it was all an excuse to make him repay you for what he did. You never considered yourself spiteful, but sitting in front of Park now, maybe your intentions were mixed up in between the incident and now.

“You’re wrong, pipsqueak.” Park muttered, reaching for the coffee and taking a sip. You watched him skeptically. When he pulled the cup from his lip, he didn’t elaborate. His lips pressed together, staring back at you blankly.

You swallowed down the lump in your throat. “About what?”

“About my standards, as you put it.” He clarified. On any other occasion, it would’ve sounded condescending, except he was being serious. “It’s not so unachievable for everyone, it seems.”

You blinked a couple of times. What? It was like Park had been switched out. Since you started covering for Sully, you suspected there was something off with Park. At first, you thought it was because you weren't used to working consistent shifts together. 

When you worked doubles, you didn't need to read too much into Park. 12 hours together in the span of a month was considerably small compared to the hours you did spend up to last year. Except, with this prolonged, inevitable time the two of you had to spend revealed a new nature in Park that didn’t exist until after switching to the night shift.

Did Park finally approve of your efforts? 

That's what you were making out with what little he gave. Give someone an inch…

“Considering we will have the same turnover of senior residents, Emmick and I have strongly considered who we will choose for the chief positions.” Park informed you. The change in his tone had your body preparing for bad news.

You knew the conversations were circulating. The other third and second year residents were already making predictions. Oddly enough, you were the front runner. Walsh and Garcia had endorsed you, subtly making a hint of ‘chief resident’ aspects they found in you. Earnestly, you were happy that they found some form of leadership qualities in you. That was important for an attending. 

Anyone would be proud to have the title; and although many had faith in you, there was hesitancy on your part. You wanted to rightfully earn the title–meaning trust from both Emmick and Park. You knew one party would be easier to convince than the other. What you didn't want was for Park to cave into Emmick because he was left with no choice.

“Dr. Park, I apologize—”

“Can you stop with the apologies?”

The irritability in his subtle eye roll caught you off guard. Had you done that so much in the span of a week? He refocused his gaze on you, “It's unfitting for a future chief resident.”

Future chief resident. Did he mean to let that slip? Nothing Park did was unintentional. He was the most prepared person in the OR. You envied how much he knew, and you knew you couldn't hate someone who could give the knowledge back to you. Your mouth must have been agape because she frowned from your lack of response.

Slowly, you began shaking your head, hands raised, trying to slow down time to replay what you just heard. “What?”

“Dr. Emmick and I have agreed on naming you and Cal chief residents.” He firmly stated, providing you the confirmation you needed. You just had to hear it from his lips.

Your brain buffered and buffered. Chief resident. You couldn’t wait to tell Sully. He’d probably make some big deal of it when he came back. He looked for any excuse to have a ‘party,’ order cake, and have some fancy dinner. Your heart was thumping with the news. There was a smile waiting to break out, but your body was still in shock. 

That’s when it clicked. Dylan Calloway. A third year resident on the night shift. If the intention was to have a chief resident for both shifts, why would they nominate two from the night shift?

He saw the gear spinning in your head. That's why he had gone mute. Before you could utter a word, he leaned back in his chair. “There obviously needs to be one of you on the day shift. The conditions Emmick and I agreed on is to have you move back to the day shift.” 

Your heart was still thumping, except the acceleration was different. Your body wasn't filled with the butterflies that came with achieving a goal of yours. It was fighting the concept of going back to an environment you dreaded. If the interaction between him and Maura proved anything, it was that he still had those tendencies. He’d chomp his teeth if the occasion called for it in his eyes. His narrative. His directive. 

When you thought of it, your body went into a state of fight. To fight against the memories you had ruined by him and his words. 

“Why?” You questioned with a scoff, eyebrows furrowed. “Is this some punishment?”

He scrunched his face. He acted as if the theory were bizarre. Every correction, remark, and warning was chastening. There was no way none of that wasn’t a form of punishment. The way he was controlling the entire board of chess to place you back in a corner, back against the wall. Was your distrust in his intentions misplaced?

With a sigh, he flexed his fingers. Relaxing and tightening them inward. He was stalling to collect his thoughts. “The vessel was a good catch.”

That furthered the curvature in your brows. Your jaw was strained with uncertainty. Your brain didn't know whether to take the compliment to appease him or reject it to maintain a sense of humility. If this was another way to hook you in. He shrugged, “Most would have blamed vascular.”

“That's why.”

When your back hit the back of the chair, your body slumped in resignation. What he saw in most, he didn’t see in you—and in his perspective—that was a good thing. Good enough to be chief resident. Good enough to be recognized. Good enough to welcome you back on the day shift.

“Your med student has learned a thing or two as well.” He leaned forward, turning the monitor of his computer to face you.

On the edge of your seat, practically leaning your body onto his desk, you distinguish the familiar charting system. Your eyes skimmed the information. When you read the header with the patient’s name and chief complaints, you recognized it as the case you both worked on in the ED. You noticed the detail she added. Covering all the bases as if she were handed questions she knew Park would ask about. 

He examined your approval over the charting; with the faint existence of a grin, he scoffed. “Whatever program she joins, I’m sure her attending will appreciate her charting skills.”

You repressed the laugh that almost escaped you. Park had excellent comedic timing for someone who never cracked a smile; or the delirium was finally hitting the both of you. Slouching back in the chair, you grinned lazily. “She’s a smart girl.”

“No, she has a smart teacher.” He mumbled, readjusting his monitor with both hands. He didn't meet your eyes when he said it. Once he did, neither urged to add anything more to the statement. 

Clearing your throat, you smiled with tight lips. “I appreciate the consideration for the chief resident position.”

Park raised singular eyebrows as you clamped your mouth. “That’s it?”

Fuck no, you thought. Logistically, you were thinking of all the way this could go wrong. Sure, he was abnormally nice right now, but who's to say when push comes to shove, he won’t retaliate? You sucked in a sharp breath, “I understand I would have to move to the day shift to receive the privilege.”

A pause. Your niceties weren’t meant to intervene with this conversation. Park didn't need sweetness. He wanted to practice convening with his future chief resident. You bated your eyes, “But, I just want reassurance that there can be mutual respect that doesn't end with either of our egos bruised.”

“You want a pinky promise?” He joked with a frown.

“Of course not!” You groaned, dragging a hand to obscure the smirk. Curse his charm. “Let's agree to listen to one another. If you really want me as your chief resident, you have to trust me, and not use bullying as a form of lecturing.”

“I think I proved that there are other effective tools to teach residents besides crushing their hopes and dreams.” You cocked your head, peering at him through your eyelashes. 

His mind drew a blank. You had to lay the rules now, while you both were in the right state of mind too. He didn't have to mindlessly throw himself into your mercy. You’d always respect him as you're attending, but it should extend both ways. You always welcome the criticism—if done correctly. You wanted to learn from him after all, but not at the expense of your dignity. Now, he knew that. You weren't going to give that up easily.

While taking another sip of the coffee, he nodded. “As long as you stop apologizing for everything. You're about to be a chief resident and you should start acting like one.”

You hummed appreciatively at the sound of the words leaving his mouth. It felt right. Livelier and buzzing with newfound determinations, you smiled at Park. He didn’t like overt niceness, but he didn’t stop you from being bubbly. “I think I can work on that.”

He was crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes heavier with exhaustion. He bit down, but the small curvature of the corner of his lip gave him away. You reached down and grabbed the backpack on the ground. Stretching lightly, you shoved the sleeves up your arms, staring appreciatively at Park. “You should go home, get some sleep.”

All he did was lightly swing the chair back and forth, pushing with his feet. He didn’t make an effort to stand up, even when he continued staring at you through his lashes. Pushing the chair in, your hands lingered on the top edge of the back. Before the week, you didn’t know what to expect.

Park was predictable in nature and unpredictable in sentiment. He had exactly shown you a soft interior for you to believe anything similar to your gentler nature existed in him, but this was the start. 

“I think I should be telling you that.” Park grumbled, tossing his head back to run a hand through his hair. He tussled it around, stray hairs parting in the middle. 

You shrugged, “Balance, Dr. Park. That’s how this works from here on out.”

The pride in your chest for having some equality in this tug-and-pull relationship you two had was undeniable. Your intention wasn’t to abuse it, but to hopefully pave your way to a permanent position after residency. Park must have known the program and Admin would be looking for that in candidates. Walking towards his door, you didn’t sense the nerves eating you alive as when you walked in. There was a change in the atmosphere. It was charged with a positive energy that didn’t come from the agony of fearing Park the Shark. Being in the same enclosure brought you excitement.

Sparing him one last look, you scoffed. “You owe me a coffee, by the way.”

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[paigepie213]

Soulmates? - Dr. Robby x Female Reader

Request - Hey, just a quick question. I am big on soulmates rn and I was wondering if you ever thought of writing one for Robby down the road? (He's so sad and I love when he finds love, u know?) Btw, ur writing is amazing!!!

I loved getting to explore this topic through these characters 🫶

Masterlist

*****************************************************

The emergency department finally exhaled sometime after midnight. Trauma Bay Two had been scrubbed clean, monitors had stopped screaming, the waiting room had thinned to a handful of exhausted families, and for the first time in nearly sixteen hours, the fluorescent lights didn’t feel quite so oppressive. You were halfway out the ambulance entrance when you heard Robby’s familiar voice behind you.

“You’re walking awfully fast for someone who’s supposed to be celebrating.”

You turned just enough to see him shrugging into his jacket, dark circles under his eyes looking somehow even darker beneath the parking lot lights. There was dried blood on the cuff of his black scrub top that neither of you had noticed during the shift. Neither of you commented on it. That was emergency medicine.

“I’m too tired to celebrate.”

“Bullshit.”

You laughed, rubbing both hands over your face. “I’m serious.”

“I know.” He shoved his hands into his pockets before nodding toward the street. “That’s why we’re getting a drink.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Was that a question?”

“No.”

“I have to be back here in…” You checked your watch before groaning dramatically. “Seven hours.”

“You’ll survive.”

“I don’t know…”

“I do.”

There was something comforting about how matter-of-fact he was. No fanfare. No convincing. Just the quiet confidence of someone who had seen you survive far worse than one short night’s sleep. Three years of residency had done strange things to your relationship with Michael Robinavitch. When you’d first arrived at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, he’d been intimidating in every sense of the word—sharp, impossible to impress, always somehow ten steps ahead of everyone else in the room. Somewhere between overnight traumas, missed holidays, terrible cafeteria coffee, and countless patients neither of you would ever forget, he’d quietly become the person whose opinion mattered most to you. Not because he was your attending. Because somewhere along the way, he’d become your friend.

The bar sat three blocks from the hospital and catered almost exclusively to nurses, firefighters, paramedics, and doctors who had nowhere else they’d rather pretend to be for an hour or two before collapsing into bed. The bartender barely looked up when Robby ordered two bourbons.

“You didn’t even ask what I wanted.”

“You always order bourbon after trauma shifts.”

“I do?”

“You’ve done it every time we’ve come here.”

You blinked.

“I didn’t know you’d noticed.”

He looked almost confused by the statement. “I notice a lot of things.”

The drinks arrived, amber catching the warm light above the bar. You wrapped both hands around the glass, grateful simply to be sitting somewhere that wasn’t a trauma bay. Around you, conversations blurred together into laughter and tired stories about impossible patients and impossible administrators. Robby lifted his glass toward you.

“To surviving residency.”

You clinked yours against his.

“I haven’t survived yet.”

“You’ve got three shifts left.”

“Which means statistically I still have time to embarrass myself.”

He snorted into his drink. “You’ve managed not to for three years.”

“You say that like you haven’t yelled at me before.”

“I’ve yelled because you were capable of better.”

“That’s somehow worse.”

“No.” He smiled faintly. “It’s better.”

You took a slow sip, letting the bourbon burn just enough to wake you back up. For a while, neither of you spoke. It wasn’t uncomfortable. One of your favorite things about Robby was that silence never felt like something that needed fixing. It simply existed.

“So…” he said eventually. “What’s next?”

You stared into your glass.

“Honestly?”

“When have I ever wanted anything else?”

You sighed.

“I accepted the emergency medicine fellowship.”

“I know.”

“You knew before I told you?”

“You signed the paperwork on my desk.”

“Oh.” You laughed. “Right.”

“I also saw you smiling afterward.”

“That’s creepy.”

“It’s observational.”

“Sure it is.”

He smiled into his drink.

“I thought…” you began quietly, “I thought by thirty I’d have all of this figured out.”

His eyebrow lifted.

“‘All of this’ being?”

You gestured vaguely into the air.

“My life.”

He actually laughed then. Not loudly, but enough to make you grin.

“You really thought that?”

“I did.”

“What’d you picture?”

You leaned back, thinking.

“I don’t know. Married, probably. Maybe a kid. Maybe two. House with a backyard. Golden retriever. Normal hours.”

“You chose emergency medicine.”

“I know.”

“So that eliminated normal hours.”

You laughed again.

“I was so sure I’d be somewhere else by now.”

He nodded once.

“I think everyone is.”

“What about you?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he swirled what remained of his bourbon before taking another drink.

“When I was your age…”

“Almost twenty years ago?”

“I’m not discussing numbers.”

“You brought up age.”

“I regret it already.”

You smiled.

“What’d you think your life would look like?”

He stared across the room for several long seconds.

“I thought I’d save more people.”

Your smile disappeared.

“I thought medicine would get easier.” He shook his head. “I thought if I worked hard enough, I’d eventually reach a point where losing patients didn’t follow me home.” Another pause. “I thought I’d have someone waiting there.”

The honesty in his voice landed with surprising weight.

“You wanted a family?”

“I think I wanted…” He searched for the right words. “Someone to build a life with.”

“What happened?”

He shrugged.

“I kept choosing work.”

“Or work kept choosing you.”

He looked over at you.

“There’s a difference?”

“I think there is.”

The bartender switched the television over the bar to some reality show where a young couple stood on a beach surrounded by flowers while family members cried into champagne glasses. You rolled your eyes.

“Oh, here we go.”

Robby followed your gaze.

“Wedding show. They’re all the same.”

“You sound cynical.”

“I sound realistic.”

“They’re twenty-three,” you said, pointing toward the television. “They’ve known each other eighteen months and apparently they’re soulmates.”

He took another drink.

“Maybe.”

“You believe that?”

He shrugged.

“I believe they believe it.”

“Oh, that’s a politician’s answer.”

“No.”

“What then?”

He leaned back against the booth.

“I think people like the idea of soulmates.”

“And you don’t?”

“I don’t know.”

You studied him carefully.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about anything remotely romantic.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“So?”

He smiled faintly.

“I think people confuse recognition with destiny.”

You frowned.

“What does that mean?”

“I think sometimes you meet someone who feels…familiar.”

“Like you’ve known them forever?”

“Something like that.”

“And?”

“And people call that fate.”

“You don’t?”

“I think…” He looked down at the condensation running down his glass. “I think two people recognize pieces of themselves in each other. That doesn’t mean the universe planned it.”

“It just…happens?”

“Maybe.”

You were quiet for a moment.

“So you don’t believe everyone has one soulmate.”

“I think everyone has choices.”

“And love?”

“I think love is something you build.”

You smiled softly.

“That’s actually more romantic than believing in destiny.”

He looked genuinely surprised.

“How?”

“Because destiny doesn’t ask anything of you.”

He tilted his head.

“But choosing someone every day…” Your voice softened. “…that’s harder.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The sounds of the bar faded into the background until it almost felt like the conversation existed inside its own little pocket of time. You looked at him again.

“Have you ever been in love?”

The question lingered between you. Finally, he nodded.

“Yes.”

“Did you think she was your soulmate?”

His expression became distant.

“I loved people.”

People. Plural.

“But no.”

“No?”

He slowly shook his head.

“I never met anyone who made the rest of the world quieter.”

The sentence settled over you like snowfall. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just…there. You swallowed.

“What about you?”

You smiled sadly.

“I’ve loved people too.”

“And?”

“I don’t know.”

You stared down at your drink.

“I kept waiting for lightning.”

“And?”

“I think I missed all the smaller things.”

Robby’s eyes stayed on yours.

“The smaller things matter more.”

You didn’t realize how long you’d been looking at each other until the bartender interrupted.

“You two need another?”

You both answered at exactly the same time.

“No.”

The bartender laughed.

“You’ve been spending too much time together.”

Neither of you responded. Outside, the July air wrapped around the city in thick humidity as you stepped onto the sidewalk. Pittsburgh glowed around you, bridges reflecting off the river while ambulances continued their endless dance toward the hospital a few blocks away. You folded your arms against the cool breeze.

“I should get home.”

“You should.”

Neither of you moved. You looked at him one last time.

“Thanks…for tonight.”

His smile was tired but genuine.

“You’ve earned someone buying you a drink.”

“You know…”

“What?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever told you this.”

“No?”

“You’ve made me a better doctor.”

He looked away almost immediately.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You did that.”

“I had help.”

He chuckled quietly, shaking his head before meeting your eyes again.

“I’m glad you’re staying.”

The words were simple. But they carried more weight than either of you expected.

“So am I.”

You started toward your car, hearing his footsteps remain where they were. Halfway across the parking lot, you glanced back. He was still standing exactly where you’d left him. Watching. Not because he was waiting for anything. Just making sure you got to your car safely. You smiled to yourself before climbing inside. As you drove home through the sleeping city, one sentence refused to leave your mind.

I think people confuse recognition with destiny.

For reasons you couldn’t begin to explain… it suddenly felt like the most important thing Michael Robinavitch had ever said.

******

It had been eight months since you’d walked across the stage, accepted your residency certificate, and immediately signed yourself up for two more years of organized chaos as an Emergency Medicine fellow. Eight months since bourbon at a neighborhood bar had somehow turned into one of the most honest conversations you’d ever had. Eight months since Michael Robinavitch had quietly told you he believed people confused recognition with destiny. You hadn’t brought it up again. Neither had he. But every now and then, usually in the middle of some impossible shift when the department finally settled for all of thirty seconds, you’d catch him looking over to make sure you were still standing, and that sentence would drift back into your mind. Recognition. Maybe that’s all friendship was, you sometimes thought. Finding someone whose existence simply made sense.

The emergency department was coming apart at the seams by noon. Flu cases had flooded triage before sunrise. Two traumas rolled in less than fifteen minutes apart. One septic patient crashed in Room Twelve while an intoxicated teenager screamed obscenities loud enough for half the department to hear. Every monitor seemed determined to alarm at the exact same moment, nurses were running without stopping, respiratory therapy was stretched impossibly thin, and every available hallway had become another patient room. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Some shifts simply arrived with teeth. You had just finished placing a central line when Dana intercepted you outside Trauma Two.

“You seen Chief?”

You peeled off your gloves.

“No. Why?”

She sighed.

“Administration.”

That was all she had to say. You closed your eyes for exactly one second.

“…Gloria?”

Dana nodded.

“They’ve been at it for almost twenty minutes.”

You didn’t ask what about. It almost didn’t matter anymore. Over the last several months, Gloria had become increasingly determined to remind Robby that budgets, staffing numbers, patient satisfaction metrics, documentation compliance, and board expectations somehow mattered just as much as the patients bleeding in front of him. Robby, unsurprisingly, had little patience for conversations that started with spreadsheets while people were dying twenty feet away. You rounded the corner just in time to hear his voice.

“…I’m telling you there physically wasn’t another attending.”

Gloria folded her arms.

“Then perhaps your department needs to learn efficiency.”

Robby laughed once. It wasn’t humor. It was disbelief.

“You think efficiency fixes four attendings calling in sick?”

“I think leadership requires planning.”

“I planned.”

“Then why was your waiting room over capacity?”

“Because trauma doesn’t fucking RSVP.”

The hallway fell silent. A few nurses suddenly found fascinating reasons to study their clipboards. Gloria’s jaw tightened.

“Watch your tone.”

“My tone isn’t the problem.”

“No?”

“The problem is that you walked through this department exactly once today.”

She took one deliberate step closer.

“You are becoming increasingly difficult to work with.”

“And you’re becoming increasingly detached from the people actually doing the work.”

“Michael—”

“No.”

His voice remained remarkably calm. Too calm.

“You want patient satisfaction numbers?” He gestured toward the department. “Walk through there. You want staffing solutions?” He pointed toward the exhausted nurses. “Ask them why they’re working sixteen-hour shifts. You want documentation?” He laughed bitterly. “I’ve got residents charting in supply closets because there aren’t enough computers.”

Gloria stared at him for several seconds before collecting her folder.

“This conversation isn’t over.”

“It never is.”

She walked away without another word. Robby remained exactly where he was. Hands on his hips. Head bowed. Looking, for the first time since you’d known him…Old. Not older. Old.

He didn’t notice you standing there. He simply inhaled once before turning back toward another patient room. The shift continued. Because it always did. He still taught. Still checked every resident’s work. Still comforted frightened families. Still cracked dry jokes to nervous interns. Still carried the department exactly the way he always had.

But something was different. He smiled less. His shoulders stayed tight. Twice you caught him staring into nothing for several seconds before forcing himself back into motion. Near the end of the shift, after the last admission finally left and the department settled into something almost manageable, you went looking for him.

His office was empty. The physician lounge. Empty. Trauma. Nothing. You smiled to yourself.

“You’re predictable.”

The roof door creaked exactly the way it always had. Evening sunlight spilled across the concrete as you stepped outside. Pittsburgh stretched endlessly below, rivers glowing gold beneath the setting sun while helicopters crossed lazily overhead toward hospitals farther across the city. Robby stood near the edge, forearms resting against the railing.nHe didn’t turn around.

“I was wondering how long it’d take you.”

You walked over beside him.

“I’ve gotten faster.”

“I noticed.”

Silence settled comfortably between you. Eventually he sighed.

“You know…”

“What?”

“I used to come up here because it was quiet.”

“And now?”

He looked toward the skyline.

“Now I come up here because nobody expects anything from me.”

The honesty landed heavier than you expected. You rested your elbows against the railing beside him.

“They’re wrong, you know.”

“Who’s they?”

“Everybody.”

He looked over.

“They expect everything from you.”

A humorless smile crossed his face.

“Exactly.”

You studied him for a long moment. He looked exhausted. Not physically. You knew physical exhaustion. You’d watched him function on ninety minutes of sleep without complaint. This was something else. This looked like someone carrying a weight that had slowly become invisible because he’d been carrying it for too long.

“What happened today?”

He laughed quietly.

“Which part?”

“The part where Gloria decided to wage war.”

“The usual.”

“You yelled.”

“I know.”

“You don’t usually yell.”

“I know.”

He rubbed both hands over his face before leaning harder against the railing.

“I’m just…”

He stopped. You waited.

“…tired.” The word came out barely above a whisper. “I’m tired of defending medicine to people who’ve never practiced it.” Another pause. “I’m tired of fighting for nurses. I’m tired of explaining why we can’t treat human beings like numbers.” He swallowed. “I’m tired of walking into this building wondering who’s going to leave next.”

You watched the city below. Not interrupting. Not fixing. Just listening.

“I used to think…” he continued quietly, “…that if I worked hard enough, eventually I’d earn some peace.” He laughed bitterly. “Turns out every promotion just gives you more people to disappoint.”

“You don’t disappoint people.”

“No?” He finally looked at you. “Ask my residents.”

“I am one.”

“You were.”

“I’m still learning from you.”

He smiled faintly.

“I appreciate the charity.”

“This is not charity.”

“No?”

“It’s fact.”

He looked away again.

“I don’t know who I’d be if I left.”

The sentence surprised you.

“You’ve thought about it.”

“Every day.”

“You’d quit?”

“I don’t know.”

“What would you do?”

He shrugged.

“I honestly don’t know.”

The admission seemed to embarrass him.

“I’ve spent so much of my life becoming this…” He gestured vaguely toward the hospital behind you. “…that I don’t know what’s left if I stop.”

You turned fully toward him.

“Can I tell you something?”

He nodded.

“If you quit tomorrow…”

He watched you carefully.

“…I’d still know exactly who you are.”

His eyebrows drew together.

“How?”

“Because none of the things I admire about you require this building.”

He said nothing.

“You remember every janitor’s name.”

His eyes stayed fixed on yours.

“You always carry crackers in your pocket because diabetic patients forget to eat.”

A tiny smile threatened at the corner of his mouth.

“You call families even after your shift ends because you know they’re scared.”

You stepped a little closer.

“You make residents feel like they belong before they believe it themselves.”

His throat moved.

“You’ve convinced more nurses not to quit than you probably realize.” You smiled softly. “And when you think nobody’s looking…”

His voice was almost inaudible.

“…what?”

“…you pet every therapy dog that comes through the department.”

For the first time all day…He laughed. A real laugh.

“You saw that.”

“I’ve seen it four times.”

“I was hoping nobody noticed.”

“You literally get on the floor with them.”

“They’re good dogs.”

“They are.”

Silence settled again. The kind that didn’t need filling. Finally he looked at you.

“I forgot all of that.”

“I know.”

“I only remembered everything I’m failing at.”

“You aren’t failing.”

“I don’t feel like I’m succeeding.”

You reached out before you could second-guess yourself and rested your hand gently against his forearm. The contact was small. Simple. But neither of you pulled away.

He looked down at your hand for several long seconds before lifting his eyes back to yours. There was no surprise there. Only something quieter. Recognition.

“You know…” he said softly, “you’re becoming dangerous.”

“Oh?”

“You keep saying things I believe.”

You smiled.

“I learned from the best.”

“No.”

“I mean it.”

His eyes searched yours with an intensity that made the rest of the city disappear.

“I don’t know when you stopped being the resident I worried about…” Your heart stumbled. “…and started being the person I look for.”

Neither of you breathed. The evening wind moved gently between you. A helicopter passed somewhere in the distance. The world continued. Neither of you did. You stepped closer. Just enough that you could see every fleck of brown hidden inside his tired eyes.

“You asked me once,” you whispered, “if I believed in soulmates.”

“I remember.”

“I still don’t know.”

He nodded once.

“Neither do I.”

“But…”

“But?”

You smiled sadly.

“I think if they’re real…” Your fingers slowly curled around his hand. “…they probably find each other on really ordinary Tuesdays.”

He stared at you. Really stared. Like he was seeing something that had been standing in front of him for months but had only just come into focus. His free hand lifted slowly, deliberately, giving you every opportunity to move away. Instead, it rested lightly against your cheek.

“You should tell me to stop.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You might regret this.”

“I don’t think I will.”

His forehead rested against yours first. A quiet question. A chance to change your minds. Neither of you did.

When he finally kissed you, it wasn’t rushed or desperate or born from adrenaline. It was impossibly gentle, the kind of kiss that felt less like the beginning of something and more like finally admitting something that had been true for a very long time. His lips lingered only for a heartbeat before he drew back just enough to look at you again, his thumb brushing softly across your cheek as though reassuring himself you were actually there. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, with the smallest, most incredulous smile you’d ever seen from him, he whispered, “I spent months telling myself I was just glad you came back.”

You smiled through the tears gathering in your eyes.

“And now?”

His forehead found yours again.

“Now I think I would’ve looked for you anyway.”

******

Almost a year later, the apartment still smelled like coffee. You had teased Robby about it from the first time he’d invited you over after that kiss on the roof. His answer had been that coffee was a personality trait, not a beverage, and you’d laughed so hard you’d nearly spilled your mug. Since then, Sunday mornings had become yours. Some weekends you cooked. Most weekends you ordered takeout because one of you had picked up an extra shift. There were toothbrushes in both bathrooms now. Your shampoo had quietly appeared in his shower. Your favorite sweatshirt lived permanently draped over the back of his couch. He never officially asked you to leave things there. You simply did, and one day you realized he’d started making room for them without saying a word. That was how the two of you loved each other—not through grand declarations, but through ordinary accommodations that slowly became impossible to imagine living without. Which was exactly why the silence felt so wrong.

The front door clicked shut behind you.

“Michael?”

No answer. You slipped your shoes off, setting your overnight bag beside the couch. The apartment was dark except for a single lamp glowing near the bookshelves. Chinese takeout containers sat unopened on the kitchen counter, exactly where you’d left them after dropping dinner off almost four hours earlier when he’d texted that he was stuck finishing charts.

“Mike?”

This time you heard him.

“I’m in here.”

His voice came from the bedroom. You found him sitting on the edge of the bed still wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles had turned white. His glasses sat forgotten beside him. The television wasn’t on. No music played. The room felt unnaturally still. You leaned against the doorframe.

“You didn’t eat.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“You always say that when something’s wrong.”

He rubbed both hands over his face.

“I’m just tired.”

“You’ve been ‘just tired’ for three weeks.”

“I know.”

You walked over slowly before sitting beside him. The mattress dipped. Neither of you spoke. Finally you nudged his shoulder with yours.

“Talk to me.”

He stared at the hardwood floor.

“I don’t know how.”

“You’ve never had trouble talking to me before.”

“I know.”

“So what’s different?”

His laugh came out flat.

“I am.”

That answer made your stomach tighten. You waited. Because you had learned something over the last year. Robby always found the words eventually. He just needed someone patient enough to stay until they arrived.

“I turned forty-nine last month.”

“I remember.”

“I don’t.”

You frowned.

“You don’t remember your birthday?”

“I don’t remember feeling anything.” Another pause. “I thought I’d wake up and feel…older.”

“You did.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I mean wiser.”

You stayed quiet.

“I’ve been doing this for almost twenty-five years.”

His eyes remained fixed on the floor.

“I know every trauma protocol. I can intubate someone in the dark, know exactly which resident is about to panic before they panic. I can usually tell who’s going to die within thirty seconds of meeting them.”

His voice cracked almost imperceptibly.

“And somehow…” He swallowed. “…I still don’t know who I am when I go home.”

The room became painfully quiet. You reached for his hand. He let you. But his fingers didn’t close around yours.

“I think…” he whispered, “…I’m having one of those pathetic midlife crises everyone jokes about.”

You smiled gently.

“I don’t think it’s pathetic.”

“I do.”

You squeezed his hand.

“I think you’ve spent twenty-five years taking care of everyone else.”

He finally looked at you.

“And?”

“And maybe you’re asking yourself if there’s any version of Michael Robinavitch left underneath Chief.”

Something flickered across his face. Recognition.

“I don’t know if there is.”

“There is.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know him.”

He looked away again.

“You know the version of me that’s useful.”

Your eyebrows pulled together.

“What?”

“The version that fixes things.”

“I don’t—”

“The version that people need.”

He stood abruptly, pacing toward the living room.

“I don’t know what happens if they stop.”

You followed him.

“They won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you.”

“No.” His voice sharpened. “You know the guy who’s good at this.” He gestured wildly toward the window where the lights of Pittsburgh stretched endlessly below. “What if this is all there is?”

“What if I retire and nobody calls? What if I spend the next twenty years realizing the only thing interesting about me was the hospital?”

You crossed your arms.

“Is that really what you think?”

“I don’t know what I think.”

“Yes, you do.”

He laughed bitterly.

“No.”

“You do.”

“I said I don’t.”

“You just don’t like the answer.”

He turned toward you.

“You don’t understand.”

Something inside you snapped.

“No.” Your voice echoed through the apartment. “You don’t understand.”

He froze. For the first time since you’d met him…You were angry. Not frustrated. Angry.

“You don’t get to decide what matters to me.”

His mouth opened. You didn’t let him speak.

“You don’t get to sit here and tell me the only valuable thing about you is your job.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You did.”

“I said—”

“You said if you left medicine there’d be nothing left.”

You stepped closer.

“So let me ask you something.”

He stared at you.

“When my grandmother died…” His face softened immediately. “…who sat on my kitchen floor with me until four in the morning because I couldn’t stop crying?”

Silence.

“When I failed my boards the first time…” He closed his eyes. “…who drove across the city with milkshakes because you knew I hadn’t eaten?”

His shoulders sagged.

“When I got accepted into fellowship…” Your voice began to shake. “…who cried harder than I did?”

He looked at you again. Tears had already started gathering in your eyes.

“That wasn’t Chief.”

Another step.

“That wasn’t emergency medicine.”

Another.

“That was you.”

His breathing became uneven.

“I picked you.”

He blinked.

“What?”

“I didn’t pick the hospital.” You shook your head. “I didn’t fall in love with emergency medicine.” Your voice broke. “I fell in love with a stubborn, grumpy, unbelievably kind man who thinks rescue dogs should be allowed in trauma bays because they’d improve morale.”

Despite everything…A tiny laugh escaped him. You kept going.

“I fell in love with the man who calls my mother every Sunday. The man who reads history books before bed. The man who pretends he doesn’t like Christmas but secretly cries at those ridiculous holiday commercials.”

His eyes squeezed shut.

“I fell in love with the man who still carries guilt over patients from fifteen years ago because he loved them enough to remember.” Tears finally slipped down his face. “You don’t get to rewrite yourself into somebody I only tolerate because you’re good at your job.”

He whispered your name. You shook your head.

“You listen to me.”

He did.

“I picked you.”

The words came out stronger this time.

“I didn’t pick Chief.”

“I didn’t pick emergency medicine.”

“I picked Michael.”

The apartment became so quiet you could hear traffic eight floors below. Finally he spoke.

“I don’t know who I am anymore.”

The confession sounded almost childlike. Lost. Scared. Honest. You walked the last few steps between you until your hands rested gently against his face.

“You don’t have to know tonight.”

“What if I never figure it out?” His voice trembled. “What if this feeling never goes away?”

You smiled through your own tears.

“Then we’ll figure it out together.”

“And if we can’t?”

“Then we’ll be confused together.”

He laughed wetly through his tears.

“That’s not much of a plan.”

“It’s an excellent plan.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“It absolutely is.”

He rested his forehead against yours.

“You deserve somebody who’s certain.”

You actually rolled your eyes.

“Oh, for the love of God.”

That made him laugh again. You poked him lightly in the chest.

“Would you stop trying to make decisions for me?”

“I’m trying to protect you.”

“No.” You shook your head. “You’re trying to leave before I ever get the chance.”

His entire body went still.

“You think I’d leave.”

“I think you’re terrified I’ll realize you’re human.”

A long silence followed. Then, so quietly you almost missed it…

“I’ve spent my whole life believing people eventually leave.”

Your heart cracked open. There it was. Not the fear of retirement. Not the fear of aging. Not even the fear of losing purpose. The fear beneath all of it. You wrapped both arms around him without another word. At first he remained rigid.

Then, slowly…He folded into you. His face disappeared against your shoulder as the first real sob escaped him. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just years of pressure finally giving way. You held him. You didn’t rush him. You simply let him break. When he finally pulled back several minutes later, his eyes were red and exhausted, but somehow lighter than they’d been all evening.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t apologize for crying.”

“I yelled.”

“So did I.”

“I said things I didn’t mean.”

You smiled softly.

“I know.”

He brushed his thumb across your cheek, wiping away tears you hadn’t realized were still falling.

“What if life looks completely different five years from now?”

You looked into the eyes of the man you’d chosen every single day for more than a year.

“I hope it does.”

He blinked.

“What?”

“I hope we change. I hope our dreams change. I hope our jobs change. I hope we keep becoming people we haven’t met yet.” Your hand slipped into his. “The only thing I don’t want to change…” You intertwined your fingers with his. “…is that when all of those changes happen…”

You lifted his hand to your lips, pressing the gentlest kiss against his knuckles.

“…you’re still the person I reach for first.”

He stared at you for a long time before a small, fragile smile finally appeared. The kind of smile that didn’t solve anything. But promised he was willing to stay. He squeezed your hand once. Not tightly. Just enough for you to feel it.

Enough to remind you both that certainty wasn’t what held people together. Sometimes all it took…was choosing not to let go.

******

Six months later, you almost missed him. The trail wound through the boulders of Joshua Tree National Park in long stretches of silence broken only by the wind moving through the desert and the occasional call of a raven somewhere high overhead. The California sun had already begun its slow descent, softening the hard edges of the rocks into warm shades of amber and gold. You adjusted the backpack on your shoulders, checked the directions he’d texted you one more time, and rounded another massive granite formation before finally spotting him in the distance.

He was sitting on top of one of the rocks, knees bent, baseball cap turned backward, hiking boots dusty, a notebook balanced loosely against one leg. He looked…Different.

Not dramatically. He was still unmistakably Michael Robinavitch. But the constant tension that had lived between his shoulders for years had disappeared. His beard had grown in more fully than you’d ever seen it. The circles beneath his eyes had faded. He’d lost a little weight, probably from hiking every day instead of surviving on cafeteria food and coffee. More than anything, though? He looked rested.

Really rested. Not asleep. Not recovering. Rested.

He looked up just as you stepped into view. For one brief second, the composed expression he’d been wearing shattered completely.

“There you are.”

You laughed.

“I’ve been hiking for forty minutes.”

“I know.”

“You couldn’t have met me at the parking lot?”

“I wanted to see if you’d complain.”

“I am complaining.”

“You made it anyway.”

You rolled your eyes before closing the remaining distance between you.

“You look…”

He tilted his head.

“Older?”

“No.” You smiled. “Happier.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stood, stepped down from the rock, and wrapped both arms around you. There were no words. Just the familiar feeling of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

His chin resting lightly against the top of your head. His hand slowly rubbing circles across your back. The hug lasted long enough that you forgot how long you’d been apart.

“I missed you,” he admitted quietly.

You smiled into his chest.

“I know.”

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“I’m not.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

“How?”

“You’ve called me every single night.”

“That doesn’t mean I missed you.”

“It means exactly that.”

He laughed.

“You know me too well.”

“I’ve been trying.”

His thumb brushed gently across your cheek.

“You succeeded.”

The cabin sat tucked between enormous boulders nearly twenty minutes farther down the trail. It wasn’t much, one bedroom, a tiny kitchen, a weathered wooden porch with two rocking chairs, and windows that seemed designed solely to frame the endless desert beyond them.

“It’s perfect,” you whispered.

“I thought you’d like it.”

“I love it.”

He unlocked the front door before gesturing dramatically inside.

“My kingdom for the last eleven days.”

You stepped over the threshold. The place looked exactly like him. History books stacked beside the couch. A half-finished crossword puzzle. A cast-iron skillet drying beside the sink

Medical journals shoved carelessly beneath a chair as though he’d tried very hard not to read them and failed anyway. You picked one up.

“Really?”

He looked guilty.

“I only read one article.”

“You packed emergency medicine journals for your sabbatical.”

“It was one weak moment.”

You laughed so hard your stomach hurt.

“You are unbelievable.”

He took the journal from your hands before tossing it into a cabinet.

“There. Problem solved. Now…”

He pointed toward the porch.

“You sit.”

“What are you doing?”

“Dinner.”

“I can help.”

“You absolutely cannot.”

“Oh?”

“You once burned pasta.”

“I still maintain that was the stove’s fault.”

“It was boiling water.”

“The stove was aggressive.”

He laughed, shaking his head.

“You’ve told yourself that story enough times that I almost believe it.”

You surrendered, settling into one of the rocking chairs while he disappeared into the tiny kitchen. The evening settled slowly around the cabin. The desert cooled. The sky shifted from gold to lavender to deep navy. One by one, the stars appeared. Then hundreds. Then thousands.

By the time he carried two bowls of homemade chili outside, the Milky Way stretched across the entire sky. You looked up in complete disbelief.

“Oh…”

He smiled.

“I had the same reaction.”

“I’ve never seen…”

“I know.”

The two of you ate slowly beneath the stars, talking about everything and nothing. The coyote you’d heard on the hike in. The tiny bookstore he’d discovered in Palm Springs. The retired park ranger he’d befriended who insisted the desert taught patience better than any religion.

He seemed lighter than you’d ever known him. Not because his problems had disappeared. Because he’d finally stopped carrying them alone.

After dinner, he built a small fire just beyond the porch. The flames crackled softly while the desert grew quiet around you. You curled beneath the blanket he’d draped across your lap. He stared into the fire for a very long time.

“You were right.”

You looked over.

“About what?”

“I needed to leave.”

You smiled.

“I know.”

“I thought I’d find answers.”

“And?”

“I didn’t.”

Your eyebrow lifted.

“No?”

“I found better questions.”

You waited.

“I kept asking myself who Michael Robinavitch was without the hospital.”

He poked thoughtfully at the fire.

“Turns out…” He laughed quietly. “…was asking the wrong question.”

“What was the right one?”

He turned toward you.

“Who has Michael Robinavitch been…” His voice softened. “…when he’s been at his best?”

You watched him carefully.

“I started writing.”

“The notebook?”

He nodded.

“Every day.”

“What’d you write?”

He reached behind his chair before handing it to you. The notebook was worn now. Pages bent. Corners folded. You opened it. Every page contained dates. Small memories. Nothing elaborate. Just moments.

Called Jack.

Finished a book.

Hiked seven miles.

Helped a couple change a flat tire.

Watched the sunrise.

Then…Your name.

Again. And again. And again.

You looked up. He smiled almost shyly.

“I didn’t notice at first.”

“What?”

“How often you showed up.”

He leaned back, eyes drifting toward the stars.

“I kept thinking about that conversation in the bar.”

Your heart skipped.

“‘Recognition versus destiny.’”

“I remember.”

“I told you people mistake recognition for destiny.”

“You did.”

He laughed softly.

“I’ve been thinking…”

“That’s usually dangerous.”

“It is.” Another smile. “I realized something.”

You waited.

“My entire adult life…” He stared into the fire. “…every time something important happened…”

He began counting quietly on his fingers.

“When my mother died.”

You reached for his hand.

“When I became Chief. When Adamson died. When I almost quit. When Gloria made me question whether I still belonged. When Langdon was an addict. When I came out here.”

He looked down at your intertwined fingers.

“You were the first person I wanted to tell, even if some things happened before I knew you.”

Tears began filling your eyes. He kept going.

“When something made me laugh…You. When something terrified me…You. When I doubted myself…You.”

He looked up.

“When I couldn’t sleep…You.”

His voice had grown almost impossibly gentle.

“I kept trying to figure out why.” The fire crackled softly between you. “I thought maybe it was because you’re my best friend.”

A tear slipped down your cheek.

“I thought maybe it was because you’re the smartest doctor I’ve ever worked with.”

Another.

“I thought maybe it was because I love you.”

His own eyes had begun to shine.

“But none of those felt…” He searched for the word. “…complete.”

You couldn’t speak. He reached across the space between your chairs and took both of your hands in his.

“So I started paying attention.” His thumbs slowly brushed over your knuckles. “I noticed you’re the first person I look for in every room.”

You smiled through your tears.

“I noticed I still reach for my phone whenever something happens because I assume you’ll want to know.” He laughed quietly. “I noticed every version of myself over the last several years somehow has you standing beside him.”

His breathing hitched.

“The terrified Chief. The burned-out doctor. The man on the roof who thought he had nothing left. The stubborn idiot who thought pushing you away would somehow protect you.”

His eyes finally met yours again.

“You were there.”

Every word landed like a heartbeat.

“You’ve been my anchor.”

Another.

“My voice of reason.”

Another.

“My safest place.”

Another.

“The person who reminds me who I am whenever I forget.”

The tears were falling freely now. He smiled through his own.

“I spent twenty-five years believing purpose came from medicine.” He shook his head. “I had it backwards.”

“You did?”

“My purpose wasn’t the hospital.”

His fingers squeezed yours.

“It was building a life worth coming home to.” Silence. “So I have one last question.”

Your heart was pounding so hard you were certain he could hear it.

“What is it?”

He smiled.

“What do you think all of this means?”

You looked around. The stars. The desert. The tiny cabin. The fire slowly burning lower. Then you looked back at the man who had met you as your attending, become your friend, fallen in love with you one ordinary shift at a time, nearly lost himself, and found his way back not because someone rescued him, but because the two of you refused to stop choosing each other. You lifted one hand, brushing your fingertips gently through his beard.

“I think…” Your voice trembled with quiet certainty. “…we’ve spent years trying to prove whether soulmates are real.”

He smiled.

“I think we’ve been asking the wrong question.”

His brow furrowed slightly.

“What do you mean?”

You leaned forward until your forehead rested against his.

“I don’t think soulmates are people the universe magically ties together.”

He didn’t move.

“I think they’re two people who keep finding each other.”

Your thumb brushed across his cheek.

“Over coffee.”

A small smile.

“On hospital rooftops.”

Another.

“On kitchen floors.”

His eyes closed.

“In ordinary Tuesdays.”

A quiet laugh escaped him.

“In the middle of fights. In the middle of healing. In every version of life.” You smiled through your tears. “I think soulmates are people who become each other’s home.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full. Full of every shift. Every conversation. Every fight. Every laugh. Every ordinary choice that had slowly become extraordinary simply because it had been repeated with unwavering devotion. Robby opened his eyes.

“I’ve spent most of my life believing destiny was something that happened to people.”

He leaned forward and kissed your forehead with a tenderness that stole your breath.

“I think I finally understand.”

“What?”

His voice was barely more than the wind moving through the Joshua trees.

“Destiny isn’t the day you meet someone.” He smiled, his forehead still resting against yours. “It’s waking up, years later…” His fingers intertwined with yours exactly as they had a hundred times before. “…and realizing you’ve been choosing the same person every day…”

He kissed you then. not with urgency, but with the quiet certainty of a man who had finally stopped searching.

“…until one morning you look at them…” His lips brushed yours once more, slow and lingering. “…and understand they were home all along.”

[di1fluvr]

all bark, no bite | j. abbot

jack abbot x fem!reader

summary: a bad shift doesn't allow you the right to give jack attitude. someone has to teach you a lesson.

tags/desc: 18+ MDNI, afab!reader, fem!reader, R2!reader, minor medical inaccuracies but who gaf, rude!reader as a plot device, mom and dad are fighting, established relationship, implied age gap, maybe mean!jack, brat taming/angry sex (it lowkey got away from me LOL), unprotected piv (no hat no cat!!), hair pulling, fingering, dry humping, spanking, name calling/pet names (baby, sweetheart, brat, etc), slightly proofread

wordcount: 5.8k

a/n: finally posting a regular jack one shot its been MONTHS HELLO!! this one lowkey made me blush and run laps around my room and also my first time at writing full on brat taming LMK IF ITS BUNS!!!!! 💚 requests are open—!! reblogs are a writers best friend

“Donnie, what the fuck is this?”

“Toxicology test.” 

“Yeah, without any heavy metals tested…”

“Yep… your student must have miswrote the order and it got tested wrong. You have to write another.” Donnie pursed his lips and handed you a new, fresh lab order sheet. Already knowing of the massive fuse you were bound to blow at any second.

Fucking med students, slipped under your breath as a war path led you to a frazzled med student. The crease between your eyebrows grew deeper and the heat in your neck rose to your cheeks. Nails digging into the skin of your palms as your only form of decompression to keep you from screaming profanities in their direction. Something about the lab today caused a massive delay, so you were already waiting two hours for a simple heavy metals test.

“You.” Tone seething as you grab the thin fabric of black scrubs. A rough tug, yanking a startled med student from the counter of the hub. 

Not giving them a moment to process what is happening, a soft jab of your finger into their chest. As if your touch has enough power to make them cave in on themselves. The twitch in your eye is enough to tell them they are in deep. It’s either all that frustration pent up inside of you, or the less than optimal four hours of sleep that you were running on. 

“What did you do with the order for Rebecca Washington’s lab?”

They stutter, you cut them off before they can explain themselves further.

“Because all I have in my hand is a toxicology test— Last time I checked, we did not test for blood alcohol and opioids in a god damn heavy metals test.” Volume rising louder than acceptable and venom dripped from your lips as you waved the paper in their face. It was long gone from neat, crinkled in your grip. Giving it one last shove into their chest, before stepping away.

“Redo it or stay out of my face for the rest of your fucking med school career.” Your eyes finish your thoughts with a sneer, turning yourself away.  “And fix your fucking handwritting, my four year old niece has better hand writing than you.” You had a particularly heavy sailor mouth today. 

The air is thick as you march away, turning your breathing ragged. Your trail could have left burn marks on the slippery linoleum.  A few nurses and CNAs eye each other at the fresh eruption that occurred in front of them. By the next shift, everyone is sure to know how you blew up at a med student.

You thought getting the chance to teach med students would be fun, fulfilling even. You loved being taught and having a mentor. You anticipated it being a bit stressful, but this— it was a different kind of stressful. No one warns you of the strain that forms in the back of your head when you have to focus on patients and babysit a small group of 26 year olds for twelve hours. The day had been piling up on you. Mistakes from med students, entitled patients, losing a patient, lack of a full meal. You were at your wits end. The only way you were able to properly emote your frustrations was onto other people.

Your charged stomps slowed down as you leaned against the counter of the nurses station. Catching your exhausted body on the edge, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. Two more hours, and then you can go home, is your mantra of choice to get through the rest shift.

“Maybe wanna lighten up on the interns? Before you scare them away into a different department. Or profession.” Robby’s sudden interjection pulled you back into reality, he leaned against the counter with you. Arms hugged around his chest and glasses hanging low on his nose bridge. A pitiful smile curled onto his face. He was just as tired as you were, but in comparison, you are winning the crash out olympics today. 

“Want to tell me what happened? Because I’m not quite sure what constitutes cursing out someone in front of their colleagues.” He asked, tilting his head to try and meet your gaze. 

A deep huff left your chest, straightening your posture for your attending. Fingers running through your hair and giving your scalp a brief massage to ease the headache. His eyes had that look— one that said: chill the fuck out. Or, that’s the only way your mind could interpret it. Your brain is stuck in fight or flight mode; everything feels like a constant jab at your competence. The tight thread holding you together can’t take an infamous Doctor Michael Robinvitch lecture. 

“They fucked up the order! I mean it’s med school 101 to know how to properly write a lab order and send it away.”

“True, but it’s their first week. Things happen. That’s the ups and downs of teaching. Can’t teach well if you’re always blowing up over the small things. It’s important to remember—”

“Oh blow me Robinavitch.” Turning away from him with a scoff. He really was one to talk; you could have sworn of the countless times he had to give you a stern talking to.

Never in your time working at PTMC have you ever had that kind of bite. Especially with Robby, on a normal day you were obedient under his words. Robby turned to look at Dana, who shook her head and never broke her focus on the ipad in her hands. 

“Well she’s got quite the potty mouth today.”

Robby sighed, watching as you walked into another trauma room. Picking up your next case, terrorizing your next med student. His hand reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. Swiping through the screen to bring up Jack’s messages.

Robby: Your girlfriend is on a rampage today.

Jack: What the fuck? What happened?

Robby: Well, she told me to blow her after she verbally abused a med student.

Robby: And you know I like to be wined and dined before going to the bedroom.

Jack: Jesus. I’m picking her up, I’ll be there tonight.

The last hours had flown through the emergency department. Night shift staff steadily trickled in to relieve the day shift of their duties. It is a rare night off for Jack. He posted himself up at the nurses station, chatting up with Lena and Dana as he waited for you to emerge from the locker room. Jack kept his eye on the locker room door, just so he can be the first to see for himself how to day put you through the ringer.

“You’re kidding?” He asked, keeping his voice low to avoid the chance of you walking into their conversation.

“Mhm— told them to fix their hand writing and everything. I caught the poor kid writing their ABCs in the breakroom.” Dana recanted the events of the day to Jack with a small, amused smirk on her lips. 

“That’s not really like her…” Jack pressed his lips in a straight line, already thinking of the lecture he was to throw at you about respect. He tries not to be that guy in your relationship, knowing you want a partner not a father. But at a time like this, it gets away from him and he feels the need to remind you of the importance of respect and humility within the profession.

“Go easy on her, it was a rough day for her.” Dana’s eyes and eyebrows jutted to point in the opposing direction behind Jack.

He’s quick to turn around and face you, crossing meaty arms over his chest and putting on a happy smile for you. He’s not surprised you were not returning his smile. The corner of your lips drooping down and your eyes had lost most of their glimmer. Trudging to Jack with your backpack hung over your shoulder lazily, he could see how tense you were.

“Hey baby, how was your—”

First stopping at Jack, shoving the bag into his arms, and beelining for the ambulance bay doors. Dismissing his presence as if he was any other person on the side of the street. Blazing a path of wrath. His eyebrows knit together, surprised you had to gall to ignore him like that. Poor Jack, he is no exception to your attitude today. 

“Good luck with that.”

The beginning of the car ride is quiet, only the hum of the engine and click of the blinker filling the void of silence. Jack wanted to make an attempt to talk to you again. Ask what he can do to make it better, offer an olive branch to spare him from your claws. But he knew how you were, you need to decompress. He let the silence stay, opting for silent forms of his affection by opening the door for you and taking your bag. As he let the door close behind him, you already disappeared into your apartment. Left alone in the living room, dimly lit by the floor lamp. Slipping his boots off, discarded neatly by the door compared to your sneakers, as if you had thrown them away when you walked in. Jack thought this was how the rest of the night would go, even though you knew he wasn’t keen on ending the day with silence or bitterness. He was very clear in every argument you had, neither of you is going to bed without talking it out.

Jack placed your bag on the bench by the door, sitting to massage the area around his prosthesis. You emerged from the lit bedroom, scrubs removed and changed into your normal house clothes. One of Jack’s old shirts and cotton shorts. He figured now is better than never to talk about how you’ve been acting all day. Pulling himself up, he moved to the kitchen counter, the one that overlooked the sink. He leaned onto it, watching as you floated around the kitchen. You were trying to avoid as little eye contact as possible, but he is searching intently for your eyes. He took a deep breath to talk first, in hopes your mind was clear enough to have a proper conversation.

“So, I heard you had a little run in with a med student. And Robby.” 

You stop what you’re doing, grabbing on to the edge of the counter. You lull your head back and take a long, irritated breath.

“Why? Did your boyfriend tattle on me?” You quip. 

Obviously, you didn’t clear your head enough, or at all. His head hung low, developing a headache. Taking a long, deep breath to engage with your temper. 

“No— he didn’t tattle,” yes he did. “He expressed… some concern about your performance today.”

Shaking your head, refusing to answer as you fill up a glass of water. The little angel in your head agreed, you were rude to that med student. You’re sure you made the same mistake before. And you knew you didn’t have enough tenure in the ED to be given a pass of the ‘bitchy’ teacher, you were only an R2. But this isn’t about you, it’s about how everything around you chose today as the day to be inconvenient. Is it too much to ask for one day of the year to go in your favor? It’s the principle, although you were most likely using that justification loosely.

“You can’t talk to an attending like that. If it was anyone else, you could have gotten written up. HR meetings aren’t all that fun you know?” Jack ducked his head to try and meet your eyes. Keeping your stare down at the very interesting cup of water. 

“Boohoo, it’s not like I cursed him out.”

“You told him to blow you.”

“Exactly. Not a swear word said.”

Before Jack could try to get another word in, you turn yourself away and shuffle into the bedroom. Closing the door behind you with a louder thud than necessary. He puffed, frustrated that you weren’t giving him the time to actually talk things out with you. It’s not to say he’s caught off guard by your behavior. You’ve had your off days, you weren’t always sunshine and rainbows. And you especially aren’t so mouthy with him. Something about today was getting on his nerves quicker than he should let it. He wasn’t the one that messed up your lab order or tried to lecture you during a heavy shift, so why can’t you spare him?

Jack follows you into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. It also let out a loud thud, his irritation coming out in little pieces. That strain formed in his head, handling the door with unnecessary power, grinding his teeth with his clenched jaw. Jack did not want the first interaction of the day with you to be brewing into an argument.

“Honey, you can’t walk away from me when I’m trying to have a conversation with you.”

“Really? Because I did right now.” Your voice comes out steady, that little hint of bitterness hot on your tongue. It becomes a stand off in the middle of the bedroom. Hands on your hips and narrowing your eyes at him as he steps a little bit closer to you. “And from what I remember, you used to be just as bad too, so I don’t know why you’re coming at me on such a high horse!”

Jack tensed his jaw, any more he was going to need to go to the dentist for teeth grinding. That stung a little bit, maybe a lot. Jack isn’t proud of how he used to be, pre-therapy and post-the loss of his wife. But he grew from that, and you saw how that growth turned him into the man he is today. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips thin, holding back from letting your words get to him.

“I’m not lecturing you. You have to understand— yelling at med students and your attending. That’s not something we do.”

“Not what we do? Last time I checked Jack, you aren't my attending! I don’t have to listen to this or you.”

“It doesn’t matter if I’m your attending or not, it’s my obligation as an attending to help you learn that throwing a tantrum—” His voice gets rougher, less collected than he typically is. Jack attempts to put a caring hand on your shoulder, but you swat his hand away.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child Jack!”

“I have to because you’re acting like one! But what else should I expect from my immature girlfriend, hm?” 

You took the highest offense being called immature, especially when Jack knew that was a sore spot in your relationship, being immature compared to him. The anger bubbles over, the heat of the work day follows you into your own home, unwelcomed. Without thinking, you raise a hand to the air. Quickly, just want to give him a taste of how his words make you feel. Before it can even come close to his face, Jack’s hand catches your wrist and puts it into a tight hold. The pads of his fingertips press down deep enough to feel your racing heartbeat. He yanks you towards him, chest on chest, closing the gap that has existed between you for hours. 

As you try to get the next words out from your lips, a rough hand catches the back of your head and pulls you in for a deep, sloppy kiss. Teeth hitting and drool starting to leak from the corner of your lips as Jack carries out an attack on your lips. Tongue forcing your lips apart and invading the wet cavern. It erupts a moan from your throat that you wanted to keep secret. Jack knew exactly how to render you speechless. The hand on the back of your neck tangles into your hair, keeping a tight grip. Your hand that started out balled into a fist relaxes and rests on his chest, slowly running up to hook around his neck. When he pulls away, panting for air, his gaze is heavy on you. It turned dark and vicious. Those barbed-wire lined walls you had up all day were crashing down around you. And Jack had a sledgehammer.

“Jack…” Melting into putty in his arms as you whimper as he pulls away.

“What happened? A little kiss made you all soft?” He flips you around his hold, pinning the held wrist behind your back. He guided you to the bed, shoving you to bend over the soft mattress. That rough grip in your hair pushes the side of your face into the mattress, only able to see just over your shoulder.

You whine when he presses his crotch into your cotton covered ass. The tent in his pants prodding at the curve of your ass and rutting up. You are sure Jack could feel that drip in your panties forming a little wet spot. He continues to rub his bulge up and down your ass, catching it occasionally on your increasingly wet mound. Taking his hand away from your hair and moving it next to your head, keeping himself up as he leans over you. 

“Who do you think you are… trying to slap me— fuck. After all I do for you…” His hot breath floods the back of your neck, panting like a dog. You want to respond, tell him he’s wrong, but you choke on moans.

You try to move your hips up, feel more of him on your aching cunt. But his hips and hold on your wrist keeps you still. When he pulls himself away, the grip on your wrist is free, feeling the ache slowly blur into your body. You want to move, whip yourself around and give him a piece of mind for being so forward with you. But the raw, agitated energy emanating from Jack was enough to keep you down, growing compliant. Jack grabs the hem of your shorts, tugging them down your legs. A large hand kneads the skin, pinching and watching the heat manifest as color from his touch. Humming, you lean yourself into his touch. A finger loops around the fabric of your panties that bars him from seeing your leaking pussy. Coating his knuckle as he pulls the fabric down and away from you. You close your eyes in hopes of getting a blissful night to alleviate the stress of the day. One sudden strike at your ass brings you back down from the clouds. Crying out Jack’s name as he rings another slap on to burning skin. 

“I pick you up from work, pay your rent, make you cum whenever you ask— ‘n you can’t even give me the decency of respect when I talk to you?” Another harsh, personal, spank to your abused flesh.

You bury your face into the sheets, muffling the painful gasps that mix with needy moans. Soaking up the little tears that prick the corner of your eyes. You twitch in response to his hands on your body, your nervous system preparing to feel swipes at your bare ass. He pauses, must be taking in the sight of your skin littered with the faint outline of his hand. The result of your moody spirit. You lift your head away from the bed, sniffling a little as you bite your lip to wish away the pain. 

“Jack… please..” Ground your elbows into the bed and try to bring yourself up. You couldn’t bear to not be able to look him in the face. Even though you struggled to confidently make eye contact.

“Now you want to be nice? ‘S too late for that honey…” Jack clicks his tongue disapprovingly. One hand now holding your hip while two fingers swipe up the slick on the folds of your pussy. You gasp, relaxing your body back into the mattress.

He doesn’t wait for you to catch up with him, plugging his fingers into your cunt. Your walls immediately flutter around him, wanting to suck him in deeper. He holds off, wanting to go at his own pace. Only reaching to the second knuckle, and pumping thick fingers shallowly inside you. You hum with this pace, it was just enough to scratch that growing itch in your core.

“Look at you… all happy I’m playing with your pussy. Could have had this way earlier if you cooperated, brat.” His hand on your hip left to swat at your ass again. Eliciting a cry of his name with a moan as the pain mixed with the pleasure brewing inside you. 

“There she is— my good girl. God, you’re so easy.” He loves the sounds you make for him. The words brewed inside your head, because you haven’t been good at all. You were being a pain all day to anyone within the vicinity. And it got you to this position, bent over the bed at Jack’s mercy. 

His fingers slide deeper past your lips, the palm of his hand flush with your skin when he reaches as deep as he can. Shaking beneath him when his pace grows faster, the sinful sound of your wetness squishing on his fingers. It really is punishment, pay back, the way the tip of his fingers brush over that sensitive spot inside you. But he doesn’t bother to stay there, saying hello and quickly leaving. You groan, frustrated that he’s toying with you and not giving in to what you want. Not that you’re asking, more so expecting it. Pushing your hips back to deepen his pace, he quickly slips his fingers away from you. Shaking his head in disapproval. 

“You just can’t be patient, can you?” You can hear his belt collide with the hard wood floor, and the sound of heavy fabric falling.

A tingle goes up your spine, like a spidey sense. Because you have been in this kind of position before; where he picks you up by the thighs and fucks into you while you hang over the edge of the bed. Your feet once flat on the floor, press up on to tippy toes, waiting for him to use his strength on you. A few seconds go by, and he hasn’t moved. Your eyebrows knit together, looking over your shoulder and seeing him standing behind you. Arms crossed, looking down at you with an expectant expression, his cock so casually stiff in the air. 

“Jack, what are you waiting for?” you ask with a frown.

He leans over you, arms caging you in as the brace onto the bed. His lips dip close to you, giving you words for only you to hear.

“You’re going to come at me with an attitude— when I did nothing to you by the way— and expect me to do all the work?” humming into your ear, expecting one of your smart ass responses. He looks down to your glistening slit, he wants to dive in so bad and show you a good time. But there is a lesson to be taught here.

You stutter over yourself. You never had to ask Jack to do anything to you; he knew how to treat you and what you liked, what made you feel good. You felt silly having to plead to him to fuck you properly.

“You can reach baby, I’m not doing any of the work for you— since you think you know better than me.” 

I never said that… is all you can mumble. Jack thought you would put up a fight, but so easily compliant in this state, he watches as you push yourself up by the toes more. Your slit that had been weeping from the lack of attention, glistened in the bedroom light. It brushes the tip of his cock ever so slightly, making you hiss at the small amount of friction. You struggle to even catch him between your folds, constantly bouncing on your toes. Jack bites through his smirk, enjoying the sight of you. Helpless and impatient, willing to do as much as it takes just to feel him inside of you. It’s pitiful, the comparison from earlier in the night to now. Defiant of Jack, ready to slap him when he threw it back at you. Now you’re a dripping, whimpering mess, so eager to feel the slightest touch of his cock against your pussy.

“I— I can’t do it Jack… I can’t reach…” You deflate into the bed, sad whining muffled in the sheets.

It is pathetic, you are a doctor for christ's sake. You should be demanding him in this instance to fuck you right now. But Jack loves to watch. The way your ass jiggles with the bounce of your toes, trying to rock back to try and catch his cock between your folds. He let this go on for what felt like 30 minutes (it was only 3 minutes). Jack let out a deep sigh, a once stern hand turned comforting on your hip. Brushing his thumb against the skin and cooing to you. He moves his hips forward just a little pit, the tiniest tough of his tip against your cunt. It was nothing but everything at the same time. It sent that buzz of anticipation up and down your spine. As you start to rock yourself again, both of Jack’s hands press down your hips pressing you into the bed again. He is still in control here, he’ll go in when he’s ready. In a tortuous pace, his cock slips in between the folds. He holds in a deep groan from finally feeling your warmth enveloped around his cock. You cry out a soft whimper from the slow stretch of your pussy. Even with how slow Jack was going, his girth is like retribution. A brutal size you thought you have gotten used to by now. He reaches the halfway point and stops, prompting another frustrated groan from you. Clearly have not learned about the stakes of your predicament yet.

“How bad do you want it, sweetheart?” He asks. You mumble into the mattress.

He pulls out just a little bit. “Ah-ah, I said— How bad do you want it?”

Lifting your head away from the sheets, your head slumps over. Jack can see you weren’t in the mood to be good still. But he doesn’t have to act anymore, he knows the more you wait, the more time spent not getting pounded.

“I want it really bad, Jack...” you whine. 

“Yeah? What do you have to say then?”

“God, not this now, Jack. Just fucking—” cut off by that same swat on your ass. It shuts you right up.

“Wanna try that one more time?” you nod. “What do you have to say to me?” from the tone of his voice, you can tell Jack does not want to ask again.

Shamefully keeping your eyes down, “I’m sorry that I tried to slap you and argue with you, Jack. I won’t do it again…”

Jack hums but doesn’t answer. Making a show of him considering your apology. He should really make you work for it; force you on to your knees and show how sorry you are with his mouth. But he can’t deny, Jack is growing just as impatient as you were. This night should have ended with sex without all the fighting and huffing. His hand glides down to your thigh, brushing the skin.

“You gonna apologize to Robby and the med students too?” giving you a warning squeeze. If you answer correctly, everyone will be happy. Nodding your head, you peak over your shoulder. Eyes damp from tears and hopeful to get the proper kind of release. It is enough to make Jack crumble for you all over again. At last, Jack hums with approval. A happy tap on your skin as he scoops his hands under your thigh and hoists your legs up. He grips right under your hips for the best leverage. Jack is really testing how much strength and stamina he has left at this age. You yelp as the sudden pull moves your hips up, meeting Jack at a better, and deeper, angle. Pushing himself so deep it punches up into that sensitive spot. He finally gives in to that satisfying rock of his hips, letting out a deep groan.This is all both of you wanted. Impaling you with such a force you felt like Jack was going to split you in half. Sweet moans spur him on more, releasing all of the night's irritation on to your helpless cunt. 

Jack revels in the feeling of your velvety walls dragging along the veins of his cock. Squeezing down and taking the shape of his girth, like you were made to be filled by him. The whole predicament— arguing, him mandling you, and fucking you with such punishing force, it made your pussy drool and tighten for him. He can tell exactly what you’re feeling just by the way your walls clench around him. 

“Such a good girl, you love getting your pussy filled by my cock, huh?” He says through gritted teeth and low groans.

You can’t give a coherent response, too caught up in the motions all you can do is offer him slutty moans. The tips of his fingers dig into your plush skin, an iron grip dragging your body like a toy on his cock. Jack musters enough strength to lift every so slightly. The new angle makes all the difference as the top of his cock bullies up on your soft spot. The impact forces you to see fireworks in your hazy eyes.

“Shit— Jack!” Your body lurches forward from the force of his hips.

“Fuuck, sweetheart. Feel so good around me, need you to cum f’me.” Jack occasionally had to adjust his grip on your hips, trying so hard to not get lost in the pleasure that he drops your legs on accident. “I know you’re close— rub that pretty little clit for me.”

Your hand snakes under your body, delicate fingers shakily running small, fast circles are the bud. Eyes pressed shut and moans pouring from your lips. That knot deep down came rushing to the surface with each thrust of his hips. Your release is slowly coaxed from deep within you, your thighs and knees pressing against Jack’s, locking him in place. It feels like a wave rushes over your body, your orgasm crashing through you in ripples. Body shaking while your hands grip on to wrinkled bedsheets.

“Ooooh god, Jack!”

“That’s it baby, make a mess on me.” 

Jack’s hands slowly let go of your hips and help in letting your feet meet the floor. As soon as you limp in bliss, he lets his pace become self-indulgent. Cock pistoning in and out of your pussy while your walls still clench around him in post-orgasm glory. Pushing himself deep, right to the hilt, he lets his seed slip inside you. Flooding your silky walls with hot, white cum. It leaves a satisfying warmth with you. Jack moans and crones through his release, a thrust or two to push all of his load deep within you. He tries not to fall on top of you when the fog clears from his head. A little drips of cum leaking from you as he pulls out, half-limp cock slick with a mixture of your desire and his cum. 

“Jesus, Jack.”

“I should be saying that to you. All that huffing, puffing, and yelling. If you wanted it so badly baby all you had to do is ask.” He teased, a lazy smirk on his lips.

Crawling up the bed a bit, you manage to turn yourself over for the first time supporting your weight on your elbows. Panting heavily as you take in the sight of a sweaty, fucked out Jack. It is an insatiable sight; little beads of sweat dripping from his neck to his chest, the tuft of hair above his cock damp with body fluids. Jack eyes the scheming smirk on your face. Lifting your foot to poke at his stomach.

“I don’t know if I learned my lesson yet. You weren’t the most… convincing.” Pursing your lips and trailing your eyes from his firm stomach, all the way up to his lingering eyes.

“Yeah? I guess I have some more gas in the tank to teach you, brat.”

Jack grabs your ankle and yanks your body back towards him, a high and excited squeal coming from you.

“Hi.”

The med students whips around, eyes widened and already shaking. A trauma response from the incident a couple of days ago. You had a basket in your hand, filled with muffins, fruit, and a random energy drink you picked up from the story. Holding it out from them, you try to come off with a gracious expression rather than guilt.

“I’m sorry for how I spoke— treated— you earlier this week. I was out of line and you’re still getting the hang of things around here. I was stressed and I should not have taken it out on you. ‘Sorry for yelling at you’ basket?” Giving them a crooked smile and handing the basket to them.

It follows with a short conversation, exchanging necessary apologies and coming to an agreement it was an off day for everyone that day. You felt embarrassed having to apologize for behavior that could have been completely avoidable if you remembered what emotional regulation skills are. In the end, you are glad no bridges were burned. An ease settled over your body as the med student walked away with a softer smiler than before.

“And where’s my basket?” Robby pipped in.

“Jack said you would rather have an eight pack over a basket. And I think I would be in more trouble if I brought beer into the workplace.” 

Robby didn’t care to cover up the deep huff of laughter. Bringing a pat to your shoulder as he shook his head. 

“I need to know what Jack did to get you to come to your senses. Could use it on you if you ever feel like shooting at me again.” Robby said contently. 

You scrunch your face, “No you don’t, Robby.”

“Why not?” he asks, les confused more intrigued.

“You’d have to ask Jack for permission. I know you guys are close, but I don’t know if you’re close enough to share.” 

You turn on your heels and walk away quickly, trying to stifle the little giggle inside your throat. Robby runs his hand over his mouth and beard, slowly catching up with what you were putting down. He scrunches his own face, shaking his head to clear away the dirty thoughts.

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[intermittentacademic]

Masterlist: Shark Eyes

Pairings: Fem!reader x exfwb! Brendon Park, Fem!reader x future! Jack Abbot | The Pitt SMAU

Parts: 1: Water Flosser

2: Water Flosser, Continued

2.5: Barnabas, Tolstoy & Bart

3: Nightcrawlin' (coming soon...)

4: We're Gonna Need a Bigger Boat (coming soon...)

5: The Roof (coming soon...)

[astarlinggirl]

fuck it, i love you

professor!jack abbot x virgin!fem!reader

summary: after a risqué encounter with you at the bar, jack abbot can’t get you out of his head. and then you show up in one of his lectures as his student. and then you two navigate an interesting 'casual' relationship, until your emotionally avoidant asses get, well... attached.

wc: 13k words

warnings: 18+, dom!jack & sub!reader, switching pov, lots of fingering, rubbing over underwear, premature ejaculation (coming in pants), mentions of oral (fem!receiving), guiding through a blowjob, loss of virginity, sex on a table, calling him dr abbot, sir + brief daddy kink, light choking, all of the sexy stuff happens in his office. jack is a widow, brief angst in the middle but love confessions later (!!), hurt/comfort, jack is jealous and possessive but has an #ethicaldilemma: the fic

a/n: i tried to be vague with the backstory, but reader craves academic validation, doesn’t have many friends, has implied familial issues and is introverted and avoidant. seeing the pics of him literally sent me into heat i fear i’ll never recover and so naturally i churned out this incredibly self indulgent fic during my finals aha can u tell i'm suffering from academic stress? #anyways have fun pls be nice. not beta read. | divider credits: @strangergraphics | soundtrack: fuck it i love you by lana del ray

Jack Abbot had always been a man of remarkable composure, the sort of composure that had been his armour, carefully built after the death of his wife, reinforced brick by brick through routine, discipline, and relentless work. 

While other men sought comfort in distractions, Jack prided himself in the fact that he buried himself in academia. Entire nights disappeared beneath journal articles, lecture plans, and grading sociology essays, until the loneliness that waited for him at home was little more than a dull ache he could almost ignore. 

Last week at the bar, well, that had been a mistake. A brief lapse in judgement, that's all. One too many whiskeys after a particularly long week and a pretty young thing asking him for help with some creep who wouldn't leave her alone - what exactly had he been supposed to do? Ignore her? Tell her she was on her own? Any decent man would've stepped in, at least that's what Jack keeps telling himself.

The problem is that a week later, he still can't get you out of his head.

He remembers the dress first. God, that dress. The dark fabric had clung to your figure, hugging every curve, and he'd spent the entire evening irritated with himself for noticing at all. 

He remembers the way the dip of your waist had fit beneath his palm when he'd guided you behind him, the startling softness of you, the instinctive way you'd moved closer when the man started getting aggressive. The tiny stutter in your breathing as he'd told the asshole to ‘fuck off and stop bothering his girl’ in a gruff voice, the way you'd looked up at him with those wide eyes, somewhere between embarrassed and grateful, as though he had done something remarkable when all he'd really done was the bare minimum.

Worst of all, he hates that he remembers the warmth of your body as he pinned you against the wall of the men's bathroom, mouths hovering over each other, not kissing, but breathing in wine-tinted lips. 

God, the way your warm walls stretched around his fingers, your clit under his thumb, still made him achingly hard. Jerking off in the shower had been futile ever since that night, ever since he felt your soft fingers around his cock, your moans spilling into his mouth. And your soft whines when he called you a good girl, fuck. He’s hard, again, in the middle of reading through the PHD proposals sent his way. He sighs, pulling his cock out his pants. 

It was becoming ridiculous. Which is precisely why he is looking forward to the start of semester.

But the universe has a fucked up way of derailing his plans. By the time he arrives at the lecture hall the next morning, coffee balanced in one hand and laptop tucked beneath his arm, he's almost managed to convince himself that the entire thing was behind him.

Then he walks through the door. The lecture hall blurs into meaningless shapes and colours, and in the centre of it sits you. 

The girl he couldn’t take out of his brain for the past seven days. 

Jack forces his legs forward, somehow making it to the front of the room without visibly embarrassing himself. He places his coffee on the desk. Sets down his laptop. Connects the HDMI cable twice because he misses the port the first time. His fingers feel too clammy, his pulse too fast. 

Jack opens his mouth to introduce himself.  

"My name is-"

But the words die there. Because he makes the mistake of looking back at you, again. 

Those same eyes he'd spent an entire week trying to unsuccessfully forget are fixed directly on his, wide with disbelief.

For a fraction of a second his mind goes entirely blank. Then your eyebrows lift. Just slightly.

And he realises with a jolt of horror that you've noticed the way his words catch. Jesus Christ.

He clears his throat and looks away, pretending to adjust something on his laptop despite the fact that absolutely nothing needs adjusting, acutely aware of the warmth crawling up the back of his neck, and onto his cheeks. It's ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. 

He's a respected academic pushing fifty years old, not some nervous graduate tutor fumbling his way through his first class.

"My name is Dr Jack Abbot," he says again, his voice steadier this time, lower too, the words settling more naturally now that he's managed to regain some semblance of control. "I'm the lead lecturer for the sociology department.”

His eyes catch yours. 

“It'll be my greatest pleasure to work with all of you this semester."

You’re this close to fucking shitting your pants. 

The sexy old man that had fucked the shit out of you with his fingers, while you could barely wrap your hands around his girthy cock in the corner of a dingy bathroom, was your professor. He was in front of you speaking in a voice too gravelly for his own good, and donned in what you’d deem an outfit way too slutty. 

Tweed blazer that somehow actually showed how broad he was, how fat and juicy his biceps were. A soft wool polo underneath that stretched around his fat pecs. 

And those brown pants, for fucks sake, those pants should be an abobination. You could see the bulge of his dick, the print, as he moved around the room. 

What’s worse though? His fat fucking fingers. As he gesticulates while talking about the content, which you don’t give a fuck about, all you can think about is how they felt inside of you, curling up to reach that sweet spot, and making you come faster and harder than your vibrator. 

As the flashbacks of him pounding into you fade, and you focus, you see something black and shiny glinting as it catches the overhead lights. You blink. Adorning one of those delicious fingers, is a ring. Fuck. It’s a wedding ring. 

You stare at it for a second too long before immediately snapping your gaze back to your laptop. Heat floods your face. You rack your brain trying to remember whether he'd been wearing it that night. You don't think so, you're almost certain he wasn't. Yeah, he definitely didn’t have it on that night in the bar, you would’ve felt it against your pussy, that fucking slut. 

You clench your jaw and look away, typing away to start making notes. You’d hooked up with an older married geratric. Yeah, maybe you should just drop out. Hurl yourself off the chair and out the door and withdraw from your course and fade into the abyss and die in a hole.

But what's worse is the way your cunt is clenching around nothing at the thought of this older man fucking you with his fingers while he had a wife at home- no, stop. How deeply unfeminist of you. You cunt. 

Yet still, when you look up and accidentally make eye contact with Jack Abbot, it feels like a punch to the vagina. 

By the time the lecture ends, Jack has spent nearly two hours forcing himself not to look at you. It has been a miserable failure. Not an obvious one, nobody in the room would have noticed. Years of teaching and having to discreetly catch students on their phones have made him an expert at disguising where his attention is actually resting. 

But every time his gaze swept across the theatre, every time a student asked a question, every time laughter rippled through the room, some part of him remained acutely aware of where you were sitting.

Which is precisely why, as students begin packing their bags and filtering towards the exits, he decides to do something incredibly stupid.

He tells himself it isn't stupid. He tells himself it's necessary. Professional, even.

After all, the two of you know each other in some capacity. There was the bar, there was what occurred inside of that bar, that lapse in judgement. There is now the unfortunate reality that you are one of his students. A conversation needs to happen. Boundaries need to be established, expectations clarified.

At least that's the excuse he gives himself. The truth is considerably less flattering. The truth is that he wants an excuse to speak to you.

He calls out your name. The words leave his mouth before he can reconsider them.

You freeze halfway through sliding your laptop into your bag. For a second you look almost startled that he's addressed you directly. Then your eyes meet his, startled. 

"Could you stay for a moment?"

Several students glance between the two of you before continuing out the door. Jack immediately regrets saying it publicly. Excellent start, Abbot.

By the time the last student leaves, you're making your way slowly towards the front of the room, one loop of your backpack slung on your shoulder.

As you slow to a stop in front of him, his eyes map your face. Your wide eyes, your slightly messy hair, the shape of your lips- Stop. Jesus Christ. 

He forcibly redirects his gaze towards his laptop on the podium. Professional. Remember, professional.

"You wanted to see me?" you ask softly.

Jack clears his throat.

"Right. Yes."

Very articulate. 

"I just thought it would be best if we acknowledged..." He gestures vaguely between the two of you. "The situation."

You blink.

"The situation?"

"The fact that we've met before."

"Oh."

You glance down at the strap of your bag, fingers tightening around it.

"Yeah. I noticed."

The dry response catches him completely off guard. A smile threatens at the corner of his mouth.

"Um, sorry, Dr Abbot," you add quickly, stumbling over the words. "I didn't mean to make things weird."

Jack immediately shakes his head.

"No, it's okay. You're good."

Dr Abbot. Dr Abbot. His brain plays your lips wrapping around his name again and again, perhaps in more precarious positions. He rubs his neck, looking away, willing for his cock to stop fucking stiffening. 

"I just wanted to clarify," he starts carefully, "I'd appreciate it if what happened stayed private."

Your eyes immediately narrow, apparently offended.

"Dr Abbot, I'm not stupid."

His eyebrows lift at your sudden confidence. He puts his hands out in front of him in defence. 

"I wasn't suggesting-"

"No, I know," you interrupt. Then your eyes widen, immediately looking mortified for interrupting him. "Sorry. I just mean... I'm not exactly planning on standing up in tutorials and announcing that I fu- I met my professor in a bar."

Jack closes his mouth. Fair point. And suddenly he becomes aware of how ridiculous he sounds.

You aren't the problem here. You haven't done anything. If anything, you're handling this better than he is. This sort of “casualness” is probably the usual for someone as beautiful as you, as young and brilliant.

"Right," he says finally.

A silence settles between you as he continues staring you down. 

You shift your weight awkwardly beneath his gaze, looking everywhere except directly at him now, and suddenly he's struck by how young you seem standing there. 

Then, before he can stop himself, in some hope to keep you standing there in front of him, he hears himself say, "If you ever need help with coursework, though, my office hours are listed on the syllabus."

The second the words leave his mouth, he knows they weren't necessary. Your eyes flicker up to his face in shock, before immediately dropping back down again. Interesting.

For someone who'd managed to argue with him thirty seconds ago, you seem remarkably incapable of holding eye contact for more than a few moments.

Then you nod, still staring at the floor. 

"Okay."

"Okay. Yeah, good."

Another silence. Neither of you moves, seems entirely unsure on how to end the conversation. Eventually you shift your bag higher up, and take a small step backwards.

"I should go."

"Yes, thank you for staying back."

You hesitate for a second, then whisper as you turn and walk away from him. 

“Goodbye, Dr Abbot.”

Jack stares at your ass through your jeans as you depart, he can’t help it. You sick, sick old man, Abbot.

The second you're gone, he drops his head down, groans, rubs a hand over his scruff. 

That conversation was supposed to make things better, supposed to reassure him that whatever happened at that bar was firmly in the past.

Instead, all it has accomplished is proving that being around you is a nightmare.  

It's been four weeks since that conversation and you cannot get him out of your head. Every time you enter those lectures where he stands in the front of the room with another blazer, another pair of form fitting pants, twice a week, you leave with a pool of slick. 

You refuse to acknowledge the way he looked at you when you let your attitude slip, his furrowed brows, hazel eyes narrowing. He looked… mad almost. Like he wanted to tame you. Of course you're being delusional, he has a wife for fucks sake. 

And weeks of observing him has made you realise that he has an immense proclivity for eye contact, with everyone. Basically, you’re not special. 

And, so your avoidant ass refuses to take him up on that offer to see him at his office. You’re doing well academically, you presume, in all your subjects. Which is not surprising given it's the only thing you’ve got going for you, being an antisocial chud, but these days, rather than studying, a lot of your time is spent replaying that night in the bar. The sense of comfort you felt pinned against the wall by him, the way he’d protected you against that creep. Nobody had done that for you before. 

God you sound fucking pathetic. 

And specifically, his suggestive line of “my office hours are listed on the syllabus” reverberates around your skull, like the start of those Wattpad stories you used to read as a teen. And so, you and your vibrator have the time of your life at all odd hours of the day, imagining him and you in those situations. 

In hindsight, being overtaken by lust to distract from your crippling loneliness was a poor decision to make, that much you clock when you receive one of your midterms back today. With a big fat fucking 60% written on the front. In Dr Abbot’s class at that too. 

Humiliation takes over you, cheeks warm as he walks by to return the paper, refusing to look at him but feeling his gaze on your face. 

Around you, students are already discussing their marks, complaining about feedback, celebrating distinctions, debating whether certain deductions were fair, while you're busy boring holes into the godforsaken paper with your eyes as though sheer hatred might cause it to burst into flames.

As someone who quite literally had nothing going on for them other than academic success, it's a stab to the heart to realise you’ve fallen off in any capacity. For your wretched brain, one poor mark isn't just a mark, it's indicative of you falling behind, lacking in the one thing that defines you. 

Academics have always been your thing, the one area of your life you've been able to control through sheer stubbornness and hard work, the one thing you've quietly built your entire sense of self around. You aren't particularly outgoing. You don't have a huge social circle. You don't possess some secret hidden talent waiting to be discovered.

And now a bright red sixty is staring back at you from the top of the page like a personal attack.

The feedback only makes it worse.

Critical analysis underdeveloped.

Needs greater engagement with course material.

More depth required.

Each comment feels less like academic criticism and more like somebody taking a hammer to your ribcage.

Especially because you've spent the last month thinking about fuckass Jack Abbot far more than you've spent thinking about sociology. You've replayed conversations that lasted less than five minutes. Analysed glances that probably meant absolutely nothing, and constructed entire fictional narratives from harmless comments that any reasonable person would've forgotten weeks ago.

Meanwhile half your readings have been sitting untouched in a browser tab.

You stare down at the paper again, jaw tightening.

Perhaps this is the universe intervening. Perhaps this is your sign to get a grip. Perhaps this is your sign to finally take him up on that offer he'd made four weeks ago.

Not because you're harbouring some pathetic crush. Absolutely not. 

Purely for academic reasons. You need to know what went wrong and you need to know how to fix it before your anxiety makes this into something worse and you have another one of your depressive episodes. 

And if that means sitting in Dr Jack Abbot's office while he explains why your argument was underdeveloped and your analysis lacked depth, then so be it.

The thought alone makes your stomach perform an alarming little flip, which is deeply unfortunate.

Because that's probably another sign that you're not thinking nearly enough about sociology.

After stalking the stupid university website you’ve discovered that Dr Jack Abbot apparently remains on campus until after five o'clock most evenings, like some sort of psycho freak. 

Doesn’t he have a wife to go home to? Surely no sane person voluntarily spends that much time at a university.

Still, at 5:17 PM, you're standing outside his office clutching your assignment paper so tightly it's beginning to crumple around the edges.

You knock on the door and hear his gruff voice let out a “come in”. You walk in.  

Fuck your life. 

His blazer is off, sleeves of his beige shirt rolled up to show veiny forearms, as he types away on his laptop. 

“Oh it's you. Hello sweetheart.” He winces at the slip of the pet name. 

“Sorry Miss-” he pauses. “Um, just have a seat, please.”

You hope to God that he can't hear the beating of your heart as you step in, closing the door shut behind you, avoiding eye contact as you sit on the seat opposite him. 

You set your paper on his desk and mumble.

“I just wanted to review the feedback I got on this.”

“Yeah of course, what’d you want to ask?”

You hesitate, his soft tone suddenly making you want to spill everything. 

"I just..." You stare at the desk. "I thought I'd done better than this. So I wanted more clarity on all the comments you made."

He nods and picks up the paper, starts reading through it, then squints. 

He sighs.

“Wait, let me get my readers on.”

You sneak a glance up. 

Oh fuck. 

He puts his readers on. Some fucking high prescription glasses that enunciate the size of his stupid hazel boba eyes and delicious eye wrinkles. 

Yeah, pussy exploded. 

You look back down on the table, and inhale to calm your heart. 

When Jack finally finishes, he sets the paper on the desk. 

"You know," he says carefully, tapping one section of the essay, "the reason this stood out to me wasn't because the writing is bad."

Your eyes lift despite yourself. He slides the paper slightly closer.

"It's actually the opposite."

“What?"

"The writing is strong, and your arguments are quite clear. You've obviously got the ability."

The knot in your chest loosens slightly. Only slightly.

"But?" you whisper.

His mouth twitches.

"But I don't think you pushed yourself."

Jack studies your expression for a moment before leaning back slightly in his chair.

"You understand the material," he continues. "I don't have concerns about that. What I'm seeing is somebody who's engaging with the content at a surface level when they're capable of going much deeper.”

Right, so you’re failing. You ridden with lust, and doing god knows what in hopes to distract yourself from the sheer loneliness and mundanity of your life and now you can’t even understand the content the way you want to understand it and-

“Hey sweetheart, are you feelin’ okay?” 

You look up at him in confusion and realise your breaths are heavy, uneven. Your hands are trembling slightly where they're resting on your lap. 

Fuck, the beginnings of a panic attack. 

“I’m so sorry Dr Abbot, I just- I’ve never done poorly in a test really, and so this is all so…” your voice cracks. “I don't even know what I’m saying I just-”

He gets up and walks over to you as you break off, letting out a shaky laugh that sounds suspiciously close to a sob.

He leans against his desk, in front of you, bending to reach your eyes.  

“Hey, it's okay angel, breathe for me.”  

He inhales. 

“Look, follow my breathing.”

You try to, but it comes out stuttered.

"Fuck, I'm sorry."

"Nothin’ to apologise for, sweetheart, just keep trying. C’mon, take a deep breath in, and out."

He holds your hand and brings it to his chest. You feel his heart beat steadily under your palm. He exaggerates his breathing to help you.

“In, and out, just like that.”

It seems nice to just let go. To have someone else take over your brain, follow their instructions and shut the noise, the anxieties and the worries. 

Once your breathing slows, he moves your hand away from his chest. 

“You breathin’ better now?”

You nod slowly, still feeling shaky, still mortified by the fact that you've just had what can only be described as a minor psychological collapse in your professor's office.

“I’m so, so sorry you saw me like that Dr Abbot, I didn’t mean to-”

“Hey, it’s okay, sweet girl.”

He pauses, seems occupied gathering his thoughts.

You busy yourself staring at the floor. Then he exhales softly through his nose and settles back against the edge of his desk.

"After my wife passed away, I used to get them all the time."

The words are so unexpected that your head lifts immediately.

Jack's gaze remains fixed somewhere over your shoulder rather than directly on you, his expression thoughtful. 

"My therapist taught me a few tricks," he says with a small shrug. "Matching breathing patterns was one of them."

Your heart races again, for different reasons this time. The ring, the fucking black ring. He’s a widower. You don’t know whether to laugh or scream at the fact that he’s not married, and you aren’t a homewrecker. But then you feel real fucking horrible for different reasons, youre brain sabotaging again. 

“I’m sorry about your wife. I’m sorry if that reminded you of back then, or whenever it happened I don’t know, I don't want to assume-”

“Shh, take a deep breath for me. You’re good, sweetheart. 

 He brings a palm to your cheek, engulfing it.  

“Yeah? It’s okay. Don’t worry ‘bout it. It was a long time ago.”

You breathe in slowly for the fucking hundredth time that night, calming down.  

“You feelin’ better now?” He asks gently.

You nod, biting your tongue to stop from apologising again. 

“Yes, thank you.”

It slips out before he can stop it. 

“Good girl.”

Your thighs instinctively clench, and you see him stiffen as he notices.  You both stare at each other, feeling tension coil in the air between you. A moment passes. 

“I could help you, you know.”

You blink, confused. 

He rubs your cheek gently, eyes boring into yours. His expression is blank, neutral. 

“I could help you relax, get out of your brain for a little.”

He pauses.

“Like that night in the bar. You liked that, didn't you? Somebody taking control.”

Your breath hitches, and you mumble a “yes.”

“Louder, sweetheart. If we’re gonna do this, you need to speak clearly.”

His voice is stern, gravelly. And your brain is calm for the first time in weeks, since that night. The validation you crave so desperately, the sense of comfort that would help with escaping your brain, perhaps it is held in the palm of Jack Abbot’s hands. 

Slowly, you nod. 

“Yes Dr Abbot, I’d like you to help me.”

He smirks, the edges of lips pulling up. 

“Atta girl. C’mon then, get up for me.”

You follow his lead, mind hazy as he holds your hands and guides you to his chair. 

“I’m gonna sit, then you're gonna sit right here, on my lap. And then I’ll help you, yeah?”

You nod again. 

“Words, sweetheart.”

“Yes, Dr Abbot.”

He smiles, proudly. Your brain turns to mush again, pussy fluttering.

He’s so handsome.  

Pulling you onto his lap sideways, your legs draping over his thighs, he caresses your hair. Fuck, it feels so good. You nuzzle your head into his neck, whimpering softly as he coos, "such a good girl, my smart girl, yeah? smartest in the whole damn class.”  

Then he brings his fat fingers to your skirt, tracing circles on yout thighs near the hem. Inching close, but never slipping under. 

“Please, please Dr Abbot, touch me.”

“Yeah, you want me to touch that little pussy? Want me to make you feel good? So you can rest your pretty brain?” 

He taps your head. 

You whine ‘yes, yes please sir.’ 

You feel his cock jerk up under you. He groans.  

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart. Say that again.”

“Please, Sir, please touch me.”

“Whatever you want, pretty girl.”  

Then he finally flips your skirt up, and starts rubbing slowly over your panties. On your lips, your folds, through your soaked underwear. You wrap your arms around his neck, begging him, please. 

He brings a finger to your clit, mutters lowly, “right here sweetheart?” and you nod, whining. 

He rubs gentle circles on your clit, your slick helping his finger move smoothly even over your panties. Buries his face in your hair as he continues rubbing. He breathily exhales, as if simply your pleasure was turning him on . 

“That’s it, just let go sweetheart. Let me take care of you, yeah?”

“Fuck- right there.”

You buck up in his hold. 

And he stops, a hand splaying over your thighs to stop you from squirming.

“Fuckin’ stop that, or this is going to be over a lot quicker thank you’d like.” 

You feel the hardness of his cock under you, prodding below your ass. Your brain is mush, the words slipping by themself.  

You nod tucking your head in his neck, “Yeah, yeah sir I’ll stop, please- fuck. Please keep going.” 

“That’s my good girl.” 

And he starts rubbing over your clit again, kissing down your cheeks, down your neck, murmuring “yeah? yeah” as he inhaled your musk.

You whimper, arching your neck as you get closer to your release, feeling it build up low in your stomach the faster his circles get.  

“Fuck I’m going to come! Pl- please let me come sir.”

“Yeah? Is my good girl gonna come? You gonna come for Dr Abbot?” He groans, low and husky. 

And fuck, that gets you. You close your eyes as your orgasm hits you, pleasure washing over. 

You mutter whimpers of his name as you come, squirming as much as he lets you, clenching your thighs in his palm.

In the haze of your orgasm, you hear him, moaning. He jerks up, moaning in your ear, face pressed against your hair, babbling.  

“Fuck- sweetheart, did so good for me, fucking coming all over my fingers, fuck!”

The last word comes out as something resembling a whine. His hips buck up once, twice, before you feel warmth spreading under you. 

Did he just… orgasm?

Both of you pant harshly, him into your hair, forehead pressed against your head. And you look down, seeing your soaking panties, his hands splayed over your thighs. A smile overtakes your face, god, you felt alive. 

And he came. In his pants. God, you love old men. But as a giggle bubbles up in your throat, he stiffens. 

You see his hands leave you, and before you can even process what's happening, he's gently but firmly moving you off his lap, tugging your skirt back into place. 

"Fuck."

The curse leaves him under his breath, as he immediately turns away in his chair, one hand dragging through his curls.

You stand there, still dazed as he refuses to look at you. 

“Fuck, um. You should leave and I- I think-”

The words die halfway through. You watch him struggle to find them.

“Yeah, you should leave,” he awkwardly mutters as he covers the wet patch on his pants. You're still breathing heavily, and furrow your brows. 

What the fuck?

You’re so utterly mortified. Still in the post orgasmic haze, standing there feeling horribly exposed, your brain sluggish and foggy and vulnerable.

And through that stupid fog you pick your bag up from the seat, smooth out your skirt. Avoiding eye contact, you wobble out of the room, tears pooling in your eyes. 

Fuck old men. You hate old men.

After hours of sobbing into your pillow, and spiralling about how people will use you for your body, and nobody will be able to save you, and you’re going to die alone, you reached a conclusion. Probably a delusional conclusion, but a conclusion nonetheless.

He was embarrassed, that’s all. The man had simply come in his pants. Which, admittedly, would be humiliating for anyone. You’re so young and sexy that he was embarrassed he came in his pants. He definitely still wants you. 

The thought soothed you enough to stop crying, enough to prevent you from throwing yourself dramatically into the nearest body of water.

It's when you’re holed up in your dorm room, buried under the blankets reading a fic, when your spiral begins again. 

Because you get a text from an unknown number. 

Hi. I wanted to apologise for yesterday.   That was incredibly impolite of me, I got way in over my head.

Then two minutes later. 

And I wanted to check in.  Are you feeling better?

Chat, what if you fucking killed yourself? 

The perfect grammar and punctuation made your stomach churn in lust. The way you could hear him grumble that out in his husky voice, gravelly warmth beneath every syllable. 

Stop.

Objectively speaking, this man had sent you into an emotional crisis less than twenty-four hours ago. He basically kicked you out after giving you another toe curling orgasm. 

And yet somehow all it takes is three perfectly punctuated texts and you're smiling into your pillow like an idiot. Whatever, stay nonchalant. 

So you ignore his apology and reply to the latter half. 

Hey, i’m okay thanks 

Wow, look at you go. 

His reply is almost immediate.

Good.  Good girl. 

You take a deep breath in, pull your blanket over your head. Fuck. Fuck this stupid old man and his ability to make your pussy throb with two words. 

You genuinely have no clue what to reply, stupid. Stupid woman who can’t even formulate a reply and be flirtatious. 

You type something.

Delete it.

Type something else.

Delete that too.

Your chest develops a familiar buzzing anxiety. This, by the way, is exactly why maintaining relationships has always felt so difficult. Everyone else seems to possess some innate understanding of social interaction that you're missing entirely. 

What are you supposed to say?

Thanks for checking on me after kicking me out?

Sorry for crying in your office?

Please stop being unexpectedly kind after making me come so hard because it's making this significantly harder?

After two minutes of spiralling, or five, or ten, you don’t even fucking know at this point, your phone buzzes again.  

Can I see you?  Please.

Your breath stutters. 

yeah sure When do your classes finish today? At 3pm Okay. I’ll meet you at Sapphos.

Fuck, you hate how he doesn’t ask you. Just makes a statement, tells you what to do. You hate how that turns you on, and even worse, how good it feels to not have to make decisions for yourself, for once. 

But also, that cafe was off campus. Realistically, should you be potentially jeopardising your academic career with this emotionally unavailable older man, who will definitely be using you for your body if this continues? No, but are you lonely and so fucking bored with the stangancy of your life? Well, yes. 

And so unfortunately, rational thought has never stood much of a chance against loneliness. Against the quiet ache that follows you home every evening, and the possibility of spending a few hours with somebody who sees you.

So your dumbass agrees. 

Okay ! i’ll see u soon  See you soon, sweetheart. 

Sweetheart. Yeah, you're actually gonna kill yourself. 

Sitting and staring out the window of some cafe he randomly picked, Jack doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. He doesn't know how many times a man can call something a lapse in judgement before it stops being a ‘lapse’ and starts becoming a conscious choice.

He got in way over his head after making you come on his lap, spiralling. Yes, it was the sheer humiliation of coming in his pants (which was a nightmare to clean off, by the way) but also, there was the humiliation of losing control of himself after years of carefully maintaining it, the mortifying reality of having to go home and sit alone with the consequences of it all.  

What was worse was somewhere along the way you'd managed to reach inside him and pull loose something from his heart he'd thought had calcified years ago, something he'd buried beneath research papers, lecture halls, and the endless routines he'd constructed around himself after his wife died.

And he knows, he knows, you deserve someone better. He was a widow for Christ's sake, probably three decades or somewhere very close to that, older than you. And you’re young. Thoughtful. Young enough that your entire life still seems stretched out in front of you. Even your anxieties, the things that weigh you down, feel temporary in a way his never will. 

You still have time to become whoever you're meant to be.

Jack feels as though he's already become whoever he's going to be.

He thinks about the way you looked during your panic attack, how hard you'd been trying to keep it together even as everything was falling apart. He thinks about how quickly you apologised for taking up space, for having feelings, for being overwhelmed.

And he didn't pity you, God, no. It wasn't that. He understood it. The loneliness. The exhaustion. The feeling that if you stopped holding yourself together for even a second, everything might collapse.

But he also saw the way your brain shut down, the way you trusted him. It made something ache inside his chest, a warm ache, the sort that spread through his ribs and settled somewhere dangerously close to hope. 

And hope was precisely the problem. Because he couldn't give you anything. Not with the grief and sense of routine buried in him before his teaching, in the chasm of his heart, since his time in the godforsaken military where half his limb was gone. 

He can't offer you anything but his fingers, or his mouth, between your legs, and you deserve someone better than that. 

But if that was the only way he’d be able to get you out of his head, then so be it. 

And so despite all of that, despite every logical argument he could construct, despite every fucking university regulation he was violating right now, his eyes keep drifting towards the café entrance every few seconds.

Jack exhales heavily and rubs a hand across his jaw.

And then you enter. Looking around with an adorably confused look before you spot him, and dare he say, your eyes light up. 

Abbot, no. 

But the words slip out as you reach him. 

“Hey sweetheart.”

“Hi Dr Abbot.”

You sit opposite him, glancing up at him briefly before staring back down at the table. He hates how endearing he finds it, how he wants to reach across the sticky table and pull your jaw, hold it, and force you to look at him. He wants to see your eyes glaze over the way they did the day prior. 

He chooses instead to slide the menu across to you, and once you order, he leans back. 

“Did you have a nice morning?”

He withholds a wince at the awkwardness. 

“Um, yes. Classes were okay. Thank you?”

The end of the sentence rises almost into a question, as though you're unsure whether that's the correct answer, and something about it makes his chest tighten.

“Good, that’s good.”

Then an awkward pause. Jack sits there like a complete fucking idiot.

For Christ's sake he’d called you here. And now that you're sitting in front of him, he can't seem to form a coherent sentence.

Get your shit together, Abbot. 

"Look," he begins, rubbing a hand across his jaw. "I wanted to apologise for yesterday."

Your eyes finally lift from the table.

“It was wrong of me to let you go like that. Quite frankly I don’t even have an excuse I just…”

He trails off, looking behind you out the window for a second. What exactly is he supposed to say?

That the sight of you crying made me feel physically sick? That for one terrifying second I’d felt something dangerously close to happiness sitting in that office with you? That after years of carefully maintaining the same dull routine I’d somehow started structuring entire days around whether I’d see you?

None of those seem particularly appropriate, too intense. 

"See, no man my age enjoys being reminded that he's still capable of behaving like a teenager."

That makes you smirk a little. His heart warms. 

“You mean, you.. coming in your pants?”

Jack groans softly and drags a hand down his face.

“I didn't want to put it so crudely, but well... yes."

"I thought so."

You giggle. And the sound catches him off guard enough that he finds himself smiling despite the mortification currently trying to consume him.

"To be honest," you continue, "I think I understood once I calmed down."

His shoulders loosen slightly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You shrug.

"But I'm not going to lie, it didn't feel very good. You kicking me out like that."

The honesty makes him wince.

"And that's exactly why I wanted to apologise, sweetheart." His gaze settles on you properly. Giving you a look that he hoped was earnest. "That was real shitty of me. I’m truly very sorry.”

You look at him for a few moments in silence, mapping his face. Then once seemingly finding what you were looking for, you reply. 

“Apology accepted.” 

The waitress arrives then, setting down your coffee, some monstrosity involving whipped cream and probably enough sugar to send him into cardiac arrest.

Jack eyes it suspiciously, humorously. 

"What?" you question. 

"That isn't coffee."

"It literally is."

"Sweetheart, that looks like it barely has any caffeine."

You let out a giggle, again. God, you’ve got to fucking stop that if you want his heart to survive.  

"It has espresso."

"Buried beneath, what? Three inches of whipped cream."

"Whatever, you’re just old and grumpy."

You grin. The grin grows wider when he continues staring at the drink with visible disappointment.

For some reason that finally breaks whatever lingering awkwardness remains between the two of you. The conversation begins flowing after that.

He makes a witty remark, you giggle. And you manage to make him laugh as well, coming out of your shell. 

Then the conversation shifts to that night at the bar. 

“Yeah so if he wasn't that buff and scary, I wouldn't even have called you over. I would've told him to suck my strap and choke.”

Jack nearly chokes on his coffee, coughing violently. You immediately burst into soft laughter. He wipes his lips with a napkin, grinning.

"Sweetheart."

"What?"

"Please give me some warning before you say things like that."

Your grin grows, eyes sparkling. 

"Why?"

"Because I'm fifty."

That seems to make your eyes widen imperceptibly, and you look down towards the coffee you ordered, chugging it. 

Interesting. 

Neither of you acknowledge the elephant in the room, instead you continue talking, skirting around the edges. Circling the obvious without ever touching it.

And eventually your drinks are empty. People around you start leaving.

Yet neither of you seems particularly eager to end the conversation.

Jack glances at his watch. Then back at you. He really, really shouldn't. But he wants to give you a way out. While still offering you a choice. 

"I don't have any classes after tomorrow's lecture."

The words leave his mouth casually.

Your eyes flicker up.

"Oh."

A pause.

"I could come see you."

"In my office?"

You immediately look embarrassed.

"Only if that's okay."

God. There it is again, that instinct you have to ask permission for existing.

"Sweetheart."

Your eyes lift.

"It's okay."

The relief that flashes across your face is so immediate it almost hurts to look at.

"Okay."

"Okay."

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

When the bill eventually arrives, he picks it up before you can.

"Dr Abbot-"

"No."

"I can pay for myself."

"I know."

"Then-"

"I know, I know you’re a self sufficient woman. You’re brilliant. But let me. I’ll pay for it."

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Jack watches the entire internal battle play across your face.

Then you nod softly, muttering an “okay, thank you”. 

Jack's heart clenches again. Genuinely fuck his life. 

So you think you’ve somehow ended up in a situationship or whatever the fuck with your fifty year old professor. 

Over the course of the past five weeks, you show up in his office after the lectures, and even a few times throughout the week, and he sets you on his lap, or on his desk while he laps at your cunt. 

Occasionally, he lets you pull out his cock and suck it. Sometimes under his desk, riding his boot as he's grading papers, God, his fucking whimpers when he comes. 

Unsurprisingly, he also does help you with understanding the content and doing your assignments. Has his own unique methods of doing so. 

Jack had you sitting on his lap, back to his chest, completely clothed while you were naked, bare. 

He hooked his face on your shoulder, whispering filth in your ears, telling you to “focus” as he rubbed slow circles over your pussy. Smearing the slick oozing out your cunt over your folds, avoiding your clit. 

You whined and tried to clench your thighs, whispering against his stubbled cheek. 

“Please, pl- touch me, Dr Abbot.” 

But he'd splayed one wide palm, tightly, over your thigh.

“No. Type out the rest of the essay, c’mon. Then you can come, pretty girl,” he’d muttered in a low voice. 

And once you did, he'd shoved his fat fingers inside of you, thrusting fast, the other hand alternating between your neck and your nipples, pinching, squeezing.  

You’d squirted that day, for the first time, creating a mess of his pants, some landing on his desk. 

He’d made you lick it off. 

Surprisingly, however, you hadn’t kissed, not even once. Nor had you fucked, in the penetrative sense. 

The latter you’re grateful for, because you were a virgin. It was too humiliating of a thought to ever bring up in your twenties now, but thankfully he never brings it up either. You suspect he knows though, from the little details you've unveiled to him over the course of the past few weeks. 

Talking about your feelings has always been.. difficult. The words choke up and clog the back of your throat when you go to speak. Entire relationships - well, lack of relationships - have been built around your inability to say what you need. 

But it's easy, sometimes, with Jack. When your brain shuts off in a post orgasmic haze, and you sit in other's company, his hand resting in your hair, or his head buried in your chest, the words bubble out of you. 

Snippets of memories of your family that you left behind, of the few friends back home, the lack of romance. When you stop speaking halfway through a sentence because you've forgotten how to explain yourself, he simply waits.

Surely he's put two and two together.  

And you think he has some avoidant issues of his own, the old fuck. 

He'll spend forty minutes analysing a political institution and somehow avoid answering a direct question about his own feelings.

Yet occasionally things slip through the cracks.

A memory about his wife. An offhand comment about the military that lingers in your mind long after he's moved on to another topic.

You'd had a lengthy conversation one day about that, your radical opinions spilling out before you could stop them, about systemic exploitation and imperialism, about how much you despised the military as an institution. You’d accuse institutions of manipulating vulnerable people; He agreed more than you'd expected him to. Told you about his journey of basically being forced into it to help his family, about the machinery of poverty and patriotism that pushed kids toward enlistment before they were old enough to understand what they were signing away.

He takes your ideas seriously, but he also looks genuinely delighted when you disagree with him.

And god, that’s what you were starting to like most about him. The intellect. Yes he has a girthy cock that would probably annihilate you in the best way when (if) the time came, and incredible arms, and his fat pecs. But his brain. Wow. 

Intelligence has always been your love language, whether you've admitted it or not. And Jack speaks it fluently. There’s a sense of strange intimacy and letting others hear your thoughts and opinions. And the ability to be able to talk and have someone just listen, or banter with you – it was rare. Especially for someone as reclusive as you. 

Unfortunately, you're also smart enough to recognise reality. Whatever this is, it isn't heading anywhere permanent. Because Jack never talks about the future, never makes promises, or gives any indication that he's looking for something lasting.

And honestly? You aren't sure he can. Not after everything he's lost, not with the gap of decades between you. So you tell yourself you're enjoying things exactly as they are. You tell yourself that spending time with him is enough.

And for now, maybe it is.

The problem is that every time he looks at you like you've said something brilliant, every time he remembers some tiny detail about your life, every time his face softens when you walk into a room – this lie gets a little harder to believe.

Five weeks. Jack’s ‘brief’ lapse in judgement has lasted five fucking weeks. 

Every time he sees you enter the lecture, you exchange a secret look, your eyes fluttering, him blushing. He feels like he’s twenty again. It's exhilarating. 

But the ‘ethical dilemma’ of it all sat permanently in the back of his mind, festering like an untreated wound.

He knows that every time he let himself enjoy your company, every time he answered one of your messages, every time he found himself smiling at something you'd said hours after the conversation had ended, he was stepping further into territory he had absolutely no business occupying.

The way you trusted him, allowing him to lick into your cunt or set you on his lap and caress you, felt nice. It felt real fucking good to be wanted and desired in some capacity, especially after being touch starved for nearly a decade since his wife. 

And seeing you under him sucking his cock, fuck.

“Dr Abbot….” you whined in a teasing tone, laced with humour. 

He groaned, placing his forehead on your back from where you sat on his lap. You definitely wanted something. 

“What?” he huffed out.

Still facing your laptop, you breathed out your next words. 

“When are you going to let me suck your cock?”

He jolted, hips thrusting up.

“Jesus Christ sweetheart, warn a guy.”

You said his name again, more firmly. 

“Stop dodging the question.”

He paused. 

“This whole… us. It's about you, about helping you relax so you can focus on studying. It’s not about me or my pleasure or-”

“Jack.” 

He lifted his head from your back, stilling. You’d never said his first name before. 

“What if doing it would give me pleasure, hm? What then?”

He stayed silent. 

You twisted in his lap, neck twisting to face him. 

“I want to taste you, please.”

Widening your eyes, and pouting, you all but begged him. Brought a hand to his stubbled cheek.  

“Please, Dr Abbot. Let me do it.” 

He sighed. Jack Abbot was a weak, pathetic man when it came to you.  

“Fine,” he grumbled. 

“Get off, c’mon.”

Yeah, it was worth it for the blinding smile you gave him, kissing his cheek.  

He gently lifted you off his lap, and pulled his chair back to give you some room. 

Jack nodded, glancing down pointedly. 

“If you want it, you gotta do it yourself.”

You kneeled immediately, settling yourself in the gap between his desk, between his open thighs. 

Unbuckling his belt, staring at his bulge with those doe eyes the entire time, you slowly pulled his cock out. 

It was hard, leaking, tip red and aching. Your soft hands wrapping around his dick made a drop of precum roll down. He moaned, a low sound emanating from deep in his chest. 

You slowly twisted your hand up and down his cock, fingers barely stretching around. 

Jack couldn’t wait. He gripped your hair, not too hard, but enough to lift your head up to face him. 

“You gonna put your mouth on it or do I need to shove it in?”

You smirked, you vixen. 

“Shove it in, I dare you.”

He groaned, muttering “you fuckin’ brat” as he pushed your hands off his cock.

“Open up, sweetheart.”

You did, tongue lolling out. A drop of drool dripped onto his thighs, and he moaned under his breath. 

He couldn’t wait any longer. Gripping his cock, he fed it into your mouth. Inch by inch. 

Until you gagged. 

Feeling your soft throat close around him, he couldn't help but groan your name.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

Your hands came up to stroke whatever didn't fit in - which truth be told, was more than half his cock, but it's okay, he'd train you eventually. 

“Can I help you, sweetheart? Teach you how to take your professor's cock down your throat?”

You nodded quickly, moaning, his cock still in your mouth. 

Then he guided you through it, holding your head as you sucked him. Muttered praises, filth, to guide you.

“Just like that, sweetheart”.

“Yeah, grip it harder”.

“Suck the tip, just like that.” 

And right before he came, he ripped you off him and wrapped a hand around himself. He whimpered as jerked off furiously over you, until drops of his pearly cum splattered over your tongue. 

He had never come that hard in his life. 

Panting harshly, he patted your head. 

“Swallow.”

Other than the sex, there were also the days where you'd walk into his office and start talking about some article you'd read, your entire face lighting up with excitement, and everything in him would melt. He’d pull you onto his lap, or set you in front of him, on his desk, and let you talk, feeling the softness of your thighs under his palm as he traced small circles. It was nice to let someone in, fill the void and the silence in his life. 

There wasn’t a label on what you two were, if you even were anything. 

While at first he’d thought it was common for you to be used to this sort of ‘causalness’ or a friends-with-benefit type situation (or whatever the fuck somebody born two generations after him would call it), he'd come to realise you were actually the opposite. Not that he’d have any issue with either. 

But from the scattered stories you'd told him about your past, the way you spoke about relationships, and the cautious vulnerability that appeared whenever the subject drifted too close to ‘feelings’, he'd begun piecing together a picture of someone who felt things deeply and trusted people slowly.

He could calculate you were likely a virgin. And so he never pressurised you, never made the first move to initiate sex, kept his cock to himself, waiting for you. No matter how much he wanted to feel the tightness of your pussy around him. 

However, his patience is wearing thin, growing precarious with every instance of you bringing another small thing that wedges itself beneath his ribs and refuses to leave. 

Now he's left with the deeply inconvenient problem of wanting things he really shouldn’t want. Not just a warm body near him, but wanting your company, your attention. He wants those afternoons in his office where you do nothing but talk to last a little longer.

All of this wanting, this yearning, is quite frankly, far more than he has any right to want.

Which is exactly why today is proving so unbearable.

He often feels a pit of something bitter bubble in his chest when you interact with someone other than him. Not that it happens frequently - you're quite reserved. But not today. Today, specifically, you seem to be chatting up a boy. 

When he enters the lecture this morning, you aren’t sitting alone like usual, but instead, there’s some boy next to you. Some boy your age. Dressed in some sort of hideous baggy outfit that hangs off his lanky frame. Is that fashion now? God that fucking punk. 

Why was he sitting next to you? Distracting you? 

As he sets up his laptop on the podium, seething under his breath, he hears a giggle. Your breathy giggle, the one he thought only came out with him. 

His jaw tightens. The lecture hasn't even started, for Christ's sake.

Jack spends the next five minutes attempting to focus on setting up his stupid slides while simultaneously becoming aware of every interaction occurring in your vicinity.

Looking up, he realises it's a grave mistake. Because now you're touching. Touching that punk’s arm. 

Fuck. 

Something ugly immediately twists in Jack's stomach, his brows furrowing. Anger bubbles up in his chest.

But he can’t do anything but continue on, beginning his lecture, as if he isn’t seething with jealousy. 

Halfway through the lecture, he catches himself directing a question towards your side of the room and immediately wants to launch himself into the sun.

Because you answer, of course, brilliantly as usual. But the boy next to you looks at you with stars in his eyes.

Yeah, Jack wants him expelled.

After a torturous two hours, students begin filing out of the room. Normally, this is the part where he'd catch your eye, maybe exchange some silent look that promised you'd be appearing in his office within the next ten minutes.

Instead, you're still standing beside that boy. And the little prick is making you laugh now. Then you reach out and lightly smack his arm, again.

Jack immediately decides prison might be worth it. 

He shoves his laptop into his satchel with considerably more force than necessary, and effectively storms out of the room without giving you a second glance. 

If you wanted to fuck about with some kid your age, then fine, Jack was not going to stop you. 

By the time he reaches his office he's practically fuming, throwing his bag onto his desk and immediately hating himself for it.

Because what exactly are you guilty of?

Making a friend? Talking to somebody?

The answer is nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Yet that doesn't stop the ugly feeling sitting beneath his ribs. Yeah, he’s going to commit a fucking crime tonight. 

Jack Abbot has managed to elicit yet another strange emotion in you.  You're staring at the doorway he'd just disappeared through, confused as fuck. 

He'd packed up and left so quickly you'd barely had time to process it, when usually, you walk to his office together. 

Once James - the man you were talking to - leaves with your Instagram to “organise a study session”, a strange sinking feeling begins to settle in your stomach.

You gather your things slowly, trying not to overthink it but failing spectacularly.

The thing is, you had actually been excited, embarrassingly excited. Somehow, after weeks of mostly keeping to yourself, after spending the majority of your university experience drifting between classes and then disappearing home, you'd accidentally made a friend today randomly. For the first time somebody actually came and fucking sat next you and talked to you. 

And the first person you'd wanted to tell was Jack. Which was probably concerning. You know how ridiculous it is that every interesting thing that happens in your day somehow circles back to him.

You'd actually spent the last ten minutes of class thinking about it, thinking about walking into his office and saying, "I made a friend today." And hearing whatever sarcastic response he'd inevitably come up with as he pulled you into his lap. Maybe teasing you about finally socialising - a topic he often teased you about -  or maybe pretending to be shocked.

Instead he'd practically fled the room.

By the time you reach his office, the excitement has mostly dissolved into uncertainty, and a sick, sick feeling. Your brain convinces you he hates you, he’s sick of you. The affair with the pretty young thing is over. 

Your hand hovers over the door, then knocks.

A gruff voice immediately answers.

"Come in."

You push the door open, and there he is standing beside his desk.

His jaw is clenched, his shoulders rigid.

And suddenly you're no longer excited to tell him anything. Instead you're left standing there wondering what exactly you did wrong.

He stalks up to you, and shuts the door behind you with enough force to make you jump. For a moment he simply stands there, broad chest rising and falling, staring at you as though he's trying to decide whether to throttle you or kiss you.

“Who the fuck was that boy?”

You’re confused. 

“Who?”

“Don't play games with me, sweetheart.”

“James?” you ask, tilting your head. “Oh he’s just a… friend I made. We decided to share notes for the course.”

His jaw visibly tenses.

“The fuck you mean you ‘share notes’?” He exaggerates the last two words, mocking the phrase in a deliberately high-pitched voice. “Don’t I give you enough notes to go off? I'm not teachin’ you well enough, so now you gotta go to some punk to share notes?

“Jack, it’s not like that, I just-”

“Dr Abbot.” He interrupts.

The correction slices straight through you.

“What?”

He walks up closer to you, until your back hits the door and you’re pinned against it. He tilts his head down to peer at you. 

“It’s Dr Abbot when you’re in my office, sweetheart,” His voice drops lower. “I’m still your professor.” 

You scoff at that, hurt. It’s not hot to you, no. In that moment your brain forces you to think about how every moment you've spent together has happened in this room, only in this room. And maybe that's all there is, and maybe that's all there ever was. You convince you that you guys can’t exist out of this space, this dynamic that exists between the two of you. 

Can he just not have a civil conversation? Why is pretending to act jealous? If he wanted to fuck you he could just ask. 

You swallow hard.

“Right,” you say lowly. “My professor.”

The words taste bitter.

“The one who only seems to want me when we're in here.”

His brows furrow immediately.

“That's not what-”

“No, it’s okay. Let me finish. The one who shoves his face between my thighs when he feels lonely to cure whatever fucked up grief he keeps bottled up inside of him. The one who refuses to see me outside the four walls of this godforsaken office-”

“Enough.”

You see something that resembles hurt flash across his face, his brows creasing. The lines around his eyes deepen.

“Is that really what you think of me?” He whispers, staring at you.

You twitch uncomfortably under him, looking at the floor, confidence evaporating now that you've actually said out loud what you’ve been spiralling over ever since this began.

“I just...” Your voice cracks slightly. “Look, you don't have to act possessive, okay? Whatever we have this- this thing. I know it doesn’t mean much to you.”

Jack immediately opens his mouth, but you keep rambling.

“Which is fine. Seriously. I'm okay with that.” Your hands shake slightly at your sides. “But just don’t give me false hope. I’m happy with you being my professor, or my dom, or whatever the fuck. And I like that you help me study and talk and get out of my head and feel good, but there’s no need to act like you- like you care. I can't handle feeling like you care one minute and then being reminded none of this is real the next.” 

You're panting hard by the end of your rant, still refusing to look at him. 

“Sweetheart, look at me.”

You shake your head, tears of frustration welling up at letting yourself be seen like this, vulnerable. You promised yourself you wouldn’t ever tell him. Stupid. 

Sex, that’s easy. It’s the meshing of two bodies, it’s clinical - you orgasm, your brain feels hazy and good while he drives you there. But this, talking, about feelings of all things, fuck. You can’t let anyone see you like that. Because then, they get sick of you, and then they leave. 

“C’mon, look at me,” he pleads.

You wipe your eyes, about to tell him to move back so you can leave, but then he says your name. Softly. Not sweetheart. Not pretty girl. But your actual name.

“Please.”

You look up then, tears pooling in your eyes. And your breath catches.

Because Jack looks devastated. His eyes are red around the edges, and his mouth is pulled into a frown. 

His hand rises slowly, cupping your cheek. He gently swipes a thumb under your eye. 

“Hey, I need you to know - this is real. To me.”

His voice cracks.

“I’m not using you as some sort of placeholder or whatever self sabotaging bullshit you’ve created in your head okay?”

Then he inhales deeply. 

“You've become the best part of my day. I wake up and mentally map my days around you. Hearing you talk loosens the constant ache I feel.”

Jack closes his eyes briefly.

Then opens them again. His hand tightens against your cheek.

“Sweetheart, I love you.”

You still. 

Your lip quivers as you stare at him. 

You bring your own hand up to cup his, and look up through your lashes. 

The words get stuck in your throat. God. He loves you. Somebody loves you. Somebody saw through rot and the cage around your heart, and said he fucking loves you.

“I do. Too. That thing,” you wince at your awkwardness. “I just, I want to say it but I-"

“Hey pretty girl, it’s okay.”

Jack smiles sadly. He leans his forehead down to yours.

“I do,” you whisper desperately. “I do. I just-”

“Shh.”

His mouth nearly presses against you as he whispers again.

“I love you. And I’ll wait however long you need me to say it back, okay?”

Your breath shudders as he says that, a sob catching in your throat. Because for the first time in a very long time, nobody leaves. 

Your eyes squeeze shut. Tears roll down your cheek, overwhelmed.

You barely register them before you feel Jack’s lips against your skin, kissing your tears. He mutters soft, ‘I love you’s as he presses kisses all over your face, cradling it. He presses one last one on your forehead before he tucks you into him. 

Your cheek rests on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

You wrap your arms around his waist. And you genuinely think you can control it, for about ten seconds at most, then you sob. Uncontrollably, for the first time in years in front of another human. 

Because God. You have spent so much of your life believing that love was something you had to earn, something you had to perform correctly for your family, the people around you, to accept you. Something that disappeared the second you became too much, too emotional, too difficult, too needy.

But he stayed. And he saw you. 

You stand there, wrapped in each other's embrace until the tears slow. Jack gently wipes your cheeks with both hands.

“Sorry for making you cry, princess,” he pouts, lip jutting out exaggerately. 

A watery laugh leaves you at that, and you cup his cheek. Jack immediately leans into your palm.

Jack watches you with an expression so openly adoring it nearly steals the breath from your lungs. As though he's still struggling to believe you're real.

Your thumb traces the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, mapped with years lived longer than you.

Then your hand drifts lower, brushing against the silver-grey scruff along his jaw, littered with specks of auburn, and you rub it gently, feeling the coarseness between your fingertips.

That was it, was it not? The stark difference between you, the thing that made all this so exhilarating. 

Jack had lived a life that existed before you. And somehow, impossibly, it had still found its way to yours. As though he's spent years wandering through darkness and has suddenly found something worth staying for.

And perhaps, you realise, so have you.

That’s when you know.

“I’m ready,” you breathe out.

Jack's eyes widen, his hand coming to hold yours where it rests on his jaw.

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel pressured into it.”

“Jack. I’m sure. I want this, I want you.”

He shudders, exhaling hard, bringing his face down to yours.

“Yeah?” He whispers against your lips, brushing them.

“Yeah.” 

Then his lips slam down onto yours, for the first time. 

And God, its everything you fucking imagined. 

His mouth presses against yours and soft whimpers escape the both of you. There’s a certain desperation in the way his mouth moves against yours, in the way your tongues immediately find each other. 

After a few brutal minutes of grinding against each other, moaning, Jack succumbs. He lifts you into his hands, your thighs wrapping around his waist, as he carries you to his desk and sets you on it.

Mouth still pressed against yours, he rips your shirt off, pulls your jeans and panties off, shoving them to the floor. 

He whines as you detach your lips from his to pull his blazer off. Looking up at him, naked on his desk, you unbutton his shirt. Trail your fingers down the dusting of salt and pepper chest hair, down, over his pecs, slightly raking your nails over his nipples.

“Fuck yeah, use your nails on my chest,” he grunts out as he unzips his pants.

You moan, pressing against him harder.

“I can’t wait any longer, fuck. Please, sweetheart, let me fuck you.”

You nod.

“I’m ready, Dr Abbot.”

He groans mutters ‘you fucking minx’ as he pulls his pants and boxers down, standing bare in front of you.

His cock hits his soft stomach, curving to the left, precum coating the tip, the way you love. 

You glance down at his prosthetic. 

“You sure you want to do this here, Jack? We can go on the sofa if you want.”

He looks at you with so much adoration, a soft smile gracing his face.

“No sweetheart, I'll keep it on for now. Wanna fuck you on my desk. ”

Then he pinches your nipples as he leans in. 

“And I still need to fuck the brat out of you.”

You whine.

“What are you waiting for then?”

He brings a hand down your stomach, fingers pressing up against you. 

“Gonna finger you a little bit, yeah? Get you ready for your professor's cock, s’not gonna fit in this tight pussy otherwise.”

A whimper escapes you at his crude words, god can this old man dirty talk.  

He slowly slips two fingers inside of you, thrusting, then three once you’re ready. Circles your clit softly, the way he’s learnt after many nights on this same desk. 

Whispers filth against your lips, kissing you, desperate now that he knows what your lips taste like after many weeks. 

Once you come, he finally presses his cock against you. Rubs the tip over your folds, coating it in your slick. 

“Yeah? You ready sweetheart?”

You nod, whisper a soft ‘please’ against his lips. 

Then he pushes his tip into you. And oh fuck. He’s just so fucking thick. 

He immediately brings a hand up to hold his base to stave off his orgasm, puts his head on your shoulder. Breathing harshly. 

It hurts a little but you want more, you crave the feeling of him pressed up against you. So you buck your hips. 

“Please, Jack, fuck. Put it in,” you whine. 

“Oh- oh shit. Fucking stop that.”

He lays a hand flat on your thigh. Breathes deeply. 

“I’m trying not to blow my load here, sweetheart, gimme a sec.”

You giggle softly, pleased. Having this old man at your mercy, your dreams come true. 

“Take your time, old man.”

He stills at that, grips your waist harshly. 

Looks up at you, his eyes darkening. 

“Fuck you,” he snarls. 

Then he presses into you, inch by inch, until all of him is buried inside. His thighs shake with the effort of not coming, and you breathe deeply through the pinch of pain. 

“Fuck princess, so tight for me, my good fucking girl,” he babbles in your ear. 

You whimper against him, waiting for the pain to subside. 

Then you nod. And he begins thrusting, slowly. And it's so fucking euphoric, the feeling of sex. It makes sense why they call orgasms ‘a little death’ in French, because god, you know your body will leave your soul once he starts properly fucking you. 

With every deep thrust of his cock into you, his grey pubes brush against your clit. You both moan softly. He grips your waist, shoving faster, harder. 

“Only man that’s ever gonna be in this pussy yeah? Yeah?”

You’re half gone drooling against his neck, letting out high pitched whines. 

“Nod for me, c’mon. I haven’t fucked the brains outta you yet.” 

Jack grips your hair tight, pulling your head away from where it was buried against his neck. 

You nod, slurring your words.

“Yeah Dr Abbot, s’only your pussy.”

“That’s it, good fucking girl.”

Then he starts thrusting, faster. Your hands rest on his shoulders, his face buried in your neck. His body slamming into yours is so hard it makes the table squeak under you. 

When he brings a hand to your clit, you whimper loudly. He covers your mouth with his palm, and stops immediately. 

“Quiet, you don’t want anyone to hear right?” 

He roughly pants, trailing a line of kisses up your neck. 

“Don’t want them to know your professor’s fucking you, right?”

You shake your head, words muffled under his palm. 

“I’ll be quiet please, fuck please!” 

He starts thrusting against faster, the table shaking. You toss your head back in pleasure, his cock reaching a spot deep inside you. He stares at you, at your face twisted in pleasure, the way your tits bounce as he thrusts into you. 

“Yeah that is it, baby, good fucking girl.”

God it feels so good, and you’re there, you're nearly there, egged on by his rough groans and whimpers in your ear. You bring a hand down to your clit, starting to rub it to reach your orgasm but he shoves it off. Pushes you onto the table, your back hitting the desk. 

“That’s my job sweetheart. This pussy is mine.”

Then he hovers over you, eyes boring into yours as he fucks you harder, rubbing circles on your clit. The pleasure is so, so overwhelming and you close your eyes. 

He pulls your head towards him, gripping your jaw. 

“C’mon, look at me sweetheart.”

You open your eyes, moaning. 

“Say it,” he grunts. “Say you’re mine. Say it.”

“Fuck- Dr Abbot, I’m yours.”

He moans gutturally then pushes his lips onto yours again. You both moan into each other's mouths, sloppily kissing as you build towards your peak.  

“Fuck yeah sweetheart, just like that- good girl, so fucking tight.”

He continues to mutter filth against you while all you can do is softly moan. Your brain is mush, filled with thoughts of him, jackjackjack. 

You clench tightly around him when he bites your bottom lip.

“C’mon tell me how good you feel,” he pants, nearing his own orgasm. 

“Fuck, Daddy, feels so good.”

His hips buck once, harshly, then he stills. 

“What’d you just call me?”

Your eyes come into focus. The fog clearing a bit. 

You stammer, “Um nothing, sir, I was just-”

“No. Repeat it.”

He trails a hand to your neck, squeezing gently once, then more harshly

“What did you call me?”

“Daddy,” you whisper out.

He pouts mockingly. 

“Yeah? Daddy makin’ you feel good, baby? That’s why you're grippin’ this cock so tight, right?”

And then he starts thrusting, harder than before. 

“Just. Let. Daddy. Take Care. Of. You,” He harshly thrusts between each word, one hand covering your mouth as your moans get louder. 

Then you feel your orgasm approaching, the flutter building up again, clenching around him. 

He looks into your eyes, only a thin ring of hazel left, his pupils so dilated.

“You gonna come for your Daddy? Yeah?” 

You nod, whining, then you bite his palm. Hard. 

His hips stutter and you feel the warmth of his spend pooling in your cunt. He whimpers and babbles your name as he comes, “fuck, fuck I love you. I love you so fucking much.”

You moan at his words. But you still have to come. 

“Jack please, please keep going.” 

He groans gutterly as his cock begins to soften, overstimulated but he continues thrusting jerkily. 

He grips your chin in his palm. 

“Fuckin’ come for me. Now,” he grunts out, pinching your clit roughly.

And then it happens. You write, moaning under his hands as the coil of pleasure snaps, closing your eyes. 

He whimpers soft praises and coos of “I love you, did so good for me” as his cock spurts out more cum, twitching.

You pant against each other's mouths for a few long moments, his scruff tickling your chin, his forehead resting against yours, both of you trying and failing to steady your breathing.

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart,” he murmurs, a breathless laugh escaping him. “That live up to your expectations?”

You laugh softly nodding. 

“Mhm.”

He leans his head back to look at you properly once he’s cooled down, and holds your face in his palms. 

After a few long seconds of just staring, something grave passed over his face.

“Don’t think I got a lot of years left, sweetheart.”

Your brows immediately furrow.

“Jack-”

He presses a finger to your lips when you go to interrupt, shushing you. 

“Let me speak.”

You sigh, but nod. 

“I've spent most of my life thinkin' there'd only ever be one great love for me,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing beneath your eye. “And after I lost her, I figured that was it. Figured whatever part of me knew how to belong to somebody had gone with her.”

Your breath stutters. 

“Then you came along. In that fucking bar, wearing that tiny dress, asking me to help you. ”

A watery laugh escapes you.

“And whatever years I have left, I wanna spend them with you. I wanna hear every thought that gets trapped in that head of yours. I wanna know what articles you're reading, what you're writing, what you're dreamin’ about at three in the morning.”

He pauses. 

“I wanna be the person you come home to.”

Your breath catches.

“As your other. If you’d want.” 

You breathe out, seeing his face dimly lit by the lamp in his office. Mapping out his wrinkles near his eyes, the silver threaded in his slight beard and his soft smile. And suddenly it comes spilling out of you before anxiety can stop it.

“I love you.”

Jack stills completely. His eyes pool with tears. 

“Yeah?” He whispers, half surprised, half in awe.  

You nod, leaning up and brushing your nose against his.

“And I’d love to be yours.”

Relief washes over his face so intensely it almost hurts to witness. His eyes glisten as he kisses you softly, a slow, reverent press of his lips against yours for a few quiet moments.

Then he moves back to start cleaning up, cock still inside you. 

As he leans up, his back cracks, loudly. 

You both still. Before you burst out laughing. 

“You’re so fucking old… yeah you’re not making it very long, I can’t lie.”

He groans dramatically, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.   

“Fuck you, shut up.”

You bite your lip. His gaze travels there.  

“Make me, Dr Abbot,” you say, exaggerating a whimper, only half serious.

His eyes darken, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps beneath the skin. Yet despite the stern look he's trying to give you, a pink flush begins creeping across his cheeks, spreading over the tops of them and disappearing beneath the scruff along his jaw.

“Yeah sweetheart, about that… I’m not gonna be able to get it up for a while.”

You break, laughing harder as he laments. He’s so fucking old. 

Once you calm down, he slowly pulls his cock out of you, both of you moaning, you at the loss of the fullness, him at your shared cum oozing out. 

“But my mouth still works,” he smirks. 

Your breath hitches as he plugs you with his fingers to stop more of your cum from spilling out. Leans in close, and whispers. 

“My leg’s killing me, sweetheart,” he begins, breath fanning over your face. “But I'm going to lie on that sofa right there. And you're gonna ride my face till you come. Again. And again.”

You whimper softly against his mouth. 

“Okay.”

“Okay, who, pretty girl?” “Okay, Daddy.”

He grins. 

“Good girl.”

omg hi u made it ! guys when i tell you this is so personal to me, from the dialgoue to the experimental (?) writing style. i need this man to be my father figure SO FUCKING BAD i have had such a week.

anyways per usual thank you to @tempestfawn for perving out with me and tolerating me, and salima for being horny over this man among other things #fullhomo

[deathreverse]

Reader x rabbot filth please idec what the plot is but please just the filthiest smut you can imagine nothing is off limits 💞

─── LIQUID COURAGE

SUMMARY: The one night Robby and Jack seem to loosen the reigns of control in the bedroom, you're perhaps a bit too quick to run with it and push some boundaries.

WARNINGS: smut, threesome, dirty talk, teasing, swearing, attentive soft dom!Jack, slightly mean dom!Robby, oral (male receiving), age gap, mutual masturbation!

AUTHORS NOTE: this is my first ever Rabbot thing so forgive me if its not up to standard but this was delicious to write hehe

PAIRING: Rabbot x Reader

MAIN MASTERLIST

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The room smells like sweat and sex, a mix of musks and enticing desperation that oozes from your pores. Your bodies are slick from perspiration, skin bare and flushed as tongues lick and teeth bite.

You’re on your knees in the middle of the bed, barely managing to prop yourself up on bent elbows. One hand is wrapped around Robby’s cock, the other squeezing Jack’s.

Their backs are against the headboard of the bed, glistening beneath the soft golden hue from the nightstand lamp. Your head dips low between your shoulders as your tongue swirls messily around Jack’s ruddy tip.

A sigh falls past his mouth, head rolling back and eyes fluttering closed. You watch him through thick lashes, pumping Robby in your spare hand as you take Jack’s cock into your warm mouth.

“Fuck—you’re so good at this, baby.”

You hum around him, tongue flattening across the underside. The sight of your lips stretched around Jack's cock is enough to have both men rutting their hips up.

"You can take more than that, baby." Despite Robby's sure command, his voice is gravely and breathless, cheeks flushed and lips swollen.

You listen, though. Take Jack further as you relax your throat the best that you can. A whimper falls from him, broken praise following when you feel a hand reach for the top of your head to push your further down.

"That's it, Bunny. Gonna go dumb on Jack's cock?" Robby's condescending tone has your pussy spasming around nothing, dripping between your thighs and onto the sheets.

A muffled hum of obedience vibrates around Jack's length, has him cursing out through a broken groan. Robby's fingers tangle in the roots of your hair, nails catching at your scalp and it sends a shiver down your spine.

You're suddenly acutely aware that all of your attention is focussed on Jack, your grip on Robby's cock loosening and rhythm of pumping halting.

You know he doesn't mind, if the way he's encouraging you to swallow Jack is anything to go by, but you're not prepared for anyone to feel neglected.

It's a fight to pull off Jack against Robby's hand, to heave a breath and blink through tearful eyes. The desperate ache between your thighs is becoming a bit too much to ignore.

Perhaps it's the three glasses of wine with dinner, or maybe it's the way both Jack and Robby are so easily relenting most of the control tonight. But you can't help but want to rebel a little.

Just to see how far they'll let you take it.

It's with exasperated frowns that they watch you move away from them; your feet coming to rest on each of their thighs as your legs spread wide and you prop yourself up on a wobbly elbow.

Jack's gaze moves unapologetically to your sopping cunt—the slick that drips to the sheets beneath, the fluttering of your hole just desperate to be stuffed.

Robby holds a bit more reservation. There's a firm line setting in his lips, a darkness washing over his eyes that seems to thrill you to no end. From your peripheral you can see Jack begin to fist his cock, to stroke himself at the sight of you so bare and open for them.

You keep your gaze locked on Robby, though. Testing out the waters when your hand slides down your body and your fingers scoop through your arousal, swirling it around your throbbing clit.

"Bunny." His voice is gravely, tone firm enough to suggest you're pushing boundaries that he's less than pleased about.

"What?" Your reply comes out breathless, whining when you slip a finger inside. "C'mon, let's all just play a little."

Robby's jaw twitches at the same time his cock does.

"Fuck—c'mon, brother. Look how pretty she is for us. Let her be a little bad tonight." Jack's breathless voice tries to encourage Robby, his hand moving fast, grip growing tighter.

You widen your legs a little more, remove your finger to spread your cunt apart for them. It's slow when Robby's gaze drifts down your body; roving over the swell of your breasts and pebbled nipples, before settling on your sweet pussy.

When you begin to make a mess of yourself by smearing your slick across your folds, Robby finally reaches for his aching cock—a shudder of a sigh tumbling off his chapped lips.

"Fine," he grunts out, fist finally moving. "What Bunny wants, Bunny gets."

Something feline stretches across your lips when you sink two fingers into your cunt and Jack reaches a hand to grope at the flesh of your thighs.

You turn to him, bottom lip caught between teeth and there's a look that washes over his eyes that you've never quite seen before.

"But you don't get to cum."

[inkdippedquills]

cant help myself

Pairing: Michael Robinavitch x fem!grad student!reader

Summary: You were not Robby’s biggest fan and finding out the saddest man in your bar fucks was absolutely not going to change your opinion of him. Absolutely not.

Rating: Explicit (E)

Word Count: 17k

Series: GradSdtudent!Reader

Tags/Warnings: angst, depression, implication of suicidal ideation, description of injury, praise kink, mediocrely written smut, some lite humor, the tone is actually not that depressing I pinky swear, pathetic bar patron to remarkable lover trope (we all know that common trope).

Author's Note: As per the poll, I come to deliver grad student/bar tender dealing with pathetic Robby. Please comment with your thoughts and feelings, I yearn for the reactions. I’m not the most proud of the smut, but I’m trying to get better at writing it. Idk hope it’s enjoyable enough.

Pls note this has not really been proofread. And I'm incapable of writing something short. soz.

-- -- --

You winced as one of your least favorite regulars walked in. It probably wasn’t a fair group to put the poor man in, especially when ugly-ass-Hawaiian-shirt-guy called your coworker a cunt and then threw up on the floor of the bathroom, missing the toilet by a solid meter. There was also the guy who insisted that he was such a successful lover, no one could stomach to call him back in case they became addicted.

But Dr. Robinavitch—Robby as he insisted he be called—was a maudlin drunk. By the end of the night you were always a little worried to let him go home alone in case he did something he couldn’t take back. He tipped well, though, so that was something. He had been coming in more sporadically since July. One night, when he was more tipsy than drunk, he implied something had occurred and he began seeking help.

Tonight he looked more alert. Sometimes, when he came in, he wore the world on his shoulders. At least tonight you were greeted with a semi-convincing smile.

“Dr. Robby,” you greeted. You’d stopped asking how his day was months ago.

“How has your shift been?” He asked you.

“Not bad, only have another hours or so before I clock out,” you replied.

The bar was slow tonight. Despite how abysmal the tips were, you preferred it slow. It allowed you to read, or grade, or write while patrons largely entertained themselves. Aimless small talk wasn’t your forte, though you’d certainly improved over the course of this job. Thankfully, the dive bar seemed to attract the kinds of people who wanted to be left alone with their thoughts.

“Busy week?” He asked.

“No more than others. Want your usual?” You asked deflecting his question about your life outside these walls.

A few weeks ago, the last night Robby had truly been wasted (so much so, you cut him off) he’d caught you in a moment of weakness and you’d told him about your PhD work. Despite his normally depressive drunk state, he perked up and began asking you question after question. It seemed to raise his spirits, so you acquiesced assuming he’d forget by the next morning.

His brain was a steel trap, as evidenced by the fact he’d ask about your PhD, either explicitly or in a roundabout way the following half dozen times he came in. He rarely got shit-faced anymore. Most times, he tended to stay on the right side of tipsy. It certainly seemed like he was trying to have a better relationship with alcohol.

In fact, a couple visits previous, you and a coworker watched amazed as he flirted with and then subsequently took home a woman sitting next to him at the bar. It had been live texted in the bartender groups chat to a mixture of awe, surprise, and happiness. Dr. Robby was something of a local legend in his sad but overall non-troublesome behavior. He just liked to talk when drunk and you really didn’t like to talk to drunk people.

Bartending paid well, and needs must.

“Just a rum and coke,” he said settling in on his usual bar stool. It sat off to the side and gave the occupant an easy view of the bar, patio, and front door.

“Got it,” you replied ringing him up. “Tab?”

“Not tonight,” Robby said.

You hoped your surprise didn’t show on your face, but you knew you had a terrible poker face. Looks like the group chat would be getting new information on the bizarre man. Most of your coworkers liked Robby a lot, he was colloquially known as Sad Paddington Bear. Tipping well and not being a menace made him a perfect patron. You were just a little pickier than most, with your days being spent on campus with academics and undergrads—by the time you came to this job your threshold for unique characters had been reached.

Sometimes you felt bad for how unfriendly and uncurious you could be with patrons. Many of your regulars were fun to chat with. They had fascinating lives and stories. You suspected Robby would be one if he got out of his drink. But no one normal goes to get a PhD—including yourself—so you just did not have it in you for Robby’s particular brand of quirky.

“You look surprised,” Robby commented as he handed over his card.

“I don’t look like anything,” you attempted to lie.

Robby snorted, “Every thought you have is written on your face. It’s why I know you don’t like me.”

“I like you fine,” you replied sliding over the card and receipt. “You tip well, who wouldn’t like that?”

“So that’s why it always looks like you sucked on a lemon when I walked in?” He inquires signing the check.

“Maybe I just enjoy snacking on lemons,” you said moving behind the bar and beginning to mix his drink. You made a mental note to work on your ability to control your face. It really was a problem.

“I think that would be more peculiar than not liking me,” Robby told you, sliding the check back over.

He was one of three people currently sitting at the bar, so after you handed him his drink, you glanced at his receipt.

“Is tipping 100% trying to get me to like you more?”

“Yes,” he replied simply, taking a small sip. “Knew you didn’t like me.”

“I don’t like many people, Dr. Robinavitch. I fear you’re not unique. I’m very much the problem here.”

“And yet, for some reason I doubt that. You seem perfectly pleasant to me.”

You couldn’t help the disbelieving snort that his comment elicited. “Might want to get your eyes checked, if that’s what you’re seeing.”

“I see just fine. It’s reading that I need the glasses for,” he stated.

It was unnerving, being stared at by Robby. His eyes were a deep brown and they seemed to have the uncanny ability to stare through you. It made the hair on your neck stand on end. Being watched was fine by you. Lecturing in front of massive classrooms meant public speaking, being perceived, and observed phased you very little. Robby was not observing you. He seemed to be studying you, and that was more than a little uncomfortable.

“Whatever you say,” you replied a little uncomfortable.

“I’ll get you to like me,” he said, an almost charming smile graced his face. It still seemed a little sad.

“Or maybe you need to be okay with the fact you’re not everyone’s cup of tea. I’m certainly not.”

“I think you underestimate yourself.”

“I think you overestimate yourself. I can’t believe you got that smoking hot woman to go home with you.”

“Paying attention to me, then?” He asked. Clearly, it was an attempt to sound suave, but it missed the mark and sounded cheesy.

“The group chat with all the bartenders was very proud of you.”

“And what about you?”

“I wondered if you were too old to get hard on your own and if you popped a sildenafil on your way out.”

“Ouch,” Robby responded but he didn’t sound particularly hurt.

Another patron walked in and you happily took the opportunity to leave the disconsolate aura Robby seemed to emanate around him. All too fast, the patron paid and you got them their drink. Your book was back by Robby. When you glanced at him, he had plucked it from behind the bar and was reading it.

“Have a sudden craving to learn about reform politics in the American southwest?” You asked.

“It’s a well written book,” Robby commented.

“It is, one of the better books I’ve read this semester.”

“I like your notes in the margin; lots of interesting thoughts and connections.”

“Uh-huh.” You gently took the book from his hands and was about to walk away when he asked with a forced causal tone,

“Do you still have that office on the third floor of the social science building?”

You paused. “Why do you know what floor my office is on?”

“You mentioned once your window looks over the duck pond and the statue of the naked guy with the sword,” he said. “Third floor lines up with that.”

You blinked. “I mentioned that months ago.”

He shrugged. “I remember things.”

You didn’t respond. You weren’t sure how to. Most patrons forgot your name by their second drink. Robby remembered throwaway comments at 1AM while half-drunk. It was certainly a little odd, but no one else in your life seemed to pay that much attention to what you said.

“So do you like it better there than your old one?” he asked.

You stared. “My…old one?”

“The one you hated because the fluorescent light buzzed and flickered. You said it gave you headaches.”

You let out a slow breath. “Why do you remember that?”

He took a sip as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You were annoyed. You get more animated when you’re annoyed. It was interesting.”

“That’s not creepy at all,” you said flatly.

He looked mildly alarmed. “Was that creepy?”

“Yes.”

He grimaced. “Okay. Sorry. I just…listen.”

“To everything.”

“Well, yeah.” He hesitated. “You’re…” He trailed off.

“I what?” you asked cautiously.

“You’re the only person who talks to me like I’m not about to break or some shit, like I’m not some sad old man. You don’t like me enough to coddle me.”

You almost said you do think he’s sad, but stopped yourself. Something about the way he stared down at his drink made you uncomfortable. Apparently your stare and subsequent silence elicited a change in tactics.

“So,” he said, brightening with forced cheerfulness. “Conference are coming up, right? You said you hate them. Are you going to that one in—Chicago? MPSA?”

You frowned. “How do you even know when MPSA is?”

“You were complaining about airfare once.”

“That was in February.”

“It was a compelling rant.”

You gave him a look. “Robby. I don’t even tell my friends this stuff.”

He blinked. “We could be friends?”

“Don’t make this weird.”

He deflated slightly but nodded. “Okay. Sorry.” He was quiet for a beat. Then, softer: “I just, like talking to you. Makes it easier to not get drunk.”

You froze, not sure what to do with that.

He immediately panicked at your silence. “You don’t have to! I’m not trying to pry, I swear. Just, I like knowing how your brain works.”

“You say that like it’s a normal thing to say.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.”

He considered that. “Oh.”

You shook your head. “Robby, I’m not that interesting.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, almost offended. “You’re the most interesting part of my day.”

He realized what he’d said the moment it left his mouth. His eyes widened just slightly, like he wanted to catch the words and shove them back in.

You stared at him.

He took a quick, embarrassed sip of his drink. “That sounded less pathetic in my head.”

“I really doubt that,” you said.

He groaned quietly into his glass. “I’m going to die alone.”

“That feels dramatic.”

“Statistically accurate,” he muttered back.

Despite yourself, you snorted. “There’s no statistically valid way you could even determine that. It would be based on superficial evidence and the endogeneity would render the model completely pointless.”

He looked up, “What is endogeneity?”

“I am not giving you a stats lecture. Aren’t you a doctor. Shouldn’t you know stats?”

“No. I do calculations for drugs and chemical reactions to drugs. I don’t deal with probabilities. At least not like you do.”

“So how do you read case studies or evaluate the veracity of research?”

“Evaluate the veracity of research?”

“Yes, Dr. Robinavitch. If you don’t understand stats then how do you know if the research paper you’re reading is bullshit?”

“Well, it got published didn’t it?”

You felt your eye twitch. “I’ve never been more concerned for the medical profession than I am at this moment. This is why you guys stole “Doctor” from us, because you wanted to appear more like experts.”

“I think we had the title first.”

“I think you should check your facts. Academics were called doctor during the Middle Ages. Medical professionals started using it when they also spent time grave robbing.”

“You’re very passionate about this,” he commented.

“Yeah well,” you took a breath. “Respect is important.”

“So should I call you doctor?”

“I’d have to defend my dissertation first.”

“What’s your dissertation about?”

“Do you want another drink?” You asked ignoring his question.

“Nope,” he replied. “What’s your dissertation about?”

Letting out a harsh breath you said, “Local interest groups and how to encourage people to get involved in local politics.”

“Sounds fascinating,” he said.

“It does not,” you laughed.

“You can’t tell me what I do or don’t find interesting,” he shot back.

“You would be the first non-political scientist to find anything I do interesting.”

“Their loss.”

You stared at him and he held steady under your gaze. Normally, he’d cringe away. According to your students, you had a severe look that would render anyone hesitant and nervous. But Robby idly sipped his drink and kept looking back at you.

“You’re so weird,” you settled with saying.

“You’re not the first to say and I doubt you’ll be the last.”

With narrowed eyes, you turned and began cleaning up your station. You really just wanted to go home.

-- -- --

You were off this week, trying to meet a couple of important deadlines. It meant most evenings were spent on campus in your cramped but homey cubicle staring at numbers you could barely differentiate anymore. In high school you would have given anything to not do math, now you coded complex statistical models and calculated matrix algebra and derivatives. High school you would be devestated.

But current you, the one who was currently sitting in a too-cold-office space with a sweatshirt and a blanket, was fascinating by the results of your field experiment. It’s why you didn’t notice a group text erupting on your phone.

Priya: Sad Paddington Bear came in and asked about our favorite grumpy PhD student.

Rachel: he looked so sad when we told him she was off this week. apparently our girl has an admirer.

Priya: HOLY SHIT!!! He’s flirting with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life. Again!!!! He’s failing miserably and she seems charmed by it.

Oliver: I can’t believe I’m not there for this. Tell me everything!!!!!!!!

Rachel: she’s probably in her forties if I had to guess. he asked her name and if he could buy “the most beautiful woman in the bar” a drink. it was painfully cheesy

Oliver: did it work?????

Rachel: they’re talking rn!!!!!!!!!!!

Priya: I still can’t believe he has game.

Tanner: Hello all, this group chat is meant for work conversation only.

Priya: Fuck off, Tanner.

Rachel: fuck off tanner

Oliver: you’re a kill joy, tan

Rachel: THEYRE LEAVING TOGETHER. I REPEAT. THEY ARE LEAVING TOGETHER. SPB FUCKS!!!!!

Tanner: I am amazed Sad Paddington Bear has it in him. Guess he cannot count on impressing our grumpy coworker.

You: Fuck off Tanner, you dickhead.

Tanner: Case and point

Oliver: really changed your tune about the group chat there now that we are discussing how Paddington Bear fucks.

Tanner: It is work relevant.

You grumbled at your phone and tossed it in your backpack so it wouldn’t taunt you. So what if you were once again faced with the reality that Robby had game? You didn’t like Robby. He was sad and weird and paid way too much attention to you. Though, the attention he paid didn’t feel creepy so much as intense. He remembered things about you that most of your closest friends couldn’t recall. Not that you blamed them, you just lived in a niche world.

Robby fucking was in no way relevant to the edits you were making to your research nor did it help ease the exhaustion settling on your shoulders. You hadn’t been fucked well basically since you started the PhD program four years ago. It was an itch no one had been good enough to scratch. You briefly wondered if Robby was good in bed; probably not, you decided.

-- -- --

Robby was already at the bar when you clocked in. You were covering for Priya who went home sick, so it was only a couple hours until last call. Robby stared blearily at his empty cup; he didn’t even notice you walk in. Glancing at his tab you saw he had far out ordered his new normal. He was sitting four double gin and tonics deep; a large number for someone whose tab was only opened a little over an hour ago.

“You’re here,” he said syrupily. Robby never slurred, but he did manage to sound sleepy and sickly sweet at times.

“What happened to a healthier relationship with alcohol?” You asked sliding a glass of water with a straw in front of him and taking the mostly empty G&T away.

“I was drinking that,” he grumbled.

“I’ll take if off your tab,” you replied gesturing to the water.

He leaned down and took a drink from the straw. For some reason straws always got the drunk people to drink water. You likened it to a baby with a pacifier. Robby looked particularly sad tonight. You hoped he wasn’t going to talk your ear off. You weren’t sure how to square the man who took home, by all accounts, absolute bombshells, when he was now wasted on G&Ts in front of you.

“You’re my favorite,” he said. He took another drink.

“I’m literally the meanest person here,” you responded. “You have got to fix your self esteem.”

“Esteem is fine,” he replied.

You snorted. “People with healthy self esteem’s don’t gravitate towards people that are mean to them. I thought you said you were seeing someone professionally.”

“Stopped,” he mumbled.

“Healthy.”

“I’m fine,” he replied, his grin was goofy but his eyes were sad.

“Uh-huh,” you knew you sounded unconvinced.

“Do you know what my favorite thing about you is?” Robby asked apropos of nothing.

“No, and I don’t really care,” you sighed, as you began washing cups. You wished he didn’t insist on sitting by the good water spout so you could dishes in peace.

“You don’t lie to protect anyone’s feelings.”

That wasn’t exclusively true. You were far more tactful with your students than adult men at a bar you worked at to make your car payment hurt less.

“Not anyone here, that’s true,” you said.

“I lie all the time,” he announced. “I’m good at it to.”

“What do you lie about?” You asked disbelievingly. Immediately you wished you hadn’t said anything.

“That I’m fine,” he sighed. “I’m not fine. As demonstrated by the fact I’m shit faced on a Tuesday at…” he looked at his watched for longer than a sober man would need, “nine-twenty-seven pm.”

“No offense, Robby. If that’s what you’re lying about, you’re a shit liar.”

“No one else seems to have picked up on it,” he grumbled.

“Don’t you have friends or family?”

“Parents died when I was little. Raised my Bubbe, grandmother. Was the only person to sit shiva for her when she died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” you replied. “It must have been lonely to grieve like that for her.”

“You know what sitting shiva means?”

“I have met a Jewish person, before yes. I do live in Pittsburgh, you know,” you replied.

“You’re full of surprises,” Robby declared.

“I certainly am not,” you scoffed. Robby just shrugged and went silent. Eventually he said,

“All of her family had already passed and then it was just me. Sitting in the empty house watching distant family members and friends I barely knew putter around while I sat and stared. Seven days of nothing.”

“What about your friends?”

He just shrugged.

“Surely in your many years on this earth you’ve picked up a friend or two.”

“Sure, but I’m great at pushing them away. After Adamson died, after I all but killed him, there was no one willing to put up with me.”

“Adamson?”

“Mentor.” Robby said. “Incredible man. Changed the way I looked at the world. Showed me how to be a good doctor and good man. I think I’ve lost both since he passed.”

“How did he die?” You asked, quietly.

“COVID. I made the choice to take him off the ventilator because someone younger needed it. She died, too. Some fucking doctor I am,” Robby said acidicly. It was a tone of voice that surprised you.

“What a goddamn bitch of a situation,” you told him. “I’m sorry you were put in that position.”

“Maybe if I had been a better doctor…” Robby trailed off.

“What? You could have bare knuckle boxed death and won?” You asked, leaning a hip against the bar in front of him. “Way I see it, instead of death taking them easily, it had to fight you tooth and nail for it.”

“Still won.”

“Always will in the end,” you replied shrugging.

“Then maybe there isnt a point.”

“To being a doctor?” You asked.

“That, or keeping going. What’s the point if we all die?”

“Christ.”

“Sorry.”

“You apologize too much.”

“You sound like Jack.”

“Friend?”

“We used to be close,” Robby mumbled.

This was certainly more desolate that you really had the energy for.

“Dude,” you said before you could stop yourself. It was really none of your business. “You seem to be moderately intelligent, so you should know that you can stop pushing away your friends. I’m sure it’s not easy but it’s not a fact of life. Take some agency instead of letting things just happen to you.”

If anything he curled in deeper to himself and you immediately felt a wave of guilt and worry wash over you. When Robby got like this you always had half a mind to call in a welfare check on him when he got home. Maybe you shouldn’t be kicking a man while he’s down.

“See,” he said, a thick emotion in his voice. “No coddling from you.”

“Give me your phone,” you said.

He handed it over without question.

“Give me the password and someone to call for you.”

Robby gave you his four digit code. And said, “Jack, I guess. Don’t think he’s working tonight.”

You scrolled through his contacts (most of which had the Dr. prefix attached to them) and hit call. Almost immediately the phone picked up.

“You good, brother? You don’t normally call this late,” a deep male voice said.

“Uh, yeah. Not Robby. I’m a bartender at Solomon’s on tenth. Robby’s…” you weren’t sure how to say it, “not good? I managed to get him to give me your name. You able to come grab him?”

“Is he okay? Physically?” The man, Jack, asked. You could hear rustling on the other end and a metallic click before hurried footsteps.

“Yes, physically he’s fine. I’m not thrilled with the idea of him going home alone,” you replied. Turning away from Robby so he could see your mouth or hear you—though by the distant look in his eyes you doubted he was listening. “He’s talking a lot about Adamson and death. He is pretty wasted.”

“Fuck,” Jack hissed. “I know it’s not your job, but can you try and keep him there and mostly alive? I’m like twenty minutes away.”

“I can do that. I’ll try and sober him up some.”

“Thank you. Thank you,” Jack said.

You hung up and disappeared in the back where you knew the staff kept a shitty water kettle for the coffee part of Irish coffees. You quickly grabbed some fries from the kitchen and brewed a cup of coffee. When you came back, Robby was slumped against the bar.

“Rise and shine, sad boy. You need to eat and drink this,” you said placing the food and coffee in front of him. The water was almost empty so you refilled that as well.

“I’m good.”

“Eat the fries and drink the fucking coffee,” you snapped. “I’m trying to help you.”

“You don’t like me,” he shot back.

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t have to like you to want you to be okay,” you replied flicking his forehead lightly.

“Asshole,” he grumbled sitting up and taking a sip of coffee. He coughed at the bitter taste.

“Sorry we don’t have anything good.”

“Probably for the best.”

You continued working while keeping an eye on Robby. He drank the coffee and ate the fries, slowly he was looking a little better when the door opened and a sturdy man in a US Army sweatshirt limped in. He had close cropped grey and silver hair. His facial expression was frantic and worried, but relaxed when he spied Robby stooped at the bar picking at the last couple fries.

“You look like shit,” you heard the man say.

“Normally that’s her line,” Robby said loosely. He lazily pointed at you. There wasn’t a legitimate reason you could avoid the pair, so you walked over.

“You’re the one that called?” Jack asked.

“Yes,” you replied introducing yourself.

“Oh, you’re that bartender,” Jack realized.

“Which one?” You inquired.

“He likes you.”

“He shouldn’t. I’m mean.”

“He’s fucked up that way,” Jack said. “Thank you, for taking care of him.”

“Just doing my job,” you said.

Jack snorted. “It’s not. Can I pay out his tab?”

“Don’t worry about it, the system will close it out,” you replied. “Just get him home safe.”

“Will do and thank you again,” Jack said pulling Robby to his feet. The pair ambled out into the chilly winter air and you couldn’t help but feel the lack of Robby’s presence haunting the edge of your bar.

-- -- --

It had been over two months since you’ve seen Robby. Most of you didn’t think about him. Regulars disappeared all the time. Regulars who seemed one bad day away from throwing themselves in the river also disappeared but you were hopeful his water logged body wouldn’t be found based on Jack’s presence. You had a sneaking suspicion that Robby’s view of his friendship was muddied by his lack of self esteem. If Jack wasn’t a friend you weren’t sure what else he could be.

Campus was close to the major hospital in the area. It was a good thing too, since the thin sheet of ice that coated all the sidewalks had sent many an undergrad to the clinic with a twisted ankle. You were hesitantly walking down a set of concrete steps after your lecture when an undergrad rushed by you and knocked you over.

You felt your feet fly out from under you and the hard crack of icy concrete on your elbow and you slid down the stairs. There was a distance “Sorry!” as the undergrad ran off.

“Fuck,” you managed trying to sit up. Your vision swam and you felt something warm and stick on the side of your face.

“Holy shit,” a voice said. You recognized her as one of the students from your class. “Professor? Are you okay?”

“Sure,” you said, trying to sit up again.

“Okay, maybe don’t do that. Your head is bleeding a lot. Ryan! Ryan, call 911. I think she needs an ambulance.”

“I’m fine,” you grumbled.

You started to take stock of your body now that the initial shock of the fall had worn off. Your leg was curled awkwardly under your body and with a heave, you managed to get it in front of you. Your legs felt fine, though there was a rip in your favorite pair of pants and blood seeping out of a gash in your leg. Trying to move your left arm sent nauseating pain through your body, so you kept it firmly tucked against you. With your non injured hand you tried to feel for whatever wound was on your head.

“Okay, definitely don’t do that,” your student said. “You’re covered in dirty ice, you’ll give yourself an infection. Ryan went to grab someone from the department too.”

As if on cue, you heard the slamming of footsteps behind you and the familiar voice of the graduate program director going, “Oh fuck. Are you all right?”

You were lying flat on your back in the icy concrete. In what world were you all right?

“The ambulance is here,” another voice said. The cloudy afternoon was beginning to get dimmer. Fuck, your head hurt. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to close your eyes for a minute.

The next time you came to, it felt like the world was moving. There were bright lights, loud voices and an incessant squeaking that made you want to cover your ears. Slowly, the rest of your body came back into focus and you heard a familiar voice say,

“Any LOC?”

A female voice behind you answered, “She’s been in and out since we picked her up. Oriented at first but lost consciousness before we got there.”

“Fuck off, I’m fine,” you hissed, very much not fine.

“I’ll take grumpy and incorrect over unconscious,” the voice said. “Okay, roll her to the bed and we’ll transfer on three. One…two..three.”

For a moment you felt yourself lift and then land on a less comfortable bed. The surface was harder, covered with that weird hospital paper, and colder than the gurney. Your eyes were still closed, but the lights above you were so bright you could feel them—white heat buzzing against your eyelids like someone pressing flashbulbs to your face.

Then came the hands.

One on your wrist. Another pushing up your sleeve. Cold pads sticking to your chest, your sweater no longer covering your tank top. Fingers checking your jaw. Gloves brushing your ribs. Something tight wrapped around your arm. Something else snapping against your ankle.

Too much.

Too many.

Your skin crawled under every point of contact. You tried to jerk away, but your body wouldn’t cooperate.

“This is worse than falling,” you said, and even you could hear the pitch of panic creeping into your voice. “Seriously—stop—just—”

“Mel, keep her talking and calm,” a voice said somewhere near your head. You knew that voice. You just couldn’t get your brain to land on the name.

“Hi there,” a woman said gently from your right. “I’m Mel. You’re okay, you’re at the hospital.”

Hospital. Right. You knew that. But it didn’t help. The beeping. The fluorescent hum. The rustle of paper gowns and gloves. Every sound was too loud. Every light was too sharp. Every hand on you felt like sandpaper over raw nerves.

“I want people to stop touching me,” you groaned, trying to pull your arm in, but someone grabbed your wrist before you got far. The movement sent agony lancing up your arm and you gasped, vision flashing white. “Fucking—ow—stop, stop—”

“Okay, arm fracture, careful,” Mel warned the nurse.

But the hands didn’t stop. They shifted instead—someone pressing down on your shoulder, another holding your chin steady as a light was shined in your eyes. You recoiled instinctively.

You hated this.

Too many people, too close, pinning you to a table like you were something to be restrained and examined. Every nerve ending screamed. Every second of it made your heart slam against your ribs, desperate for space, for air, for control.

“Hey,” Mel said softly, noticing the way your breathing hitched. “You’re safe. I know it feels like a lot. We’re just getting your vitals and making sure you’re stable.”

“This is not stable,” you snapped. You could hear yourself starting to spiral but couldn’t stop. “This is the opposite of stable. Get your fucking hands off—”

You heard your name.

Your eyes dragged to the sound.

Robby.

Standing at the foot of the bed, chart in hand, eyes on you. He looked, your sluggish brain struggled for the right word, not bad. He wore dark scrubs, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. Everyone seemed to be responding to him. You closed your eyes as the room began to spin.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did. Even as your chest heaved and your hands balled into fists.

“No one is going to hurt you,” he said, voice even. Almost detached. “They’re doing their jobs. Let them get what they need, and I’ll make them back off.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to tell him he didn’t get to manage you. You wanted to shove every hand away and rip off every wire and bolt out of the room. The panic sat high in your throat like you were going to choke on it.

The lights were too bright. The voices were too loud. The touches were too much.

“Fuck,” you whispered, and hated how small it sounded.

“We’ve got you,” he said. “Just breathe.”

You inhaled shakily.

Hand rested on your ankle. The room was still chaos. The light still pierced through your eyelids. Everything was too much, but if you focused on the warm hand that settled on your bare ankle it was almost bearable. Gritting your teeth, you tried to block out everything else except his touch. When you were more coherent, you would find the irony of relying on Robby amusing.

“Mel, give me next steps,” he said, hand still in place.

The doctor stood on your right, her tone soft and low—surprisingly rich, like honey poured into warm tea. “Head lac needs irrigation and staples. Bleeding’s controlled. Pupils equal, reactive, but she’s photosensitive. GCS is fourteen—dropped once en route but came back up. Left arm—obvious deformity, likely distal radius or ulna fracture, maybe both. Possible sprain or hairline fracture in the lateral malleolus on the left ankle—she’s guarding it.”

“She guarding everything,” one of the nurses muttered, adjusting the leads stuck to your chest.

“No shit,” you snapped. “Maybe stop poking me like I’m a Thanksgiving turkey.”

Mel hummed, sounding amused rather than offended. “Conversational. Good sign.”

“She’s always like this,” Robby said, almost under his breath.

You glared at him. “I am not.”

His mouth barely twitched. “CT ordered?”

“Waiting on transport,” Mel said. “Do you want C-spine? She denied neck pain, full range of motion at the scene.”

Robby glanced at you again, his eyes scanning your posture. You realized he was checking the subtle ways you moved—or didn’t. “No collar yet. If her pain spikes or she reports new symptoms, we’ll immobilize. For now, keep her semi-upright so she doesn’t pass out.”

“I can hear you, you know,” you muttered. “I’m not a mannequin.”

“Unfortunately,” Robby murmured, dry.

Before you could tell him to fuck off, Mel leaned closer, casting just a little shadow over your face—mercifully blocking the light. Her voice was gentle but matter-of-fact, her cadence a little off in a way that made you think she thought carefully about each word before she spoke. “We’re going to clean your head wound. It might hurt. We’ll be as quick and gentle as we can. Okay?”

Mel was easily becoming your favorite person in the room. She clearly outlined her actions and didn’t attempt to sugarcoat or mollify.

You exhaled slowly. “Fine. Just…please don’t surprise me.”

“I will do my best,” she said seriously, and you believed her.

An alcohol pad touched the edge of the gash at your temple and you jerked instinctively. Pain flared hot, crawling behind your eye.

“Shit—fuck—” you hissed.

“Almost done,” Mel promised, calm as ever.

Hands were still on your arms, wrists, shoulders—but the one on your ankle grounded you. You focused hard on that one, because if you let yourself feel all the others, you were going to come out swinging.

Robby’s thumb moved—just slightly. The smallest shift of pressure. The subtlest reminder to keep you in your body and not desperately trying to escape.

“Transport ready?” he asked without looking away from you.

“Any minute,” someone said from the doorway.

Mel finished cleaning. “She’s going to hate the staples.”

“She hates everything,” Robby said.

“I wouldn’t hate it if you let me sleep again,” you mumbled.

“No sleeping,” he warned automatically.

“You’re the worst doctor I’ve ever met.”

“Get in line,” he said. His tone was flat, but something deep in it—something only someone who had listened to him talk for hours in dim bar lighting—sounded faintly relieved.

You sucked in another breath, trying to brace yourself for whatever fresh hell came next.

And then you heard the gurney being unlocked again.

The CT was better than the trauma room. It was dark. The nurse gave you earplugs and a warm blanket. You were still dizzy and in a lot of pain, but even without Robby’s hand, you felt like panicky.

The nurse took off all your jewelry and removed everything from your pockets. She started an IV in your arm that you barely felt. She rarely spoke unless informing you what was coming next. Despite the loud humming of the machine, you preferred this to everything else.

Eventually the machine began, you moved back and forth through the machine. With your eyes closed and earplugs in, it was easy to let your body calm down.

By the time the test was done and you were wheeled back into the ER proper, you were given an actual room and no longer in the trauma bay. Mel let you keep the earplugs. A new nurse, or maybe a previous one you snapped at, helped you change into a hospital gown and graciously let you keep you underwear on. Small victories.

Mel came back with Robby and slowly stitched your head wound while Robby looked at your leg.

“What happened?” He asked softly. You were calmer, more coherent now.

“Someone knocked me over on some stairs. Gravity did the rest,” you said. “Sorry that I was such a bitch before.”

“You’re fine,” Robby said at the same time Mel replied with,

“You were a bit mean, but it is completely understandable given the circumstances.”

“Dr. King,” Robby sighed. He was about to say something but your giggles stopped him.

“Dr. King?” You asked.

“Call me, Mel.”

“Mel, I think you’re my favorite doctor. Please apologize to all the healthcare workers I was mean to, for me. I know they were just trying to help.”

“I’ll pass it along,” Mel said kindly. “I’m going to put in an order for pain meds and follow up with Ortho. Want me to finish her leg, Dr. Robby?”

“I got it, Mel. Check on South 15 for me,” he directed.

“Got it,” she replied leaving.

“I can dim the lights and use a head lamp if that would be easier?” He asked quietly. “It’s going to take me a bit to stitch this.”

“That would be helpful. My head is throbbing,” you replied.

Robby nodded and clicked off the lights before he washed his hands and gloved up. He slid on a dorky looking headlamp with magnifying glasses on it. You wanted to make a joke but a wave of nausea slammed into you at the sight of the open wound on your leg.

“I need you to stay still,” Robby said softly.

“Sorry, sorry. I looked too closely at my leg. I think I’m going to puke,” you gagged.

He slid over to the cabinet and pulled out a barf bag. You clutched it against your mouth breathing deeply with your eyes clenched closed. Eventually the nausea passed and you thankfully didn’t throw up in front of Robby.

“Do you need anything?”

“You’re being too nice to me, considering I called you a bad doctor,” you replied instead of answering.

“Water? Juice?” He asked ignoring you. Normally that was your move.

“Water, but I’d prefer the leg to be stitched first. If I open my eyes and see it, I might pass out again.”

“So you’re able to explain nuances of statistics and political socialization, but blood gets you?” Robby asked. You felt the pressure of the needle and pull of the thread, but nothing hurt.

“Not blood, blood is fine. The giant open wound on my thigh gets me. I shouldn’t be able to see my own muscles,” you said gagging again at the thought.

“I’ve never seen you break your composure. Even earlier when you were having a hard time,” Robby replied almost sounding amused. “It’s nice to know you’re human, too.”

“When have I ever appeared not human?”

Robby snorted. “I really don’t think you know how people perceive you.”

“Takes one to know one,” you shot back.

Robby let out a humorless chuckle. “Suppose you’re right.”

“Are you…okay?” You asked.

“Getting there,” he said.

He was silent for a minute and you thought that was the end of his statement. It was more than what you thought you’d get. Instead, Robby took a breath and continued,

“That night, Jack, he took me to a treatment facility. I was there for a week and I’ve been doing therapy and group twice a week ever since.”

“Good for you.”

“Apparently a lot go healthcare providers got fucked by COVID,” Robby said conversationally.

“If I got fucked by COVID, I can only imagine you did,” you said humorlessly.

“I owe some of it to you,” he said after a bout of silence.

“What in the world could I have done? I’m just your mean bartender.”

Robby chuckled. “True, but having a stranger you want to like you, call you pathetic and tell you to get your life together…well, I guess it was the kick I needed.”

“So does that mean you admit you have friends now?”

“Yes,” Robby sighed. You smiled.

“Good. I’m glad you’re no longer sad and morose haunting the end of my bar.”

“Instead you’re terrorizing my ER,” he commented. Your eyes were still closed but you could hear the smile in his voice.

“Your ER?”

“I’m the chief attending,” he replied.

“No shit,” you said. “Why would you care if I liked you when you’re impressive and shit.”

“Impressive and shit?”

“Answer the question.”

He sighed. “I think I’ll pass on that one. Anyways, about done with your last stitch.”

You didn’t push, but there was something odd in his voice. “Can I get those pain meds now?”

“Sure thing,” he said warmly. “Your leg is covered if you want to open your eyes.”

You did and there was a low light in the room, but the bright fluorescents were off. Robby smoothed the gauze over your thigh and you felt his warmth even through the latex gloves. He smiled at you as he departed. Shortly thereafter, a nurse came in with pain meds and sleep over took you.

The next time you saw Robby you were still a little high on pain meds which is what you’ll blame for asking,

“Do you still pick up women now that you’re not a drunk?”

“Christ,” he said. He had just entered the room to check on your wound. “Warm a guy before giving him the inquisition.”

“I’m just curious if you’re still a slut now.”

“I wasn’t a slut then,” he protested.

“See I thought it didn’t happen much because it never happened on my shift. But I compared notes. You picked up a lot of women.”

“It was a normal amount,” he defended.

“Sure,” you drawled.

“I might have been a little slutty,” he acknowledged.

“You have hidden depths. I think we misjudged you when naming you Sad Paddington Bear.”

“Sad Paddington Bear?”

“It’s what the bartenders call you. Although maybe we should have called you a sad gigolo.”

“You’re very nosy on pain meds,” he said.

“I really am. Haven’t been on them before. Lot nicer than feeling all the cuts and scraps on my body.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Stiff, sore, probably embarrassed when my heads back on normal.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” Robby replied with a hand lightly resting on your knee. He seemed to realize what he was doing and removed his hand.

“When can I leave?” You asked. “I want to be in my own bed.”

“You’ll need another neuro test before I feel comfortable letting you go,” he said. “Do you have someone to stay with you? Friend? Family? …Partner?”

“I’ll call a friend. Family is in a different state. And no partner. Who knows, maybe I’m a slut too,” you said.

You watched his lips quirk up. “You don’t like people enough to be a slut.”

You snorted. “That is so accurate. Having someone sweaty uselessly humping me is so boring.”

“Uselessly?”

Once again, you’d like to thank the pain meds for your loose lips. “Let’s just say, it’s been a real lack of skill in my bedroom from other humans. My vibrator? Astounding. She does great work.”

Robby cleared his throat as color washed over his cheeks. “Right, well—“

“If you’re a slut, it stands to reason that you probably wouldn’t be useless,” you thought out loud.

“Okay, looks like we should dial back the pain meds,” Robby said.

“So you are useless?”

“I’m not having this conversation with you,” he stated.

“Absolute babes went home with you apparently more than once. That must mean something,” you mumbled.

“You’re killing me,” Robby groaned.

“Where do you pick up women now that you don’t drink.”

“It’s really none of your business,” he tried to say. You continued talking,

“Coffee shop? I feel like you’d have a coffee shop you go to now.”

He did have a coffee shop he went to now and he didn’t like that you were able to puzzle that out so quickly while on pain meds.

“Look, I think we’re off track here,” Robby tried again.

“You’re hot, you know that?”

Robby cleared his throat and rubbed his hands over his eyes. “I think I’ll send Mel in.”

“I’m just going to keep talking like this. Because for the first time in my life I cannot figure out how to shut up,” you stated. Distantly, you knew you’d be horrified by this later. But it wasn’t later. And the words kept coming.

Robby sighed and sat down next to you. “I’m not going to answer your questions.”

“That’s fine. Your prerogative.”

“So it seems we’re at an impass,” he stated.

“Apparently,” you said. “Although, I do have something to confess.”

“Is it going to make me uncomfortable as your current healthcare provider?” Robby asked tiredly. You snorted.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“All right, go ahead.”

“I don’t like you as a drunk, but as a doctor dealing with me on pain meds, I find you surprisingly charming. Long suffering, for sure, but charming too.”

“That is the meanest compliment I’ve received,” Robby half laughed, disbelievingly.

“It wasn’t meant to be mean!” You protested. “God these meds are fucking with me.”

Robby patted your hand and said, “Once the meds wear off and we check your brain again, I’ll discharge you. I…I am going to write down my number and if you feel comfortable, I just want you to let me know you’re okay.”

“Is this how you picked up the women?” You asked conspiratorially.

“No,” he said. Then almost to himself, added, “This is such a strange version of you.”

“Oh I know. I’m going to be mortified tomorrow.”

Robby snorted. “I’m putting my number in your discharge paperwork, okay?”

“Whatever you say, Dr. Robby. I think I might sleep again.”

“Probably a good call for both of us.”

-- -- --

It was two days post-discharge when the memory of your pain‐medicated encounter with Robby came swimming back.

“Oh fuck,” you groaned.

You were sitting on your couch with your leg propped on pillows and your arm in a sling, still in ratty pajamas you hadn’t changed out of since getting home. A dull ache radiated from every bruise and stitch, and the concussion made the world feel slightly tilted. But none of that compared to the slow, creeping horror pooling in your gut as you remembered exactly what you’d said to him.

Are you still a slut?

My vibrator does great work.

You're attractive, you know that?

You dragged your one good hand down your face and wished you could legally induce a coma. For your entire life, you had always been a little socially awkward. Most of the time your sense of humor never quite lined up with everyone else, your grasp of small talk was a battle fought for in awkward silences. Years of forcing yourself to get better at talking finally made you comfortable, but now you wanted to melt into your couch never to see another person again.

“Who was that?” you whispered to no one.

Part of you, the delusional part, hoped maybe you’d hallucinated the whole thing. Maybe it hadn’t been real. Then you glanced at your coffee table. The discharge folder sat there. Hesitantly, you opened the folder and tucked under the business card for the hospital was a Post-It with a phone number and one line written in neat block letters:

PLEASE LET ME KNOW YOU’RE OKAY. —R

“Nope, it was real,” you muttered. “Kill me.”

You tossed the folder back on the table and stared at it like you were afraid it would explode. There were two choices now: one, fake your death or two, be an adult and text the confident and normal version of Robby who had put up with your drug addled word vomit. Option one was very tempting.

You spent the rest of the day alternately sleeping and cringing. Every time you drifted off, your brain generously replayed another snippet of the conversation in 4K quality. It was easy to remember his hand on yours, the way he so effortlessly kept you calm and from panicking. You even recalled his panicked look when you asked him if he was still a slut. Groaning you wondered if you could smother yourself with a pillow. But he had been so kind; his kindness was the only reason you hadn’t absolutely lost your shit.

(Realistically, you knew Mel would have been able to calm you down, but still.)

You stared at your phone.

“You should text him,” a traitorous part of you whispered.

“Absolutely not,” the rest of you replied.

You sat with that for ten minutes.

Then twenty.

Then an hour.

You almost threw a pillow across the room. “Goddammit.”

You grabbed your phone.

Fine.

You’d text him.

One simple, neutral message.

Something mature, like: thanks again for your help.

Something that did not reference slut discourse or vibrators or the fact that you maybe, possibly, kind of liked him.

You typed:

hey. i lived, thanks for the stitches i guess

You stared at it.

You deleted “i guess.”

You added:

and sorry if i was weird. pain meds are evil.

You hovered over “send” for a solid sixty seconds.

Then, daring to breathe, you hit send.

Three seconds later, anxiety punched you in the throat. You threw your phone on the chair next to you hoping you wouldn’t hear it if it buzzed with his response. Painfully, you stood and limped over to your tiny kitchen. Making tea with one hand took double the time it did with two, it meant you were busy for double the time it would have normally distracted you for. Perhaps, you could still unsend the message. You checked the clock. Five minutes had passed. Maybe he wouldn’t respond. Maybe he was busy. Maybe he’d changed his number. Maybe—

You heard your phone buzz. Fuck. For a moment you stared at the chair, and slowly limped over to it, grabbing the offending device and terrified to see the response.

Finally, you grabbed it.

Robby (unknown number):

Hello. I’m glad you are safe. How is your pain level today?

You glared. Of course he was more normal than you were in this situation. That really annoyed you. He was meant to be the one who was awkward and cringey. You eased back onto the couch with your tea and wrote out:

headachy and sore. the stitches itch, too.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Robby: Are you having any new symptoms? • Worsening headache • Dizziness • Nausea • Vision changes • Difficulty focusing more than before

You rolled your eyes.

You: you text like a web-md checklist

Robby: That is perhaps the rudest thing you could say to a doctor. I just want to make sure you’re okay.

You: yeah, im fine. thank you for your concern Robby. stitches are driving me crazy tho

There was a longer pause this time. Then:

Robby: I’m glad you’re better. Have you eaten today?

You: none of your business (yes, a friend brought me soup).

Robby: Sounds like you have good friends. I’m glad you’ve eaten. A good diet and sleep are your best healing assets right now.

You: best healing assets?

Robby: Was that inappropriate?

You: no you just sounded like a dork

Robby: Seems to be something I frequently deal with around you.

You: are you blaming me for your inability to talk to women?

Robby: I can talk to women just fine. Something you have already established.

You: touche. so it’s just me?

Robby: I think it is.

You: do you still think i don’t like you? is that why you’re so weird?

Robby: Partially

You: and the other part?

Robby: I’ll plead the fifth, that. Your stitches should be ready to come out in a week or so. If you don’t want to go to the doctor, I can take them out for you. If you want, that is. No pressure.

You: technically pleading the fifth is only something you can only do when dealing with the government, but i’ll allow it since you were very kind to me when i was an absolute nightmare on pain meds. and that would be very appreciated. ill buy you a coffee as a thanks. and i won’t be mean

Robby: You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.

You: was that a joke?

Robby: Yes, evidently not a good one.

You: i am impressed, nonetheless.

Robby: Please keep me updated on how you’re feeling.

You: i make no promises. im terrible at texting

Robby: I’ve noticed. There has not been a single capitalization this whole time. You’re getting a PhD.

You: if you think about it, getting a phd is really the dumbest thing you could do, so i would argue it’s in character.

Robby: We’ll agree to disagree there.

Texting with Robby was strange. It was strange to communicate with someone you once dreaded seeing. It was very weird for him to offer to take out your stitches for you, saving you a trip to the campus clinic or urgent care; neither option seemed attractive to you.

The next week and a half passed like molasses. Each time you thought your body had improved enough to do an extra chore, or your brain had healed enough to open your laptop, your body aggressively reminded you that rest was still required. Thankfully, a few days into your boredom inducing bed rest, the TV became a viable option again assuming you kept the brightness down and the volume at a tolerable level.

Every so often you would text Robby an update or he would ask for one. You found yourself looking forward to the messages. Not drunk and seeking mental health help, he actually was funny and the maudlin angst had been replaced with the occasional dark joke. One time he sent you the middle finger emoji and you were unironically proud of him.

It wasn’t until the fifth day on bed rest did the occasional text turn into something more.

You: what do i do if the stitches are red and kinda making me nauseous?

Robby: Nauseous because you have a weak stomach or because you think it’s an additional symptom?

You: unclear, kinda been sick all day but i’ve also had a bitch of a headache too

Robby: I’m going to video call. I want to see the wound.

You phone rang a moment after you liked the message. Robby’s face appeared and it looked like he was at home. It was instinctually to search his background looking for any hint of his history that he hadn’t already poured out to your at the bar. He seemed to be sitting on a couch or chair, and behind him was a wall full of vinyl records. There was soft lamp light and the faint hum of music in the background.

“Sorry to bother you so late,” you told him wincing.

“I could have ignored your message,” he replied simply. You wondered if there was ever a world where he would ignore someone who needed him.

“I’ll owe you a whole meal when this is over,” you told him.

“You’re way too poor for me to take you up on that,” he replied, making you snort.

“That is unfortunately correct. Still, I’ll figure out a way to repay you,” you told him.

A faint blush appeared on his cheeks and you couldn’t figure out why he seemed flushed by your words. (Later, upon reflection you would hear the double entendre, but frankly, that was his problem not yours.) Clearing his throat, he said,

“Aim the camera at your wound, please.”

“Okay, I can’t really look at it, so you’ll have to tell me if my camera work is off,” you said.

You moved your phone so it reflected at your lap and the ratty cotton shorts you’d been living in. They barely covered any of your leg, which was useful when you had to change the dressing on your wound. Before it started turning red and weeping, it wasn’t that bad. Now, just looking at it made you sick.

“Can you turn on your phone flash light or make it brighter?” Robby asked.

“Sure thing,” You said, turning on your phone’s flashlight.

“Is it warm?”

“Yeah.”

“Does it throb?”

“No,” you replied.

“Are you running a fever?”

“How the fuck would I know?” you asked.

“Do you not have a thermometer?” he asked. For the first time, you heard a hint of exasperation in his voice. It made you smile.

“Maybe? My mom sent me a care package when I got the flu a few months ago. Let me see,” you told him, turning the phone back to your face.

You eased off the couch and limped to your kitchen where you shoved the box your mom had sent. Propping up your phone against the kitchen backsplash, you rummaged through the box and to your surprise, found a thermometer. It was the basic kind you put under your tongue.

“Gotta love a woman who can’t express her love with words and instead sends a care package to her adult daughter in her thirties,” you said, popping the cap off the thermometer and sticking it under your tongue.

You hadn’t glanced at your phone since aiming it at your leg in fear you’d see something that would make your stomach churn even more than it already was. Now, propped up, you could see that Robby slid on his reading glasses and to your shock and horror, he looked hot. So attractive in fact, you almost let the thermometer slip out of your mouth.

His rugged, slightly scraggly beard was reminiscent of how you’d seen him at the bar, but this time it was due to him rubbing his hand through the hair as he waited for you to measure your fever. Something about the addition of the glasses brought into focus how his narrow face was actually quite enticing. You briefly wondered what his beard would feel like between your legs.

“Christ,” you said without realizing that he could obviously hear and see you.

“Are you okay? You seemed freaked out,” Robby replied. “Is your temperature high?”

Thankfully, the thermometer beeped loudly, giving you a chance to pull it out of your mouth and look at it. “99.6.”

“Not too bad. You sure you’re good?”

“I am a bit freaked about the leg,” you said. It wasn’t a lie, but certainly wasn’t the whole truth. You briefly the revisited the idea of smothering yourself. What happened when you hit your head that made you think Robby was attractive?

“It certainly looks inflamed. I would do a good clean and put some antibiotic cream on it.”

“And what if cleaning it makes me gag?”

“Then I guess we’ll have to amputate,” he said.

You stared at him. “I’m annoyed that I found that funny.”

“And yet, you didn’t laugh.”

“Well, the annoyance won out in the end.”

Robby snorted. “Do you need me to come over and help clean it?”

“I can’t ask you to do that. Plus, I don’t think I’ve annoyed my friends enough about this yet. Why bother the very nice doctor when I could bug my friends?”

“So I’ve graduated from Sad Paddington Bear to very nice doctor?”

“Congratulations. It does not come with a pay increase. But what can you do? The economy is in shambles.”

He snorted and shook his head. “I want you to send me an update on your leg tomorrow, please. If it gets worse you’ll need to go to urgent care.”

“Ugh, anything but that,” you complained. “It’s terrible there.”

“And yet so much better than sepsis,” he replied.

“I dunno, juries out,” you grumbled limping back to the couch.

“How is your head?”

“Hurts and I can barely do anything. I can watch TV if I don’t look directly at the screen, so that’s something. Mainly listening to audiobooks of shit I’ve already read.”

You settled back onto your couch and buried yourself back under the covers you had created your nest from. The view of your camera caught the warmth of your couch and some of the quirky decor including the art print of a woman leading a man on a leash with “This Ain’t My First Rodeo” painted above it. Angling the camera away from the slightly inappropriate art work, you felt better with the section of wall that was now showing. It was a corner of your diploma and photo from a christmas party with your friends. Much more appropriate.

“What have you been listening to?”

“A lot of comedy and re-listening to my favorite book series. My entertainment is purely escapism since I spend most of my day reading, writing, or doing math about politics,” you told him.

“You’ll have to send me suggestions. Nothing I’ve read recently has kept much of my attention,” he replied.

You then delved into details of your favorite book series. The conversation spiraled from books to television to the records Robby had on current rotation. More than that, he asked questions about your PhD, hesitantly, and you answered. It didn’t feel like a weird overreach anymore. Robby really was intelligent and normal when not drunk or tipsy. You almost felt proud of him. By the time the phone call ended, you felt calmer about your leg and less worked up over the boredom.

You chose not to think about it too much.

-- -- --

When the stitches were due to come out, you almost didn’t text Robby. It felt like an imposition. Over the past day or so you felt tremendously better. Your head was no longer one overstimulation away from a migraine, you could feel your brain fog lifting, and movement didn’t hurt much. Everything was still a little sensitive, but the real annoyance was how bored and pent up you were. Still, the relief from getting the stitches removed almost didn’t beat the feeling of taking advantage of Robby.

Robby: Can I come by after my shift ends to take out your stitches? I want to look at everything and make sure it’s healing well.

You: you don’t have to but yes please if i think about having thread in my body too long it kinda freaks me out

Robby: Please send me your address. I’ll be by around 7:30 or 8:00pm.

You: you text like an octogenarian. here’s my address.

Robby: Octogenarians don’t text.

You: tell that to my grandma. she’s a whiz with those me-mojis or whatever the fuck they are.

Robby: That is not a real thing. I think you’re messing with me.

You: i am not. but regardless. see you tonight. and thank you again!

Robby: It really is not a problem. I want to do this.

You tried not to let that go to your head. It was weird someone liking you the way Robby did. Most people, even romantic prospects tended to tolerate your rough personality and busy schedule. Your friends were a niche group of individuals far more focused on their careers.

This was new. This wasn’t bad.

At 7:45 you heard a knock at your door. Slowly, only due to your leg—not anything else at all, you made your way to the door. You had slightly tidied up throughout the day. Being couch bound had made your living room a bit of a war zone. Now you had your laundry going and you’d even managed to load your dishwasher.

Opening the door to Robby was strange. You had seen him in exactly two places and now he was walking into your apartment. He even walked like a new person now. He didn’t slouch or slump or plod. He still had abysmal posture, but there was a surety that had replaced the downtrodden-ness of his person.

He wore dark cargo pants, a black scrub top with a navy blue long sleeved shirt underneath. Said shirt was pushed up to just below his elbows and your eyes focused on his forearms before finally stepping back and letting him into your space.

“Can I get you something to drink?” You asked.

“I don’t drink anymore,” he said.

“Congrats. I don’t drink at all. I have about five flavors of sparkling water and generic sprite,” you replied, shutting and locking the door. “I also make a mean hot chocolate.”

“I’m good for now,” he said. “Where do you want to do this?”

“Shouldn’t that be your call?”

“I just need to wash my hands,” he replied, shrugging. His hands were in his pockets.

“Then let’s do the living room. I’m still a little sore,” you told him. “Kitchen is right there. I even have out my Christmas hand soap.”

You pointed at the kitchen in the very open concept front part of your apartment. There was a small hallway just to the right of your front door that held a small hallway where your bathroom, washing closet, and bedroom door opened.

Your living room was a surprisingly decent size for your rent. It was big enough for a couch, bookshelves and your desk. Your kitchen was narrow, and looked even more so with Robby’s broad frame standing in front of your sink. He thoroughly washed his hands and dried them on a paper towel.

Sitting on the edge of your couch, you watch as he pulled over his backpack and grabbed a smattering of tools. There were scissors, hemostats, and various cleaning wipes and creams.

“Can I sit here?” Robby asked pointing to your coffee table. It was one of the few expensive things you owned.

“Yeah, she’s study enough,” you replied.

Robby sat down. Your shorts were plenty short and you found yourself curious how he was going to do this. He seemed confident and self assured. Dr. Robby was a man who wasn’t cowed by his snarky and too-mean bar tender.

“I’m going to slightly readjust you and put your leg on my lap, is that okay?” Robby asked sliding on his ready glass.

“Yes,” you said breathlessly. He glanced up at your tone and lightly put a hand on your knee.

“Don’t panic. This will be over quickly.”

Interesting, he read the slightly shocked and a tiny bit horny reaction you had to worried. You couldn’t help but be a little grateful. Not trusting your voice, you just nodded at him. He gingerly lifted your socked foot and put it in his lap. The fabric of his pants was scratchy against your skin, but you could fill the heat of his legs burning through.

“This has healed well,” Robby replied. He’d donned gloves at some point after putting your leg in his lap and was manually inspecting the wound. You stared up at the ceiling mostly to keep from seeing the stitches but an added benefit was not seeing Robby.

“Oh yeah, this looks great. You should be fine after we get the stitches out,” he said. You just hummed not trusting your voice.

The sensation of removing the stitches far outweighed any pleasantness from having Robby’s hands on your skin. You tried to focus on way his hand gripped your thigh or the way you could feel his stomach against your foot. Instead when you felt a thread pull through you shuddered and tried not to gag.

“Do you need a break?”

“No, I need you to finish this as quick as possible,” you said.

“Yes ma’am.”

He continued his ministrations and you desperately tried to focus on the subtle smell of his cologne. Or the growing yearning in your stomach for him to push you down on the couch and fuck you within an inch of your life.

That had been a startling realization but one that felt like it was always meant to happen. Another thread pulled through your skin and you heard yourself whine sharply. Not even horniess was getting your through this.

After the last thread was pulled from your leg, resulting in a twitch at the awful feeling, Robby took off his gloves and began putting his tools back in the backpack. Your leg was still in his lap.

“I was going to order dinner, if you want to stay,” you heard yourself say. “I can even watch a full episode of TV now.”

Robby snorted. And then said, “I would love to stay. Mainly to make sure you don’t look at your leg and pass out.”

“I think I’ll be fine,” you laughed.

"You didn't look down once that whole time," he said.

"And therefore, didn't pass out."

You managed to open your phone and scroll through the different food options. Your stomach was in shambles from the feeling of getting stitches removed, so picked the deli down the street. Handing the phone to Robby you had him pick his meal.

When he handed the phone back, he had already ordered and paid with his card details. You scowled at him.

"This was meant to pay you back for your kindness."

"It would feel unethical. I know how much grad students makes."

He had since moved to the opposite corner of the couch. From your propped up position, he looked a little tired, but more than that he looked amused. He was laughing at you. It ranckled you. But it also made you a little happy: sad, drunk Robby would never have laughed at you.

While waiting for the food, you both chatted about his work, your students, how taking time off has put you seriously behind and your unread emails are closer to 1,000 than not. Once the food arrive, you both tucked in.

Eventually, Robby asked,

“What’s the hardest thing about the whole PhD thing?”

It felt like a natural question from the previous conversation, so you didn't think twice about answering it.

“Having to not take criticism personally. Anything I finish, make progress on, or whatever gets critiqued and criticized and studied until it feels absolutely useless. But that’s just how it works—it’s how we make sure our research is the most accurate and representative of the world,” you said shrugging. “What about being a doctor? What’s the hardest thing about that.”

“Oh that’s easy, not being able to save everyone,” Robby told you.

“Yeah, I can imagine that would be difficult to contend with.”

“So does no one tell you “good job” or encourages you?”

“Not in so many words. One time I had a bit of a breakdown and planned on dropping out. My advisor said that would “be a waste” so it’s not like people are needlessly mean.”

“You make so much more sense now,” Robby said shaking his head.

“The fuck does that mean?” You said lightly kicking his thigh with your good foot. He grabbed your ankle and stretched it out over his lap. The movement made you tense but, frankly, you wanted this to continue so you forced yourself to relax.

“You’re one of the most tightly wound people I’ve ever met,” Robby laughed.

“I think that’s the pot calling the kettle black,” you grumbled. Hesitantly, you stretched out your bad leg and crossed it over your good one still rest on Robby’s thighs.

“Perhaps that’s why I know,” he said. His hand rested on your ankle and you tried not to stare at the way his hand dwarfed your not-small ankle.

“And what would the good doctor recommend for that? I hate to break it to you, but it’s not like I can call up my parents and ask them to say they’re proud of me and I’m doing a good job.”

“Someone should,” he said quietly. His thumb began to circle the bone of your ankle.

“I think I’ll be fine,” you laughed.

Robby was silent for a moment before saying, “I think you’re very impressive. I think you work very hard. And I’m really honored to know you.”

For an awful minute, you thought you were going to cry. “Knock it off.”

“Make me.”

“If you don’t I’ll make you talk about something even more uncomfortable,” you threatened.

“You can’t make me do anything.”

“Maybe not, but I’ll try.”

“I’ll take the chance,” he laughed. Robby hand drug up and down your leg. You knew it wasn’t smooth—your injury having made sure you missed your monthly waxing appointment—but he didn’t seem to care. Frankly, you refused to let yourself care, even if it danced in the back of your head.

“Brave considering you think I’m mean.”

“You’re not mean,” Robby said, looking over at you.

“Not what you used to think,” you commented.

“True, but I know you better now. You’re just blunt. It’s nice when you get used to it.”

You snorted. “You absolute liar.”

His hand landed on your knee and reached down to flick it. He caught your wrist before you could smack him. Eyes boring into yours, Robby said,

“I’m serious. I think you’re amazing.”

“You do huh?” You asked.

“Clearly.”

“Then why haven’t you done anything about it? I’m not good at schooling my features. You must know how I’m feeling.”

In an instant, Robby’s expression shuttered. “You did pick something uncomfortable.”

“So either this is a personal thing or I am way worse at reading you than I thought. I’m not wildly inclined to believe the latter since my feet are in your lap and I got a special house call for something I could have gone to the clinic for.”

Robby sighed and looked away from you. “It’s a personal thing.”

“Do I get let in on what the personal thing is?”

“I don’t want you to try and talk me out of it. Because you’ll win,” he murmured.

“If it’s not dumb, I won’t. I’m not a starry eyed romantic, Robby. Sometimes people that are attracted to one another shouldn’t do anything. Just because I want you to fuck me into my mattress and maybe also go on a date, doesn’t mean I’m going to do something bad for me or my goals. No offense, you’re not more important than finishing my PhD,” you told him.

He smiled ruefully. “I just am not good enough for you.”

“Oh, that is dumb,” you replied.

“Or maybe you just don’t know how impressive you are,” he challenged.

“Maybe,” you acquiesced. “But maybe not being “good enough” for someone is an archaic measure of comparability and I get to decide what is and is not good for me. Now, if you don’t feel ready for a relationship after everything, that’s different. But if you’re just worried about being…depressed or mentally ill, join the club then.”

“There’s also the age gap,” he added.

“I’m an academic. I’ve seen far less ethical relationships than a decade and some change. Not to mention you weren't my dissertation advisor,” you told him.

“For my peace of mind I'm going to ignore that last bit. And try closer to two decades,” he said.

“I’m an old man at heart,” you said back. “Doesn’t change the fact I want you to fuck me into the mattress.”

“I really don’t want you talk me into this,” Robby said quietly.

“Then you need to either tell me you don’t want this, which I’ll respect or you need to get out of your own way. I’m in favor of the latter.”

“Can I ask something first?”

“Always.”

“What changed for you? You really didn’t like me.”

“Valid question,” you said. He still had a grip on your wrist. Gently you pulled out of his grasp and wrapped your hand around his. “I am so picky about people. I always have been. But even more than that, no one normal does a PhD and I deal with those freaks all day. By the time I got to the bar, I was over dealing with everyone, not just you. Frankly, drunk you was a lot. But no one is their best self when they’re drunk. Sober you? He’s still awkward, a little earnest but very charming. Funny and confident too.”

“You are very different than when you’re at the bar,” he said.

“I’ll lay my cards on the table, Robby. I like you. I think you’re very attractive and getting to know you has been fun and I hate getting to know new people. If you’re amenable, I would really love for you to fuck me into my mattress tonight.”

“You’re still injured.”

“That’s not a no.”

“It isn’t a yes.”

“There’s one more episode of Bake Off before I’m caught up. I’m going to lay back down and if by the end of the episode you’re still undecided or the answer is no, I’ll respect that. But don’t take yourself out of the game just because you’re nervous that you’re not good enough of whatever.”

“Okay, yeah,” Robby replied softly.

You released his hand and he placed it back on your legs. Pressing play, you settled back to a prone position on the couch. The distracting pressure of his hands on your legs meant that most of the episode passed without you taking in too much of what was happening.

Periodically, you glanced over at Robby. He seemed deep in thought. His brow was furrowed and while he faced the TV, he seemed to stare at nothing. Sometimes his fingers would trace a pattern on your calves and then go still. At one point, you saw him stare at you from the corner of your eye, in a reminiscent way to how he used to watch you while he was wasted. Instead of feeling annoyed, you settled more deeply into the couch and held out your hand for him without looking. He took it.

The episode ended and you couldn’t help but feel nervous. No one liked being rejected and you hoped that Robby got out of his own way. You wanted him. You knew he wanted you too. It was torture to not crawl into his lap and kiss him within an inch of his life.

“Before you tell me,” you said. “I just want you to know that regardless of your decision, I am proud of the work you’ve put into yourself. And I’m not fibbing when I say you’re incredibly attractive.”

“You are a lot nicer than your give yourself credit for,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“Then what was that?”

“Honesty, dick head.”

He snorted. “My head still isn’t fully on straight.”

“Neither is mine.”

“Sometimes I have really bad days.”

“Okay.”

“Sometimes I can be mean, too.”

“Join the club.”

“But I would be lying if I said I didn’t want this,” he breathed.

“Help me sit up,” you said grabbing at his arm. He helped you move into a sitting position, your arm and leg still a little sore. When you were next to him, you kept your legs draped over his and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Is that a yes?”

“It’s a yes with conditions,” he told you.

“Ugh,” you groaned leaning your forehead on his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re still healing. I’m not going to fuck you into the mattress tonight.”

“But Robby,” you whined. “I just know you’re so good at sex.”

A surprise laugh erupted from him. “Thank you. I’m still not going to fuck you into the mattress. I will however, if you want, if you feel comfortable and up for it, I am more than willing to make sure any humping isn’t…I think the word you used was, useless.”

“Yeah?”

“I knew you would talk me out of it,” he sighed.

“Wanna see my bedroom?” You asked grinning.

“You look very proud of yourself,” he grumbled, pulling you into his lap.

“I’m not joking when I say it’s been years since I’ve had good sex. I just have a good feeling about this.”

“Because you saw me being a slut?”

“Nope, because you’re a doctor and I heard you went home with the same person more than once. That doesn’t happen unless you fuck.”

“You’re so strange,” he laughed, dipping his head closer to yours.

“Good. I don’t want you under the impression I’m normal.”

“Never a risk, trust me,” he laughed.

His nose bumped your cheek as he pressed a soft kiss to the side of your mouth. The press of his lips was electric. You grinned and twisted your head to press your lips against his. It was exactly how you hoped it would be. His lips were soft against yours, but each movement decisive. His hands, so warm and large, held you on your waist and the inside of your thigh.

“You’re so soft,” he mumbled against your lips.

“I’m pleasantly surprised by the beard,” you replied.

“I oil it,” he replied placing kisses down your neck.

“Hot,” you replied, sounding strangled as his sucked gently on your pulse point. You felt goosebumps erupt along your back.

He laughed and his hand that rested on your thigh squeezed. You wished he’d move it up, maybe press against your already throbbing core. Instead he massaged your leg and continued his ministrations against your neck.

“Christ,” you hissed when he nipped at your skin. “Already so good.”

“You’re so responsive for me,” he said. “I’ll bet you make beautiful noises.”

“You’re more talkative than I guessed,” you replied.

He pulled back and you huffed, already missing the contact. “I meant what I said earlier.”

“You’ve said a lot tonight,” you told him, pulling his face back to yours.

“That you’re smart and impressive. That you’re a good researcher,” he said before wrapping a hand around your neck and kissing you harshly. “Since no one else seems willing to tell you, I will. You’re incredible.”

“Don’t you dare,” you whispered.

“Too bad,” he replied.

“Can we move this to my bedroom?” You asked, hoping to distract him.

“Please.”

He helped you stand and took a quick look at your leg. His thumb was gentle as he caressed the red, puckered line on your thigh. Placing a gentle kiss on it made a well of emotion rise to your throat. His hands gripped your waist and he stared up at you from the couch.

“You’re breathtaking,” he whispered.

Caressing his face you said, “You’re going to give me an ego.”

“Someone has to,” he said placing a kiss on your T-shirt covered stomach.

“You’re going to kill me,” he groaned, pulling him up.

“How’s your arm?” He asked, following you through your short hallway.

“A little stiff, but mostly healed.”

“Please promise me that you’ll say something if you’re uncomfortable,” he asked quietly.

“Pinky swear,” you said stopping in front of your bedroom holding out your pinky to him. He laughed, shaking his head, and wrapped his pinky around yours.

Thankfully, your bedroom was mostly clean. There was some laundry waiting to be folded. It was small enough that it was only a couple steps until Robby was prodding you to sit on the bed.

“Can I undress you?” He asked.

“I’m not exactly wearing much,” you said smiling.

“I know, trust me,” he grumbled, grabbing your leg and rubbing his hand up the skin.

“Will you take your shirt off?” You asked still grinning up at him.

“Anything you want,” he said.

Leaning back on the bed, resting on your elbows, you watched as he flushed. He was large in your tiny bedroom. He reached behind him and in one fell swoop, pulled off his scrub shirt and undershirt.

“That was hot,” you said eyeing him.

“Yeah?” He asked, standing in between your legs.

You couldn’t help but run your hands up his torso. Dark hair dusted his chest and down his stomach. It led down to the waistband of his pants. Even his body hair was soft. Without a shadow of a doubt, you knew he oiled this as well. Something about the intentionality of that action made you clench.

Lightly raking your nails down his stomach, you watched as his muscles twitches. His shoulders, just out of reach, were broader than you expected. With ease, you unbuttoned the cargo pants and slid them over his waist.

“I seem to recall trying to undress you,” he said, stepping out of his pants and socks all at once.

“I got distracted,” you saying eyeing his boxer briefs. He was only half hard and already straining against the fabric.

“Maybe I want to be distracted,” he replied tugging at your shirt. You lifted your arms for him, so your T-shirt could be pulled up over your head. You hadn’t worn a bra since being couch bound, so he had an immediate eyeful of your tits. “You’re stunning.”

“Yeah? Prove it?,” you goaded.

He huffed a laugh and pushed you back on the bed lightly, before pulling off your shorts and underwear. He kneeled down on your floor and kissed the inside of your thigh.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. “Already so wet.”

“Wetter than I’ve been in a long time,” you told him. He groaned and closed his eyes.

“I want to touch you,” he breathed.

“Please,” you begged. “I want you to touch me so bad.”

In a move that would live in your brain for the rest of your life, Robby stuck two of his fingers in his mouth to wet them before he ran them up and down your slit. The first finger that slid inside you felt foreign. It had been a long time since anyone had pressed into you. When Robby added his second finger you couldn’t help but gasp out a moan.

“You open up so pretty for me,” Robby breathed. “You’re so good.”

His words did something to you. You knew he was doing it on purpose.

“Shame no one else is willing to get on their knees and worship you like you deserve,” he continued softly. He pressed soft kisses up and down your thigh. “Such a beautiful pussy should be kissed and praised.”

The sound you made when Robby began sucking on your clit in earnest was more of a squeal than anything else. It felt like every nerve was focused on the feeling in between your thighs. His fingers worked in and out of your slowly and with a firm pressure that you felt deep in your stomach. His tongue and mouth were far more impressive than you could have imagined.

“Oh my god, you’re so good at this. What the fuck,” you whined, burying your fingers in his hair. You wanted him pull him closer and grind on his face, but his grip on your hips kept you still.

At some point he added a third finger which made you release a choked laugh. With your good leg, you threw it over his shoulder, allowing his fingers to move deeper and hit your g-spot more effectively. The sensation of him between your thighs was overwhelming and you felt your legs trembling just slightly.

You braved a look between your legs and saw him staring up at him. Even without seeing his face, you knew he was grinning at you. Apparently, Robby was a smug bastard in bed. A particularly strong suck had you arching off the bed calling Robby’s name.

“Stop, stop,” you breathed lightly pushing him away. “I can’t cum twice and I want to come on your cock.”

Robby pulled away from your pussy and was drenched with your fluid. He looked proud of himself when he said,

“You really do make the best noises.”

“You really are good at eating a girl out,” you said breathing heavily. “When I am healed I’m going to suck your brain out of your dick.”

Laughing, Robby stood (his knees let out a massive crack that had you giggling), and laid down next to you in the bed. His hand trailed up your stomach before cupping your tit in his hand. Even if you weren’t particularly sensitive on your tits, having his hands on you was a mesmerizing feeling.

You hummed at his touch and pulled him over into a kiss. Your hand ran up and down his side until your fingers slid under his boxer briefs. Unsurprisingly, he was hot and heavy in your hand. He wasn’t quite as big as you feared, but you were glad he slid that third finger inside you.

“You’re so hard,” you said in between kisses.

“We have to talk over this before we start,” he replied pulling back and removing your hand from his underwear.

“Ugh,” you groaned. “You and your consent and safe sex.”

“Would you rather me force you down and fuck you?” He asked unimpressed.

“Maybe not tonight but we should table that idea for later,” you replied rolling on your side to look at him. His ears were bright red at the thought.

“I think you might kill me.”

“Pity, this is a lot of fun.”

He laughed pulled you on top of him. You laid half on him, your head pillowed on his chest. Even though you desperately wanted to know what he felt like shoving his cock in you, cuddling with him was certainly very enjoyable in itself.

“How are you feeling?”

“Arm is a little sore. Leg doesn’t hurt. Emotionally, doing great. You?”

“My knees will feel that tomorrow, but I’m also good. Feeling quite amazing, in fact.”

“I’m glad you said yes,” you told him pressing a kiss on his chest.

“I think we both know that I can’t say no to you.” He sighed. Then said, “I’m clean, I get tested regularly. Haven’t had sex since my last test. Happy to show you.”

“I trust you. I haven’t had sex in well over a year with anything other than my vibrator and was good during my last wellness exam.”

“I can’t wait to see you use this vibrator,” he said. “Watching you fall apart is so beautiful. I want to turn your brain off.”

You snorted. “Good luck with that.”

“You don’t think I can?”

“If anyone could, it would be you. I just don’t think my brain ever turns off. Rather annoying.”

Robby’s hand traced light trails up and down your back making you shiver.

“Guess we’ll see.”

“If you take that as a challenge it won’t be sexy,” you complained. “I don’t care about my brain turning off. I care about this, us, feeling you finally fuck me.”

“Finally, huh?”

“Yeah, I’ve got an IUD, there’s condoms in my side table, there’s nothing stopping us,” you complained poking him.

“You’re injured. There’s a lot stopping us.”

“If you bail on me now because you’re worried about hurting me, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Trust me,” he said. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. One taste of you was addicting enough.”

“As much as I want to see you, if I’m on my stomach on the bed, there’s not much of a chance to hurt myself,” you said.

“I like that,” he said.

“I want you on top of me, though,” you grumbled. “And then when my leg and arm are healed I’m going to ride you like a bronco, I swear to Christ.”

“Whenever I imagined this, I have to be honest, this is exactly how I thought you would be,” Robby laughed as he kissed the top of your head. “So stubborn and smart. The best ideas.”

“Robby,” you warned.

He noticed you never truly told him to stop, and you were not someone who shied away from voicing your opinion on something. He slid out from under you and opened the drawer of your side table. There was a nail file, some tissues, a rather sleek looking vibrator, and a small box of condoms. They were barely within their expiration window. He wondered who you bought them for.

Once he slid the condom on, it took a minute for the two of you to find a position that was comfortable. The two of you propped your hips up on some pillows and you reveled in the feeling of Robby’s body hovering over your own.

The first slide of cock against your folds made you whine. When he finally pushed in, you gasped and clenched at your sheets. He was big and from this position, he was firmly pressed on your g-spot. The feeling of him fully sheathed in you made you released tension you had no idea you held in your body.

Hovering over you, caging you with his body, made your nerves dance and tingle. It was not a surprise to you that you liked a man that could push you around, but the feeling of Robby pressing his weight down—even partially—confirmed what you suspected: you couldn’t move even if you wanted to.

“You feel so good around me,” Robby groaned in your ear. “You’re so good for me.”

“Just like that,” you moaned as his slowly pistoned his hips.

“Yeah? Take it. take what I’m giving you, sweetheart. I want you to know how amazing I think you are.”

Each thrust from Robby sent delicious tingles through your body. He braced his forearms by your head and you felt his chest press down on your back. The pressure of him made you groan into the bed. His mouth was by your ear. You could hear each breath, moan, and gasp he let out.

“Don’t muffle those pretty sounds. I want you to fall apart. Let go for me. Be my good girl,” he murmured.

Tomorrow you could be embarrassed by the way your body reacted to Robby calling you good girl, right now you couldn’t hide the tremor it sent through you. Your pussy clenched around him tightly.

“Good girl does it for you?” He asked. You could hear his smile.

“Fuck off,” you grumbled. He slowed in you until he was just lightly grinding against you, making you whine.

“As much as I love your attitude, that isn’t nice. Don’t you want to be good for me? Tell me how you feel. Tell me how I make you feel.”

And suddenly you realized why Robby was so successful with women he slept with. His whispered commands against your ear sent you to another stratosphere. You were confident this man could make you erupt with the power of his words alone.

“You feel so good, Robby,” you panted, trying to grind back onto him but in this position you had no leverage. “You’re so big and I want to feel it forever. Your pressed against me so well and it’s making me crazy. I don’t want this to end.”

“I’m so proud of you for using your words, sweetheart. Do you want me to keep going?”

“Yes, please,” you whined.

His hips began to move again and you released a punched out groan at the renewed friction.

“Feel it,” he commanded. “Feel me inside you.”

“So good,” you mumbled.

“Not as good as you are. You're perfect. Made for me. Made for me to slide into. Made for me to ravish and worship. Every sound you make. Every twitch and tremor. I’m memorizing it. Archiving it. I want to watch you give into the pleasure.”

“Ah, your dirty talk is insane,” you told him as he began to thrust into you more earnestly.

“You bring it out of me sweetheart. You make me crazy. So pretty, so young, so smart. And you’re letting me fuck you. I want you to feel as lucky as I do.”

For a few minutes there was nothing but the sounds of his hips slamming against yours and his quiet pants against your ear. You wrapped you hands around his wrists that were pressed above your shoulders. It was an awkward position, but you needed to hold onto him. Each thrust of his hips and press of his body made soft groans erupt from your mouth. You found yourself wanting to be more vocal for him.

“You’re so perfect under me,” he grunted. “You fit me so well. Such a good girl for me.”

“Fuck,” you hissed. Your body clenched so tightly even Robby’s pace faltered

“Are you getting close, sweetheart?” He almost cooed.

“Yes, please keep going just like that,” you mumbled against the pillow.

“Ah-ah, I want to hear you,” he said, redoubling his efforts.

“Please, Robby,” you said louder. “Keep going. I want to cum on your cock.”

“Do you need me to touch your clit?” He asked.

You nodded. “Yes please.”

You were sure how he managed to hold himself up and also snake a hand under you to rub two thinking fingers along your clit. Frankly, it was none of your business, because the sharp increase in pleasure make your hips buck. Being caught between Robby’s pistoning hips and deft fingers was getting you closer far faster than you expected.

“Jesus Christ, I’m getting close.”

“Yeah? C’mon, then, be a good girl. Cum on my cock for me. I want to feel you clench around me. I want to feel you lose control because of me.”

“Robby,” you whined.

“Don’t you want to be a good girl for me?” He asked. You could hear the breathlessness in his own voice as his hips became a little more frantic.

“Yes,” you moaned.

“Say it.”

“I want to be a good girl for you,” you cried. In this moment you would have done anything he asked you.

It was only a few strokes of his cock and fingers before you felt your body tighten and sparks fly. It was a slow build up at first, it almost crested gently. But once the orgasm hit, your muscles locked up and each continuing rub of his fingers and movement of his hips overwhelmed your body until you were shaking underneath him.

“Such a good girl,” he growled in your ear as he managed to hold back his own orgasm. “Squeezing me so tight. Can’t wait to cum in this pussy.”

It was another two thrust before Robby buried his face in your neck with a long groan, as he lazily fucked you through his own orgasm. Goosebumps erupted down your back as his beard almost tickled you. For a minute, he was sheathed deep inside of you, blanketing your body with his own.

It felt luxurious.

(It felt safe)

You wouldn't have admit that last part out loud, but there wasn’t a doubt in your mind that Robby’s arms would be a safe place to fall. For more than a few minutes, you soaked in the presence of another person against you, appreciating the feeling of his body heat, the scratch of his hair, the puff of his breathing. It was so human and so monumental.

When he went to move, you whined and halfheartedly managed to pull him back down against you, resulting in his deep chuckle. Some of his weight on his knees, he wrapped his arms around your middle and began to place featherlight kisses along your shoulder making you shiver against him.

“You feel so good,” he mumbled against your skin.

“Same,” you sighed, fully blissed out. “I just want to stay like this for a minute.”

“As long as you want, sweetheart,” he said, continuing his kisses. It almost tickles and you can’t help the shudder that travels from your neck through your hips.

“Sweetheart, huh?” You asked. “I think that’s an oxymoron.”

“You’re not very nice to yourself.”

“I’m just well aware of how I come across.”

“I really don’t think you are,” he said frankly. He placed his lips against your ear and whispered, “You don’t seem to know how every time you walk into a room, you absolutely own the place. Or how everyone turns and listens when you talk. You’re competent and commanding, and more than that you're kind.”

You couldn’t help but snort. “Am not.”

“Don’t know what planet you’re living on, but you go out of your way to make sure bar patrons get home safe, you cover shifts when it’s inconvenient, and you called Jack even when you didn’t have to. I owe you a lot for that.”

“You would have been fine,” you protested weakly. “I’m just being a good community member.”

“I don’t know if I would have been. And sweetheart, being a good community member is being kind,” Robby said.

“I just don’t believe you,” you finally said.

“Then I’ll keep saying it until you do. Just like I’ll keep telling you how brilliant you are and how amazing you are. And maybe one day, I’ll hear you say it back.”

“Doubt it.”

“I believe it enough for the both of us,” he said kissing your cheek.

He slowly peeled himself away from you, and almost immediately you missed the weight and warmth. You heard him dispose of the condom and wander into your bathroom. At some point you needed to move, but frankly, you were still boneless after a good fuck and even better orgasm. Feeling the bed dip at Robby’s arrival, you felt him gently run a washcloth between your legs. It was intimate and caring in a way you were unfamiliar with. Vulnerable in a way that made your throat feel scratchy.

“Let me help you readjust,” Robby said, after finishing. You heard the washcloth tossed into your laundry basket.

You let Robby ease you off the mound of pillow propping up your hips. The bad leg was a little stiff, but not painful as you rolled over on your side. It’s the first time you caught a glimpse of Robby. His skin was still flushed and his glasses were perched precariously on his nose. There was a crooked smile on his face as he leaned over and kissed you.

It was his eyes that caught your attention the most. They always held emotion. You had noticed the pain and heartbreak all those nights at the bar. Now, however, slowly laying down next to you, his eyes were soft, creased with a happiness that seemed to be foreign on his face.

“I’m glad you let me talk you into this,” you admitted.

He shifted so you were wrapped in his arms, chest to chest, nose to nose. The blankets were still kicked to the end of the bed, but neither of you felt cold. Brushing you nose with his, he said,

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm. This was very nice. Memorable. I can confirm that you do fuck. And you fuck well,” you announced.

Robby chuckled and pressed a soft kiss to your lips.

“Was that all this was? A fuck?” His voice was vulnerable.

You knew the question was coming, which is why you didn’t stutter over your answer,

“Depends, on if you plan to keep your promise of reminding me how great I am all the time.”

“I think it’s something I could make time for,” he said grinning.

-- -- --

More of an author's note: I can't remember if I saw the sad paddington bear thing on tumblr or not. If I accidentally stole this from someone let me know and I'll tag and credt. I just couldn't find anything when I looked.

Hope you all enjoyed!

-- -- --

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[annsfics]

♡ we're here now ♡

♡ pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader x michael robinavitch

♡ synopsis: broken & hopeless, you let go of the prospect of living. but like so many others who made a heartbreaking decision in a moment of absolute darkness, your mind changes. when jack tries to save you...will he succeed?

♡ content: angst, hurt/comfort, depression, suicidal ideation, suicide attempt, accidental injury with a scalpel

♡ a/n: based off this request, ty! | i also listened to the song 222 by Vyva Melinkolya ft. Ethel Cain on repeat while writing this & i think it's kinda fitting & makes the work impossibly sadder lol

The at times calamitous ambience of the ED served strictly to unmoor and unsettle you during your first few weeks between its off-white walls. The patients flowed in like a raging river—never-ending, and never a trickle. Instead, a gush. All at once until you were drowning beneath it. When you looked around, however, you took comfort in your fellow fish; you weren't alone, not as long as they swam against the current alongside you.

It'd felt like another world upon a strange planet, in truth. One with much beeping, serving as signals both good and bad as people with do-good hearts raced to save patients from the malicious claws that meant to drag them away from this plane of existence. And there was the awful bright overhead lighting which casted the unthinkable in an eerie glow. Necessary for visibility, but unpleasing to the eye. Some places stock their troffers with bulbs meant to mimic the sun instead, you hear.

That had sounded like a nice idea to you, but something unlikely for PTMC to ever implement. They don't seem to much care for the happiness of their employees.

The thrill of the catch—having an epiphany during an odd case, and grabbing hold of a diagnosis others were so far from discovering, made you feel invincible, and all the trials and tribulations thus well worth it in the end, however. You were saving lives. How many others can say the same about their occupation? Most otherwise work in trade or retail or from cushy corner offices. Which isn't to say that they're not all vital bees in the buzzing hive which is the world, but they're no Michael Robinavitch or Dana Evans or Jack Abbot.

Local rockstars to you they are. Or...were.

That began before long, too: burnout. Your days turning into a monotonous, psychologically draining cycle. No more do you walk out the Pitt's doors and it feels like you're coming back through them again, greeted not by smiles and welcoming sentiments, but by screaming, ungrateful patients who just keep dying.

Covid leveled your world and ripped the rose-colored glasses from your eyes that you once wore so happily. It ingrained such trauma within you that you didn't know where to put it.

There was no time for therapy.

Not that you probably would've gone had there been—making such an appointment was like accepting defeat; admitting that something had gone wrong with you.

That your brain was sick.

You power through the nightmares; the fleeting reminders of things you'd rather forget when a machine beeps a certain way, or an item of PPE flashes in your peripheral as a co-worker pulls it on. It'll move through you eventually, you tell yourself; work its way out of your system just like a virus or a nasty cold.

It won't last forever.

Or...you'd thought as much, anyway.

Lately, for the last few months, things have gotten exceptionally hard. You're both sleeping and not. When you get home, it's all you really want to do. As of late, you forgo dinner in favor of it. The scale in your bathroom reflects this change.

Runway models should really invest in giving healthcare a go for awhile instead of diet pills, you think. It'd work faster.

When you do rest, however, it's fitfully. You toss and turn, toss and turn. No more does your head hit the pillow and it seems like your alarm is screaming at you to get out of bed to get back to it.

You're withdrawn at work. Talking expends energy. Effort, even. Not that you want to conserve it. You just don't much like people anymore.

They've changed. At once they were so friendly. Human beings you liked talking to. Now, you'd rather drink bleach than carry on any sort of conversation at length. The same kind of goes for patients. You've thus been faltering in your bedside manner, and little handout review sheets reflect it. Something new enacted by those at the top of the hospital.

There's no thanks for the good you do, only chastisement for the bad. Bad, bad, bad. That's what you are.

You think maybe others can see it: this grotesque thing that's broken inside of you. You can't fix it. Not when you're not wholly sure what it is. Just...a part that can't be reached, you suppose. It's okay, though, if people don't want you around. You've never been terribly good with them, you think. Always saying the wrong thing, or making the moment needlessly awkward by inserting yourself where you clearly were never wanted.

It's better now—you pulling away. Retreating. Retracting.

They're happier, it seems, with you removed from their everyday.

The thoughts begin as mere daydreams in time, since you find yourself with little else to do in the quieter moments: pills, razors, rope, a speedometer climbing well past ninety. You toy with them like a Rubik's Cube—turning them this way and that, figuring which best suits you.

It becomes sort of exhilarating, really—knowing that there's such an incredibly easy way out of it all. And that it's always there, awaiting you. Like a friend. Something you can both lean and rely on.

You like that fact.

That peaceful feeling becomes...very hard to escape once it's implanted itself within your mind like a hard to pull root from a noxious weed. As in, impossible.

It haunts your steps in the hall, sits with you in the staff lounge, visits with you at home... It even comes with you to the toilet, it's so prevalent.

You could always take a bottle of pills from work. Ones that would just let you drift off to sleep. Peaceful and painless. No better option, in your opinion.

You tuck the thought away for possible later use.

You throw yourself fully into your work and turn on blinders to anything outside of it. You let yourself become a machine—merely doing as you are bid without quarrel. It seems to please people when you go along with them; are at their beck and call and always of agreement with their opinions and assumptions. It's strange how different social hierarchy becomes when you've set aside any personality of your own.

But you're not perfect. Sometimes your mind becomes fuzzy. You think maybe it's atrophying. And that equates to the occasional mistake.

Abbot dislikes when you give a patient double the dosage of a medication of what he instructed you to. It made them a little sick—some vomiting and a seizure—but they survived. Meanwhile, he'd pulled you aside and you stared while occasionally blinking as he told you why what you did was so dangerous.

Bad, bad, bad.

At one time, he'd liked you. Gave you extra attention and often let his hands rest on your shoulders or lower back. One time he caressed your cheek, which had made it warm pleasantly in response. Now that you're no longer his shining star, though—having burnt out so long ago—you think he'd rather you weren't around.

You should do something about that fact.

"We cannot afford mistakes like that, Y/N. Do you have any idea what that opens us up to?" He questions. Pressing one finger to the other, he supplies you an answer so you don't have to come up with one. You're glad for that.

You don't think you could if you tried.

"Lawsuits, a revocation of your medical license, an inquiry by the Medical Board..." He trails off after counting off so many digits.

You nod. "I understand, Doctor Abbot," the girl devoid of light and life says. "It won't happen again. I promise."

He gives a smile and a nod, pats you on the shoulder—a gesture which you flinch away from since you really dislike being touched lately for some reason—and tells you that that's exactly what he wants to hear before walking away from you.

You should just kill yourself.

It's what you think anytime you screw up now. Drop and break a glass at home? Suicide. Get berated by a superior at work? Suicide. Take too long to go after a light has turned green and a driver behind you honks their horn? Suicide.

Such a burden you've become. Maybe you've always been? You're not sure. You hope not, but if so, you wouldn't be surprised.

You start making preparations before your big, metaphorical trip.

Typing away on a computer, you drown out the hubbub of your surroundings—choosing to instead focus solely on the digital chart before you. When your eyes begin to grow a bit blurry, however, you glance up and idly watch as individuals in blue and black and grey scrubs come and go.

You pick Doctor Robby to observe for a bit.

You'd adored him at one time. For awhile, actually. You liked how tall he was, and his neatly trimmed beard. His Carhart pants and how he commanded authority while still being gentle in instruction. The timbre of his voice reverberating through your ear canal when he stood close as you tended to patients sent chills up your spine. It was like finely ground coffee: dark, but nevertheless smooth and tempting.

When he started calling you by various pet names around the Pitt, you'd stupidly humored yourself by believing that perhaps he felt similarly—had a hidden crush, same as you. You'd become almost certain of it one night when he gave you a ride home because your car wouldn't turn over due to a corroded battery.

Your heart had rhythmically thumped away between your breasts as you watched his hands turn the steering wheel—half hoping he'd take you home with him like a stray.

He never did.

Now, he doesn't so much as give you a second glance.

Maybe it makes you a narcissist to have assumed there was a mutual attraction. Not everyone wants you. In fact, no one does. If only you'd figured it out sooner, you would've saved yourself so much trouble in chasing after those who only wanted to get far away from you.

You lower your head then turn to the left where Santos sits with a recorder, dictating her own patient's chart. You wait until there's a pause, then speak—take your first steps in making your plan a reality.

"Hey, Trinity?" You ask quietly.

Swiveling around in your direction from atop an office chair, she toys with her recorder. "Yeah?"

"Do you like records?"

Her brows furrow. "Yeeeah. Why?"

You shrug indifferently while typing a few more words. "I'm getting rid of my collection. I thought that maybe you'd like to have them."

Her brows raise in surprise. "I mean, how much are you asking?"

You shake your head while hitting the space bar. "No charge."

She scooches closer—sure that this is too good to be true. "Wait. Are you actually serious? I mean, vinyl is like stupid expensive right now. You wanna just give yours away? To me?"

You nod. "I don't listen to them anymore." Picking up your phone, you wave it haphazardly before tossing it down with a thud. "If I want to listen to music now, I just stream it."

You look at her over your shoulder. "They're just collecting dust. You can have them all. Do whatever you like with them. Keep them, sell them, gift them." You shrug. "Makes no difference to me."

She beams at the prospect of furthering her collection, and for entirely free, at that. "Yeah, hundred percent I want them."

You save the chart you've just completed. "They're in my trunk. I'll get them to you once our shift is through."

For the next two weeks, you continue on with offloading your life onto others. You give Samira your clothes in multiple garbage bags. Mel your books, McKay some decorative figures you kept on your bookshelves for her son, Javadi your jewelry and accessories, and the nurse's station your stationary in all its organized glory.

When Dana tries showing concern—asking as to why you're doing this, sarcastically asking if you're moving—you shrug it off and tell her it's just a bit of spring cleaning.

She frowns, knowing that it's the tail-end of summer.

Once your apartment is nearly devoid of any sign that you once lived in it, you cry from joy.

You're so close now. Just a few more loose ends, and you'll be ready to go.

Abbot is the first to go out of his way to speak to you. He deems it good—great, even—that you're in a better mood today. He's heard...troubling news. Spring cleaning, you'd called it to Dana. But sometimes people just choose to declutter their lives, right? Especially in this line of work, it's way too easy to let your living space become an absolute wreck because you can't be bothered to expend the energy to clean it up on a regular basis.

Makes it easier the less you've got to deal with. And when you practically live in scrubs... Well, who needs dress clothes, right?

Bumping his shoulder against yours, and sending your fingers flying across the keyboard you stand at, you begin backspacing to fix your typos.

He doesn't like those.

"You seem better today," he remarks. "That's good. Got some big plans after work or somethin'?" He asks curiously.

You smile with warmth. If you were the sun—which, here in the Pitt, at one time you were—he could stand within the light your rays provide for forever. "I do," you say quietly, with cheer.

He raises a brow and his lips tug into a smirk. "Oh yeah? What's that?"

You shrug. "It's a surprise."

He leans in close. "Not for me, is it?" He whispers.

You turn to him, and he nearly stumbles back. The tone of your voice and your general demeanor... They don't match the vacant look in your eyes whatsoever. They don't... They don't even look like they're yours.

"You're a good doctor, Jack," you say while gently resting a hand against his upper arm. "I don't think I've ever told you how grateful I am that I was given a chance to learn from you. PTMC is really lucky to have you here."

His brows furrow and the smile slips from his face. "Sweetheart, you're starting to freak me out here."

Couldn't even do that right, you think. Just further confirmation that you're indeed making the right choice. "I'm sorry," you say while stepping away. "It won't happen again. Have a nice evening, Dr. Abbot."

You give Mel an unexpected hug before she's due to head home for the day. She stumbles back, hesitates for a moment, then returns it with a feeble embrace. "Becca is really fortunate to have such a caring sister. It makes me happy you two have one another," you tell her with a squeeze.

She steps back while flushing and nervously adjusting her glasses. "Y-Yeah. Me too."

You part from her with a nod, and let her go on her way.

Later on, you catch Mohan at her locker and lean against your own. Yours, which can been completely cleaned out, minus your stethoscope. They'll open it eventually. You left a note to please give the item to someone who needs it. Or just...keep it in the inventory as an extra incase another's becomes faulty.

"I know Robby has been kind of hard on you lately," you say quietly.

She doesn't speak.

"But you have so much talent with patients. You take their feelings into consideration. A lot of providers let this job get the better of them and their care suffers for it." You gently grip her wrist. "Don't let him turn you into someone you're not."

Just as she turns to say something, you've gone.

Dennis has just slung his backpack over his shoulder when you jog to catch up to him by the ambulance bay's doors. "Hey," you say, settling a hand atop his shoulder.

He turns with a surprised look on his face.

"I wanted you to know that I think what you're doing for Amy and her baby is really...sweet. Commendable." You drop your hand and smile. "Are you happy?"

He grins and glances down to his shoes while nodding. "Yeah. I-I am. I think she is, too."

You turn your head to the right and watch as a truck pulls up outside. "Don't let her go, Dennis." You look back to him. "Family is important. Make sure you don't let this place become the only one you have."

He raises a brow and makes to step forward—to question what's going on—until you take a few steps back. "I gotta go, but you two drive safe. Okay?"

"I'll see ya tomorrow, kid," Dana calls from behind you.

Slowly turning round to face her, you look at Emma who's seated just to her side. "You've got a good teacher here," you say while nodding to the older blonde. "So you listen to her and soak up everything you can. Having Dana as your guide here in the Pitt is invaluable."

Emma nods with a toothy smile. "I will."

Your eyes flit back to Dana. "See you around," you whisper.

By the end of your shift, things feel different. For the first time in maybe years, you feel content. At peace. Could it mean that things are...worth a second try? You'd not even considered that such a thought would cross your mind.

But there it sits, like a gift waiting to be unwrapped.

Exiting through the sliding doors of the ambulance bay, you step out from beneath the overhead coverage that extends outward and stare up at the stars. You'd meant to be dancing amongst them tonight, but...plans can always change.

You look to the right, and find Robby strapping a bag to the rear luggage wrack of his motorcycle. Maybe... Maybe he can help? He'll know what to do, because you know this moment won't last. You have to reach out and ask for him to hold your hand through this while you've still got the mental fortitude at your disposal to do so.

Crossing your arms, you walk over to him. "Hey, Robby?"

Tightening a bungee cord into place, he raises a brow. "Hm?"

"Could I talk to you about something? It's—"

He sighs with irritation and runs a tired hand down his face. "I was really hoping to get going. Guess I didn't move fast enough." He turns to you with crossed arms as well, matching your stance. "Can this not wait until morning?"

Your eyes flit between his.

So much happens in that moment.

Your resolve shatters into irreparable shards which slice through any hope you'd had but a moment ago, and a confirmation is granted to you. Confirmation that you chose right all along.

What's meant to be will be.

And with the small orange bottle in your pocket, you'll make it so.

It's okay now.

You force a reassuring smile and shake your head. "Sure. It wasn't important. It doesn't matter." You take a step back. "I'm sorry for bothering you. Have a nice night. And—and drive safe, ok?"

He barely pays you any mind as he mounts his motorcycle and drives away.

Waiting for your Uber to arrive, you continue studying the stars. They just...look like they'd take such good care of you, y'know? Never would they let you fall or falter. They act as one.

But, so, too, are they already dead.

You suppose that's rather fitting.

"You need a ride?"

Glancing to your left, you find Frank watching you with a curious look on his face.

You shake your head. "No, thank you, I have an Uber coming."

He nods. "Car in the shop?"

You shrug and look away. You donated it to a local charity yesterday, actually. You'd been rather surprised to find out such things existed. They repurpose them for homeless youth and single mothers and the like. It'll go to someone in need.

That makes you happy.

Your phone dings that your driver is 5 minutes away.

Standing, you pad over to Frank. "I'm really proud of you for going to rehab, Langdon."

He tucks his phone away into his pocket. "Yeah, well, Robby didn't exactly give me another choice."

You chew your lip. "It was the right thing. For you...and your children." Meeting his eyes, you crook your head to the side. "They need their dad. Your sobriety is a big deal. You should be proud of it, too."

His brows furrow.

"This hospital needs you here. I'm glad you came back."

Tires crunch against asphalt, and a white SUV pulls up.

When you start toward it, Frank takes a small step forward. "Are—are you okay?"

After popping open the back passenger door, you look at him over your shoulder. "I am. I know what I have to do now."

He thinks to reach out for you. "I'll see you tomorrow, alright?"

You swing a leg inside. "Goodbye, Frank."

With that, you shut the door behind you.

An empty plastic bottle crinkles quietly between your shaking hands.

On the floor, a pill bottle lies on its side. It's contents currently dissolving in your stomach acid.

Looking around the nearly empty space you occupy, you tell yourself that you can't go back. There's nothing left. Even out in the hall sits yet another box of odds and ends you didn't know what else to do with. So you merely drew on the front of it 'FREE' with a smiley face and sat it next to your apartment door.

Someone will rifle through it and take what they like; give the things inside a second home.

Leaning back against the headboard behind you, you swallow thickly as hot tears practically singe your cheeks. The truth you don't want to admit now is that you're scared. You don't want to die like this: alone, and in what has now become a strange place.

What if no one comes in the next few days? You don't want them to find your body bloated and rotting; infested with flies and maggots that crawl inside your mouth and ears.

Fighting against how your head swims when you turn it, you reach for your phone. You grip it as hard as you can and jerk your unsteady limb back to you. Plopping the device onto the mattress you're seated upon, it takes four tries before you manage to punch in the correct pin code.

You dial 3 numbers, then wait.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

"911, what is your emergency?"

"Pleeease," you slur. "I changed my mind."

"—Female. Unconscious. Pulse is bradycardic and thready," the EMT informs Abbot and his team as he rounds the back of the van. "She told 911 about a half hour ago that she swallowed a bottle of Prozac."

Popping open the door, he turns back to Abbot and shoves the empty bottle into his hands. "She must've stole them, seeing as a man's name is on the bottle. We found it on the floor of her apartment. I figured you all would want it when you try to treat her."

Helping his partner get the gurney out of the van, the bottom wheels fall and clatter to the ground before locking into place.

"Oh my God," McKay exclaims before clamping both her hands over her mouth.

Having come back around to morning time, the rest of the day shift will soon be arriving.

Meanwhile, Abbot knows he can't leave now.

He'll work a 24 hour fucking shift if he has to.

When the other EMT exits the rig, he looks between the crowd of unmoving bodies. "You all know her or something?"

"She fucking works here," Toomarian replies before stumbling back.

Jack shakes his head, then begins firing on all cylinders as his body jumps into motion. "McKay, Shen, you two are with me. Henderson, get your ass inside and tell Handzo that I need a room cleared. We're going to intubate and then perform a gastric lavage."

He glances around. "I said now! Move your asses!" He shouts.

Standing outside, Robby watches as your body lifts off the hospital bed you've been transferred to. With numb, shaking fingers tangled painfully in his hair, he yanks tightly against the strands. Jack glances to the monitor, shakes his head, then commands McKay to try again.

"Please," he cries through clenched teeth. "Fuck," he curses. "It's all my fucking fault."

When he came in for his shift, your room was the first one he bothered peeking into, and it stopped him cold in his tracks before he barked at Whitaker to help him suit up so he could help.

A gesture which didn't last long when he backed into a tray of sterile instruments once inside, and thus sent them scattering across the floor. Panicking, he tried picking them up as a series of apologies spilled from his lips. Aimed toward you, Jack, or the team which was trying to save you, he's unsure. In the end, he sliced his hand open with a ten blade. As blood oozed from the wound, Jack shouted for him to get out. To have someone stitch him up while he otherwise kept his focus strictly on you.

"No, I-I have to s-stay. I can do it. We have to fucking save her, Jack."

Jack had leveled him with a glare. "I am going to do every goddamn thing I can to ensure that she doesn't slip away from us, but you have got to leave this room. You're breaking my concentration. It's already hard enough!"

Forcing her way inside, Dana shoved against his chest to guide him out of the room. Stumbling backward, Robby pointed at Jack. "You fucking bring her back. You bring her back to us or I'll never forgive you!"

Now, here he stands in the middle of a fast-moving ED with over a dozen stitches in a hand that's wrapped in gauze, praying to a God who stopped listening long ago to take him instead if it meant sparing you.

It's all his fault.

You had tried to talk to him. Had given living one last try. And he couldn't be bothered to spare five minutes.

The lump in his throat becomes too much to breathe or swallow over.

Robby starts choking on his own saliva.

His heart squeezes painfully in his chest and his knees buckle out from under him.

Falling to the floor, Dana runs to his side. "Hey, Rob, Robby, look at me. What's goin' on, big guy?"

He clutches at his chest. "MI," he pants.

"I need a gurney over here!"

A panic attack.

He'd hoped for worse, because then it would mean God had actually obliged his only request.

Sitting in a hospital bed with his head held hopelessly between his hands, he refuses to face the room that lies across the way. Peds.

So much horror its walls have bore witness to.

But also love and care.

Like the day of PittFest. Another moment which saw Robby at his lowest; collapsed in on himself like a dying star. You were the one who pulled him out of the darkness, though.

Caressing his face between careful hands, you swiped tears from his cheeks while telling him that you understood—had been where he sat so many times (why didn't he see it then?)—but still nevertheless needed him that day. That you both had essential work to do which you wanted him at your side for, and after is when he could break. In your arms, if that's what he required.

Did he kiss you then? Or was that an imagined dream he drew up in his muddled head?

Shoving off the bed he occupies with a huff, Robby does exactly that: gets to work. It's what you would want. And the only way he won't fall apart again. Because if he continues sitting there thinking up worst case scenarios, he'll never make it out of here alive.

The whole department has spent the day on-edge. Jack has assured them that the worst has passed, but until... Unless you woke up, you weren't totally out of the woods.

Practically everyone sticks around until well after their shifts are through—waiting with bated breath—to see if you'll open your eyes.

For what it's worth, piles of your things begin arriving in droves when people realize you hadn't just been cleaning out your apartment like you said.

You'd been preparing never to come back.

For the absolute worst of reasons.

They each take turns visiting with you. Apologizing. Or just telling stories.

Besides Robby and Abbot, Frank takes it the hardest. He was the last person you spoke to. He tells Jack over and over and over again that he should've stood in front of the fucking car if it meant making you stay. That he knew—he knew—in his gut what you had planned.

Mel has bumped into patients and coworkers alike so many times while passing by your room that 'sorry' has become her word of the day.

Dana stays quiet. She merely watches from beneath the board, awaiting the opening of your pretty eyes again.

Javadi quietly asks Jack when—not if—you wake up, he'll have you put on an involuntary psyche hold. He tells her that psyche will be called for a consult, but what happens from there will be out of his hands. All he knows is that he has to make sure this never happens again.

When his chin begins to wobble as he smooths hair from your brow is when she takes her leave.

When his shift nears 20 hours, Jack finally takes a seat at your bedside. Holding your limp hand between each of his, he presses it to his lips. "You have people waiting for you," he murmurs. "I am waiting for you. Robby is. Sweetheart," he cups your cheek and your head lulls to the side. "I love you."

He begins to cry. "Why the fuck I didn't say it sooner I—" He shakes his head. "I thought it'd be unprofessional. You were my subordinate." He lowers his head. "Goddamn coward." Lifting his head again, he kisses your fingertips. "I'm saying it now. I mean, how could I not fall for you?"

A knock sounds from the door.

Robby.

Pushing open the glass entrance, he steps inside. "Still nothing?" He asks quietly.

Jack shakes his head. "Not yet. But she'll wake up soon. She has to."

Seating himself on the side of your bed, Robby cups your cool cheek in his palm. "You came to me. You needed me and I wasn't there." He runs the pad of his thumb along the curve of your jaw. "But I am now. I will spend as much time as I have to fixing this; making it up to you."

Leaning down, he hesitates, then presses a soft kiss to your lips.

But that only works in the stories...

"Rest of my life if I have to."

Jack falls asleep slumped over in his chair—his head resting beside you and his fingers firmly intertwined between your own. Robby took up position at your side in bed. Holding you close to him with his hoody draped over your chest, he tucked you just beneath his chin before drifting off.

As long as your heart still beats, they've each something to hold onto.

Your awakening is sluggish; gradual. Pulling yourself from the primordial sludge which deigned to hold you meant fighting a battle you weren't sure you could win.

But when you stir quietly, and feel warm bodies on either side of you, accompanied by the sound of quiet snoring, you know you've come out the other side victorious.

"Welcome back," drawls a thickly accented, feminine voice from across the way. "Had a lot of people worried, kid."

The rumbling chest you're pressed against quiets, then shifts. Pressing your head back against the soft pillow beneath it, you stare up at Robby's tear-stricken face. He doesn't speak. He merely smiles before cupping your cheek in his palm and pressing his lips to yours.

You're far too exhausted to think on it.

You'd thought he didn't care. What else have you been wrong about as of late?

Your right hand suddenly released, Jack stands, then seats himself on your bedside. "We're going to take care of you. Alright? I promise."

Leaning down, he kisses you next.

Dana turns back to the nurse's station.

"You'll never be alone again," Robby whispers. "We weren't there for you then, but we're here now."

[rr-after-dark]

"human resources" - dr. michael "robby" robinavitch x reader

kinktober 2025 day 18: size kink

Summary: After finding Dr. Robby’s Tinder profile with a suspiciously large outline in his shorts, your friends make a bet to see who can get definitive proof of his big dick -- and you, despite being wildly in love with him, agree to participate.

Tags/Notes: workplace shenanigans ft. santos, whitaker, javadi, mohan, king (i chose the pic with her on purpose), background mohabbot, slow burn-ish, mutual pining, first time together, fingering and oral (f), unprotected piv (discussed), size kink obviously, loootsss of marks (bruises, hickeys, scratches), some mention of minor blood from said marks

Content: i mean the whole thing is kinda sexual harassment. everyone has fun but that doesn’t change that it would be very naughty to do something like this!

A/N: thank you all for being so nice about me getting sick and having to delay this, but hey i locked in and actually got it finished!

Word Count: 11.0k (oops)

not proofread properly bc it would've taken so long

The moment your lunch break starts, Trinity yanks you into an on-call room, where Mel, Victoria, Samira, and Whitaker have all also been dragged during a rare moment during the day when you can all leave the floor at once. It’s dark inside and it feels suspiciously like a gathering of cult members. Ever since you found out the six of you lived in the same building (which, yes, half the staff lives in because it’s the cheapest spot close to the hospital), you’ve been a group, even now that Samira’s off living with her knight in shining scrubs.

Trinity looks between you seriously, her phone screen illuminating her face from below like a horror movie villain about to give you the rules for a torture game. She announces seriously, “Guys, I have crucial intel.”

“Alright, get on with it,” Samira sighs. “Some of us have work to do and waiting in here has already taken up half my break.”

Trinity draws a deep breath and holds up her phone, showing off the screen in an arc to let everyone get a good look. “Dennis’ and my other roommate sent us these screenshots last night. I guess Robby has his settings so nobody who has his number can see it, but she did.”

You huddle around the phone as she swipes through a series of pictures, each one of your attending (and your best friend), Robby. A Tinder profile. As her thumb swipes across the screen, all of you ask questions over each other: He owns a motorcycle? And a real suit? Oh my god, is he shirtless there? Wait, he plays basketball?

While they gawk and laugh, you’re stuck on the bio that makes you smile: I’m a doctor. Not in a hot way. In an ‘I’m in therapy and you probably should be too if you want to date me’ way. Soft spot for puppies, babies, and good beer. My best friend forced me to make this when he got a girlfriend so that I wouldn’t be a third wheel. Guess I’m looking for my fourth wheel. Someone to stabilize me.

Victoria’s been standing there slack-jawed for the longest. As the baby of the group, she’s always surprised by everything. “I just can’t believe Dr. Robby is on dating apps.”

Trying not to get pathetically jealous at the idea, you reason, “I mean, he’s single. He’s attractive.”

Samira snickers, “Don’t they have an age limit on that app to protect seniors or something?”

You roll your eyes. “He’s not that old.”

“And you’re one to talk,” Dennis points out. “Dr. Abbot isn’t exactly young.”

“He’s a decade younger than Robby,” she replies. “Robby’s so old I didn’t think he could even download an app without help. He asked me to convert something to a PDF for him the other day. I find the idea that he’d meet someone from an app…charming. The way a cat trapped in a tree is cute.”

Mel crosses her arms over her chest and physically turns away from Trinity’s phone. She huffs out, “Guys, this is so inappropriate.”

Trinity glares. “You’re no fun.”

“That’s sort of my whole thing,” she cuts back. Then she nudges you and asks for backup, “C’mon, you know this is wrong.”

But you’re way too intrigued to agree with your roommate. You shrug and say, “It’s a public profile. Someone was bound to find it eventually, right?”

Mel scoffs and shakes her head. “Et tu?”

Trinity groans and makes Mel turn back around with a pointed look. She goes on, “Guys, the intel isn’t that he has a Tinder.” She zooms in on the picture of him with Dr. Abbot on a basketball court, Robby jumping to dunk the ball. You want to lick the sweat from his hairy chest. Trinity shoves her finger at the screen. “Look at this hog he’s packing. Dr. Robby has a giant dick.”

You take a closer look at the outline visible in his slinky athletic shorts. No way. You scoff and shake your head; the idea that a human man could have a dick that big seems outright ridiculous. In years of practicing medicine and being a sexually active adult, you’ve never seen one that would compare. So you shrug your shoulders up and awkwardly rush out, “That could be a water bottle or something.”

Victoria, wide eyes locked to the screen, chimes in, “Or- or just a shadow. The lighting.”

“Yeah, sure, or a massive fucking cock.”

Dennis, the reddest of everyone (he once told you about an absolutely mortifying sex dream he had about topping Robby), hisses, “Trinity, he’s our boss!”

“So?”

You step in, too. “So what are we even supposed to do with this information?”

“Well we all know what you’re going to do with it,” she says to you with a knowing, wicked grin. “You’re going to fantasize about how it would feel to take such a-”

“Trinity!” You slap your hand over her mouth. “If you bring up my crush on him one more time, I’m going to start paging you on every single bowel disimpaction that comes into the ER for the next six months. I’m working on getting over it!”

“Here’s what I’m proposing,” Trinity says seriously. She’s such a ringleader it’s not even funny. This is her circus and the rest of you are definitely her monkeys. “I say we all put in some money and the first person to get definitive proof that Dr. Robby’s packing gets the whole pool.”

“Absolutely not,” Mel says right away. She’s so serious that she shoves out of the on-call room and back to work. She never wants to play in the circus.

The rest of you stay put, though. Dennis mutters, “How much money?”

“This is high stakes,” Samira reasons. “A hundred each.”

“You’re only saying that because you have the best chances,” Victoria cuts in. “Dr. Abbot probably sees his dick every time they go to the gym together.”

“No outside interference,” Trinity adds immediately. “I like the sound of $100 each. That’s a pool of $500. Sounds pretty fair for the task at hand.”

Dennis wrinkles his eyebrows. “What if nobody does it?”

“Then we all lose out on $500.”

To a group of poor twenty-somethings, that’s pretty damn convincing.

“I’m definitely in,” Samira starts. If Trinity is the ringleader, Mohan’s the strongman. “Even if Jack can’t help, I’m smarter than the rest of you.”

Dennis punches her on the arm; he’s the group’s contortionist, always able to bend himself into ridiculous situations somehow. “Me too. I’m the only one with access to the men’s showers.”

You argue, “Then you should put up $150. That’s an unfair home field advantage.”

There’s a murmur of agreement from the other girls that makes Whitaker balk.

“Okay, yeah, I may also have a penis, but I have the distinct disadvantage of being scared shitless of Robby, unlike Samira and Santos.” Then he shoves an accusatory finger in your direction. “If anything, you have an advantage because Robby already wants to fuck you.”

You shove him in the chest. “He does not!”

“Ow, first of all.” He shakes his head and says, “How about we go no-holds-barred? Samira can use Abbot, I can use my Y chromosome, you can use your powers of seduction. Whatever.”

Victoria pouts. She’s the tightrope walker, always trying to balance the line of appropriate and otherwise. “And what the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Psychological warfare,” Trinity suggests. “That’s what I’m planning.”

Samira offers, “Maybe just beg?”

“Jesus, fine,” Victoria sighs. “I’m in, I guess.”

All eyes turn in your direction. “How about you, Mrs. Robinavitch?”

And your role in this circus of idiot doctors? Well, you’re just the clown who’s been nursing a big fat crush on her attending for two years. The idea of seeing Dr. Robby naked is too appealing for you to resist. So you present your hand to the center of the circle and sigh, “I’m in.”

The bet gets out of hand right away, not that this sort of thing could ever be under control. The six of you – Mel’s invited mostly because she’s your roommate and already knows, though she’s made her disapproval patently clear – meet for beers after a long shift the following Friday. Samira clears her throat and breaks the silence, “Do any of you sure-to-be losers have anything to announce to the group?”

Trinity pulls out her phone and dramatically sighs. “Well, I really thought I had it. I made a Tinder profile of a very respectable, almost-age-appropriate lady and matched with him. Paid for the goddamn Super Like and everything.”

Victoria’s jaw detaches from her maxilla. “You catfished him?”

Trinity looks honestly offended. “Only a little!”

Dennis gawks. “Whose pictures did you use?”

“My mom’s.”

“Seriously?!” Even Samira’s in disbelief over that. “Did you at least tell her?”

“It’s not like she’ll ever find out,” Trinity reasons. “Her and my dad have been together since the Dark Ages. They’d never be on Tinder. And I used a fake name. She’s just the prettiest woman over 40 I know.”

“You’re fucked up for that,” Dennis says with an admonishing shake of his head. Then he sips his beer and presses, “So how did it go between Robby and your not mom? No luck?”

“Obvioulsy not,” she explains. “He told me in, like, the third message that he’s looking for something serious and would only have sex with someone he loves. Like, apropos of nothing. Old people are weird; I don’t get him at all.”

You swallow hard. “That’s sweet, though.”

She scrunches her nose. “Is it?”

Victoria giggles, about one cocktail too deep, “Would you rather find out our boss is a total man whore?”

“Actually, yeah,” Trinity laughs. “It’s kind of sad someone his age is still looking to settle down.”

“Hey,” you stop her, “that’s actually mean, Trin. Robby’s a good man and he deserves to be happy.”

“Sorry, forgot it’s rude to insult someone’s boyfriend right in front of them.”

Samira shakes her head and tuts then, feeling merciful on your behalf, “Poor showing, Santos. I expected better from our leader.”

“Give me another week.”

“Not if I beat you to it,” she replies with a grin. Then she nudges you with her elbow and says, “C’mon, Jack wants us to go to dinner with Robby.”

It’s not an unusual invitation – the four of you get dinner a few times a month – but tonight it catches the attention of everyone else. 

Dennis protests, only half joking, “Woah, woah, you can’t bring her if it’s going to turn into an orgy thing where she gets a quick shot at the win.”

As your cheeks turn pink, you argue, “I thought it was a no-holds-barred game, Whitaker. Your idea, remember?”

Samira gives you a conspiratorial look. “What do you say, babe, wanna go ask our boys to drop their pants in the middle of the restaurant?”

Pretending not to be as embarrassed as you are, you giggle, “I wouldn’t be opposed.”

“This is so unfair,” Dennis pouts.

“Start following him into the shower, then.” Samira smiles and links her arm with yours as you get ready to walk away. “Calm down; she’s always our go-to fourth wheel. No special advantage tonight.”

“Tonight, he did that thing where he touched my lower back when he opened the door for me,” you bemoan to Mel late that night, both sitting on her bed as you stare at your laptops. “Have you ever noticed how big his hands are?”

“Can’t say I have.”

You shut your laptop dramatically. “Seriously, how am I supposed to recover from that?”

Mel shrugs like she always does. “Ask him out.”

“I can’t. He’s my boss.”

“He’s probably waiting for you to do it,” she reasons. “It would be inappropriate for him to ask you, but not necessarily the other way around. Provided you aren’t asking in exchange for any benefits in the workplace.” Then she gives you a little mischievous grin that only you and Langon are ever privy to. “Benefits besides making out in on-call rooms, of course.”

The next series of attempts comes from Samira. She decides to use her one trump card, enlisting Jack’s help. He finds the whole thing hysterical because he’s a feral child just like his girlfriend, so he agrees. Trinity insists on adding a caveat to the rules: The picture has to be on the better’s phone, taken by the better, explicitly ruling out Jack’s involvement beyond being a co-conspirator. Samira agrees and insists it’ll be no problem.

So, for two weeks, every time Robby and Jack hang out, Samira comes up with excuses to tag along and shoot her shots. She goes to the gym with them and ‘accidentally’ walks into the men’s locker room on two separate occasions, both times catching Robby after the shower but with his towel already on.

On a Thursday night all have off, you’re unfortunate enough to witness one of the efforts firsthand. Samira invited you over to watch the Penguins game with her and Robby (since the two of you hate sports and she’ll be bored out of her mind otherwise).

After three beers, Robby excuses himself to the bathroom. Only fifteen seconds later, Samira stands up, gives a salute to you both, and whispers, “Wish me luck.”

Jack grins like the dumbass he is. “Good luck, honey.”

As she walks away, you shake your head and turn to him. “It doesn’t bother you that your girlfriend is obsessed with taking a picture of your best friend’s dick?”

“Nope,” he replies confidently. There’s a cool, clear ‘she knows what she has at home’ energy to the reply. Then he puts on a meddling smirk and akss, “Does it bother you that she’s going to see Robby’s dick before you get to when she wins?”

“Jack!” You toss a pillow at him hard, causing him to spill his beer slightly as he laughs. “Y’know, it’s hard enough dealing with the teasing from the other residents. I don’t need it from you.”

“Hey, I have to listen to Robby going on and on about you all the time; it’s not easy for me, either.”

Your eyes widen into planets, but before you can ask the million clarifying questions you need to, Samira’s back, wearing a disappointed grimace. Looking solemn, she glances between you and Jack and shakes her head. “No dice.”

She tucks under Jack’s arm and he kisses her forehead. “You’ll get him next time, slugger.”

Robby emerges from the bathroom two minutes later with his face tomato red, unable to look Samira in the eyes as he takes his spot next to you once more. He mutters, “I miss anything important?”

“I wouldn’t know,” you reply honestly. Pitying his blush, you touch his thigh and ask, “Can I get you another beer?”

“Please.”

Trinity shakes her head in disappointment once Samira recounts her latest attempt in a line of failures. The three of you and Javadi are at the nurse’s station during shift change, making sure charts are in order as the night shift begins to filter in. Trinity sighs, “Maybe I should just pants him. Say it’s a prank or something.”

You snicker, “That would definitely get you sent straight to HR.”

Victoria puts her head in her hands; she hasn’t even come up with a plan yet and it’s getting to her. “This whole thing is going to get us all sent to HR.”

“Not if you never try anything,” Trinity replies.

Victoria glares. “You’re just trying to get me to back down so you get the money.”

Trinity raises her hands and laughs. “Guilty.”

Out of the corner of your eye, Robby’s tugging off his trauma gown with a frown on his lips. He’s splatterned in blood, enough that it’s gone between his mask and gloves and gown. He’ll need a shower. From across the ED, the four of you watch as Dennis rushes through a patient handover and hustles down the hall. Shooting a knowing look over his shoulder at the four of you, Dennis follows Robby into the showers.

You whisper, “Oh, god.”

“I’m gonna miss the little guy,” Trinity says seriously, shaking her head, “especially his share of the rent.”

Victoria sighs, “He made the best coffee.”

When you’re all finished and ready to leave, you and the other girls wait for Dennis by the Pitt’s doors, trying to be inconspicuous as you await his status report.

Dennis emerges, walking fast, expecting you all to meet his brisk pace. You have to practically jog to keep up until you’re a block from the hospital, well out of ear shot of anyone else. Finally, he stops abruptly and swings around to scan his periphery. His eyes are trained on his shoes. He hisses, “Rumor confirmed. Huge.”

Your cheeks burn; blush is becoming a constant state for you thanks to this stupid bet. Trinity’s mouth falls open and she shoves his shoulder hard. “Show us!”

“I didn’t get a picture.”

The whole group groans in disappointment (besides Mel, who sounds relieved). Victoria puts her hand on her hips. “Then you didn’t confirm anything. You could be lying.”

“No way I went through that mortification for nothing. I saw it.”

“Doesn’t count, Dennis,” Trinity replies with an unsympathetic shrug. “We’re talking about $500 here. Hard proof you can share with the class or nothing.”

He frowns and offers, “I can tell you that it’s the size of my goddamn forearm and he has a birthmark the size of a quarter on his hip; that doesn’t count for anything?”

Samira claps him on the back and suppresses her laugh. “You’ll have to try again, Whitaker.”

You aren’t really planning on participating. No matter how much you get annoyed at the amount of crap you get for it, you really do like Robby. In fact, it’s a lot past ‘like.’ It’s love. He’s the person you go to for advice, for jokes, for reassurance. For silence. He’s the first person you text in the morning and the last at night. You don’t know exactly how or when it happened, but you gradually went from ‘Robby’s favorite resident’ to ‘Robby’s favorite person’ over the last few years. And that relationship, whatever it is, matters a hell of a lot to you. You don’t want to damage it, even over that much money.

And then your bank account goes into the negative.

You’d run the numbers wrong on your budget for the month, a handful of bills come through at once, and suddenly you’re staring back at a deficit of more than a hundred dollars. All of a sudden, the $500 your stupid-ass friends have been dangling like a carrot in front of your nose has some real appeal.

You know that, for you, there’s really only one option. You could never, in a million years, get away with any of the sneakiness the rest of them are trying. And, yeah, sure, maybe you could go for seduction the way that everyone is prodding for you to. But you’re way too ashamed to do that for a whole host of reasons.

All you can possibly do is beg.

So you spend the whole day screwing up your courage to nut up and ask. You can’t even look at Robby while you work, terrified of the possible outcomes that could roll out in front of you. Of course, there’s the obvious: A visit to HR, fired, tarred and feathered, stripped of your medical future. Most likely, he’ll be mortified and your friendship will be ruined. Possibly, he’ll be flustered and embarrassed and never speak to you again.

Then, worst of all, there’s the idea that this might start something between the two of you. Something you’ve been dancing around for a very, very long time. Something hot and true and real.

What the hell would you do then?

Robby notices. Because of course he notices. He leaves you alone at first, hoping you’ll just corner him and ask whatever it is you’re stewing on. Then he starts avoiding you, too, because he’s wracking his brain for what he must’ve done wrong for you to be like this. He’d made a joke about pandas that hadn’t landed yesterday, but that couldn’t be it. Could it? Maybe it was how he corrected you when you set that broken nose first thing this morning. He hadn’t had his coffee yet. No. You never made a thing about work stuff.

Finally, when he sees you slip into the locker room at the end of your shift, he can’t take it anymore. After a deep breath, he closes the space between you, touches your lower back, and leans in close. “Can we talk for a second?”

You jolt back from him and stare up into his eyes. Shit, you always forget how tall he is when he isn’t doing that thing where he shrinks down to make others more comfortable. “Um, yeah. Is- What’s, ah, what’s up, Robinavitch?”

Robby scowls. “‘Robinavitch’? I don’t think you’ve ever called me that before.”

“First time for everything.” You grimace, shifting from foot to foot, and snatch your backpack from your locker. “Can we, ah, go somewhere else?”

There are a ton of emotions flashing through his eyes. Concern, curiosity, nerves. But all he says is, “Yeah, of course.”

Robby leads you across the Pitt to his office, which is totally barren except for a stack of paperwork on the desk that he clearly has no intention of doing. He flips on the light, draws the blinds, and turns to you seriously. “Alright, sweetheart, what the hell is going on? You’ve been avoiding me all day.”

You stick close to the door and stare up at the ceiling tiles, wringing your hands. “Look. Okay. This is gonna be so horrifying, alright? So just…just don’t make fun of me too much. You can make fun of me a little, but not that much, because if you make too much of a thing of it I’m never gonna be able to look you in the eye again and-”

“Woah, hey, it’s alright.” Robby reaches out and touches your elbow, stepping closer to you until you look up at him. He cups your face with one of his agonizingly large hands and you’re so embarrassed it’s unbelievable. “Whatever it is, you can trust me.”

“God, please don’t be sincere,” you whine. “You can’t be sweet, sincere, cow-eyed, gorgeous Robby right now, okay? Because I’ll have to go jump off the roof if you look like you care about me when I’m about to say something as stupid as what I’m about to say.”

Carefully, he replies, “But I do care about you.”

“Okay. Fuck. Here goes.” You duck your head, lower your voice, and absolutely ramble out, “Trinity found your Tinder profile a few weeks ago and in one of the pictures it sort of looks like we can see the outline of your dick and she said it looked really big so then we all made a bet to see who could get a picture of it to prove that you’re, um, well-endowed, and we all put in a hundred dollars as a pool for the winner and I know- I know it’s so stupid and so, so wrong, but I could really use that kind of money but more importantly I definitely can’t afford to lose a hundred dollars right now because my bank account is overdrafted which is also mortifying in and of itself to tell you because you really shouldn’t be concerned with my financial wellbeing but the fact of the matter is that I-”

“Wait, wait,” he cuts you off, “you’re telling me that’s what’s been going on the past few weeks? My subordinates have been conspiring to see my dick?”

Reaching a new shade of effervescent pink as yet undiscovered by man, you squeak out, “Yes.”

And then he starts laughing. As you blush so hard that your entire body is burning, he absolutely cracks up – to the point that he’s hiccuping, tears falling, grabbing his stomach. Doubled over, Robby wheezes, “Christ, I was starting to worry I’d have to give Whitaker a talk about how nobody will judge him if he’s gay because he keeps ending up in the shower the same time as me and then running away when he realizes I’m naked. And I’ve been terrified that Jack and Mohan might be planning to invite me for a threesome the way she’s been loitering around me. Thank god.”

Shaky relief floods your body and you mutter. “That…wasn’t the reaction I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?”

“I actually don’t know.”

After wiping an amused tear from his cheek, Robby reaches out his hand and commands, “Alright, slugger, give me your phone.”

Shocked out of your mind, you reach into your pocket and present it wordlessly. When you see that he’s going for his waistband, you turn around and cover your eyes like his dick might bite you.

Robby laughs again, this time at your obvious nerves. Not discomfort, though. Nerves. He chuckles, “You don’t get extra money for seeing it in person?”

Gnawing off your lower lip, you whimper, forgetting about the rules in the heat of the moment, “Nope.”

“I’m decent now.” When you turn back, he hands off the phone, screen still open. “Go get your money. Buy me a drink or something as my share of the spoils.”

Then you look at your phone. The syllable falls out before you can stop it. Shocked, breathless. Undeniably turned on. “Oh.”

You stare down at the picture with wide eyes. Your pupils dilate, your throat goes dry, and you can’t deny that heat and wetness collecting between your legs. Yeah, that’s a big fucking cock. Even soft, it has to be eight inches – but, like, real inches, not fantasy porn inches. And thick. Dennis may not have been far off base with his forearm comparison, given that he’s beanbole skinny. That whole ‘thick as a beer can’ thing you’ve read in tons of smut suddenly seems possible if Robby can get even thicker than that when he’s hard.

Jesus Christ.

Yeah, your dildo definitely doesn’t compare to the real thing, no matter how much you’ve fantasized about it while using your toys.

Robby’s amused voice is a little rougher when he asks, “What was that, sweetheart?”

Your head snaps upward hard enough that you hope your neck will break and kill you. “Please don’t tell me I just said that out loud.”

Robby cages you against the door between his forearms. “You definitely did.”

Your eyes fall to his lips. “Robby, I-”

He presses your bodies together. Your chest on his chest. Your thigh slotted between his. The smirk he’s wearing is so hot you start to melt underneath it. You might have a picture of his dick, but he’s holding all the cards. Shit, you can feel his cock through his scrubs against your thigh. He’s not even hard and you can feel how big he is. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You’re done. You’re through. Stop the timer, pull the plug, call in the guard.

He takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to make eye contact. With you unable to speak, Robby teases, “You what? C’mon, gorgeous, use your words.”

All you can do is whimper.

The sound you make is downright pathetic, but it only encourages Robby. His breath brushes your lips and it feels like he can see your heart beating in your neck. Then he presses his lips to the curve of your ear and murmurs, “God, I’m gonna have so much fun wrecking you.”

It takes you forty five seconds to breathe again. Finally, with Robby pulling back enough to allow you to think, you mutter, “Mel’s outside waiting for me to walk home with her.”

“Of course.” He pulls back the rest of the way, taking a deep breath. When he shakes his head, it’s almost in disbelief – and you realize he wants you. He presses a soft, knowing kiss to your forehead, strokes your cheek with his thumb, and says, “I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart.”

And he unlocks the door behind you with his arm still around you, the sound shaking you from the stupor of his presence.

After practically sprinting to the hospital exit, you find Mel waiting in your usual spot under an overgrown oak. Gripping her arm hard, you whisper, “I’ve got the picture.”

Her eyes pop out of her head. “What?! Seriously?”

“Yes.”

You start walking, harsh and fast, toward your neighborhood, needing to do something to get this crazy energy out of your body.

She hustles to keep up with your pace. “How?!”

“I told him the truth.”

She squeals like a gossipping cheerleader. “And he took his…manhood out for you?”

“I turned around. He took the picture.”

“Wow. He must really be into you.” Then, catching your elbow to slow your walking, she lowers her voice and asks, “Are you going to send it to everyone?”

“I- I’m not sure.” You roll your eyes and groan, “He was going to kiss me. After I told him. After he took the picture. He said- he basically said that he thinks about me, y’know, like that. So now sending it to the group chat feels like sending  – god dammit – it feels like sending my boyfriend’s nudes, okay? You were right.”

She gives a self-satisfied smirk. “I usually am.”

“But I really need that money, Mel. Like ‘won’t be able to pay my share of the rent’ need it.”

“Ask Dr. Robby for it.” She needles with a cute grin, “Clearly he’ll do anything for you.” At the entrance to your building, she pauses. “Seriously, though, you shouldn’t.”

“He told me I could.”

“Still.”

“I have to think about it.”

“Okay, I guess.”

The six of you sit side-by-side like kids in the principal’s office, cramped into the small office high up in the hospital’s tower. There’s an HR rep across the desk. Robby and Jack are standing behind her, trying really hard not to laugh at your dejected expressions. You can’t blame Mel for snitching about the bet, not when you’d ended up mortified and crying and confused in her arms after the whatever the hell that was with Robby last night. The moment you’d reached your apartment, it all washed over you and turned into a full breakdown of ‘what the fuck.’

When the rep finishes going through what feels like a prosecutorial rundown of charges, she asks over her shoulder, “Dr. Robinavitch, do you feel safe continuing to work with them?”

He outright laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. To him, this whole thing is a ridiculous inconvenience. “Yes. God knows I’ve participated in my fair share of similar betting pools downstairs.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” she groans, already having nightmares about an avalanche of paperwork. She turns back to look at the rest of you. “Doctors, do you understand this was a massive violation of Dr. Robinavitch’s privacy?”

You nod solemnly, tears biting at your eyes. You’ve never been in trouble like this before and you absolutely hate the feeling of it in your gut. “I completely understand. I’m so, so sorry.”

Everyone echoes something similar – except Trinity.

The HR rep picks up on it. She presses, “Dr. Santos?”

It’s not her first time getting a talking to about a bet placed with colleagues. So she scoffs. “Yeah, I guess. But it’s not like Robby hasn’t done the same kind of shit.”

“Again, pretending we didn’t say that.” The rep pinches the bridge of her nose and shuts her eyes, breathing deeply for a minute. “Obviously, there will have to be consequences. We can’t send the message that this hospital doesn’t care about sexual harassment.”

Dr. Abbot lets out a harsh laugh. “Sexual harassment?”

She turns around and glares. “How else would you describe coworkers trying to take naked pictures of someone?”

“Well, yeah, I guess, but the ED always has this kind of thing happ-”

She cuts him off with a raised hand. “I am begging you all to stop talking before I have to call in Gloria to deal with this mess.”

That shuts everyone up.

For organizing the whole thing, Trinity gets placed on administrative leave without pay for a week, which she grumbles about before realizing she can go on an impromptu vacation. Because of the whole locker room incident, Dennis gets three days without pay. After the gym situation, Samira and Jack earn the same, which doesn’t really seem like a punishment considering they’re shacked up together. Since you at least asked for his consent, you have two days without pay. Because Victoria was too scared to even try, she gets sent home early with a warning. Mel, of course, gets off home free – although she gets put on night shift since they’ll be down Dr. Abbot.

“Are you mad at me?”

After shoving another handful of chocolate into your mouth, you shush Mel and turn up the volume on Bridget Jones Diary. “For the last time, no.”

Not convinced, she reminds you, “The only reason I told HR is because I didn’t want you showing your future boyfriend’s dick off to everyone in the hospital. You’d regret it.”

“I know, Mel,” you reply. It’s been 24 hours and you’ve had sufficient time to fight with her about the whole situation. “Seriously, I’m not mad. I get you, okay? I know you were trying to protect me in your own way. But I will be mad if you talk over the tarts and vicars party. We need to finish this before you leave for your shift.”

Accepting it (you know she’ll ask again soon), Mel reaches into your shared snack bowl and relents, “Okay, okay.”

Right when Colin Firth is about to announce that he likes Renée Zellweger just as she is, there’s a knock on your apartment door. You both ignore it, assuming it’s a package delivery, but a second knock a minute later takes you by surprise. Cutting a look over to Mel, you ask, “Did you get food or something?”

Her eyebrows knit together. “I figured you did.”

“I’ll check it,” you say, unfurling from the blankets and setting the snacks on the coffee table. In your knee-high socks, skimpy pajama shorts, and bralette, you joke, “Hopefully it’s the Mormons again and seeing my exposed skin will send them into a crisis of faith.”

Mel’s laughing until you open the door. Then she mutters something like ‘please Jesus no’ and looks like she’s debating taking the fire escape.

Robby looks really good in casual clothes. The jeans make his thighs look gigantic and, fuck, have his shoulders always been that goddamn broad? The white tee and – Jesus Christ, really? – leather jacket have him looking like a greaser, like one curl should be on his forehead, like you should be dropping to your knees and-

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You try to return your eye contact to an appropriate area and can’t find it in you. You’re obsessed with his arms. The way he’s leaning in your door frame, one hand above his head, elbow against the wood, has his trap bulging into his bicep and then down toward his veiny forearm and- Fuck. And his chest. His chest. Christ alive. His pecs. It’s only when you shut your eyes that you’re able to stammer out, “What are you- I’m, ah- Hi, Robby.”

He touches your cheek to get you to open your eyes. “I’d like it if you started calling me Michael.”

You try out the taste of that on your tongue. “Michael. Alright.”

He smiles at that. You love the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. “Mind if I come in? Or did you want to keep ogling my tits for a while?”

You startle backwards a few steps and awkwardly gesture to the apartment. “Sorry, ah, yes, of course, come on in.”

When he sees Mel on the couch, he bristles. It’s comforting to see his ridiculous confidence waver for even a second. “You live with Dr. King.”

“I do.”

“Right. I knew that.” He puts on an almost-professional smile and waves, “Hi, Mel.”

She holds the blanket tight around her neck like she’s naked underneath. “Hello, Dr. Robinavitch.”

You give her a wide-eyed, impatient look at her to break her bewilderment and hiss, “Mel, don’t you need to get ready for your shift?”

She scrambles upward, still clinging to the blanket. “Yes, yeah, ah, right, yeah. I’ll, um, I’ll leave you two alone. Out here. And then I’ll be leaving. For the night. Yup.”

Mel disappears into her bedroom, careful to cover her body every step of the way as if Robby would be phased by seeing her in sweats and a sports bra. As if his attention isn’t fixed squarely on you.

Robby’s eyes skate over your body and you’re suddenly agonizingly aware of how little you’re wearing. He smirks again. Fuck that smirk. “I’m a big fan of your outfit.”

You cross your arms over your chest and then stretch your arms out to cover your stomach and then realize that makes your cleavage worse and cross your arms again. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

Robby takes your hands in his to stop you trying to hide from him. He kisses your hand and you’re swooning. You didn’t even know what that felt like until now. “I told you I’d see you, didn’t I?”

“That was before our collective scolding.”

“Well, I’m a man of my word.” His hand goes to your neck, holding the back of your head and pressing his thumb over your pulse at once. His hands are so big. Your brain is cloudy with desire and then he makes it so much worse by saying, “I said I wanted to wreck you. I’m here to make good on that.”

Mel emerges from her bedroom in her scrubs and fleece jacket, eyes trained on the floor and cheeks red. She rushes past Robby, who takes half a step back from you. Snatching her keys from the hall table, she announces in an unnaturally high pitch, “Well, it’s time for my shift. See you both, um, later!”

Then she’s gone – forty five minutes early. And there’s a locked door between you, Robby, and the rest of the world.

You’re frozen and Robby thinks it’s too adorable not to take advantage of. He jumps right in, stepping close to put his hands on the slope of your waist, thumb on ribcage and pinkies on your hips, and asks, “So, what’d all your friends think about my dick pic? Sufficiently impressed?”

You bite your lower lip, not yet able to look at him, and admit in a hushed tone, “I didn’t send it to them.”

Robby tilts your chin up and searches your face. “Why not?”

“You know already.”

He leans in close, breath mixing with yours, foreheads touching, and replies, “I need to hear you say it.”

Your lip twitches up into a smirk. He’s as desperate for you as you are for him. That feels fucking good. Finally, you make eye contact – and he’s shocked by the intensity in your expression. He’s never seen you looking possessive. Blood rushes to his cock. You press a hand to his chest, feeling his heartbeat drum against your palm, and say, “I didn’t send it because you’re mine, Michael. And I don’t want anyone else seeing what’s mine.”

The grin that spreads over Robby’s features is heart-fluttering, slow and certain and reaching the corners of his eyes. “I’m yours, huh?”

A tiny bit tentative, you whisper, “If you want me.”

Robby laughs, “If I want you?”

You’d expected your first kiss with Robby to be hungry. For your mutual, long-suffering want to explode over each other and turn into shedding clothes and falling into something frantic and intense, chasing pleasure and needing like nothing else.

But it’s not.

Robby takes a deep breath first, like he needs to gather up his courage to actually press his lips to yours despite all his bravado. Then he gives his head a little shake, laughs softly, and leans in. Both of you are gentle, even as you step up onto your toes to deepen it, even as his slightly shaking hand presses up into the curve of your spine to pull you up closer, even as you let out a breathy moan. It’s a caress more than a claim, an exploration more than an ecstasy, a feather more than a fire.

“I want you the way I want oxygen,” Robby breathes into the wide quiet space after your lips part. He kisses you so softly again and, like he might cry, whispers, “I love you.”

It’s your turn to smile – slow, disbelieving, adoring. “You love me? Really?”

He scoffs and holds you close, eye contact so sweet, “I love you so much I can’t think straight when you’re not on shift with me. I love you so much it makes me outright stupid. It would embarrass me, how much I love you, but it doesn’t because every once in a while you look at me like you might love me too and those moments make my whole life worth living.”

Knees weak and heart thudding, you whimper, “Michael.”

This time, the kiss is what you’d expected. You’re biting his lip and rucking up his shirt and shoving him toward your bedroom while he’s chuckling into your mouth at your obvious and unashamed desire, keeping you balanced, matching your energy as he opens up the door and lets himself be shoved back onto your bed. You situate yourself in his lap and practically rip his jacket off so you can finally sink your teeth into his ridiculously gorgeous arms.

Robby pulls in a sharp breath when you suck a harsh mark into the sensitive hollow of his collarbone, dragging the bruise up his neck with unrelenting suction. “Planning on getting me sent to HR our first day back as a couple?”

You pull off of him and catch your breath. Carefully, you run your thumb over his hand and reply, “Yeah, actually. I wanna do this right. HR, paperwork, the whole thing.”

Robby, smiling a tiny bit, asks, “You’re not worried about what everyone’s going to think?”

“Who cares?” You shrug and tell him, “All the other residents have been telling me to ask you out since we started. Even Jack wants us to get together. We’ve been working together while eye-fucking for two years; I don’t think much’ll change.”

“Except how close the administration’s gonna be watching you,” he replies. “I don’t want you to regret-”

You cross your arms over your chest and say, “Michael David Robinavitch, if you’re seriously interrupting our first time together to talk about the boring logistical details of our relationship, I’m going to break up with you.”

“Right, priorities,” he agrees, hands travelling up to your bralette. “Let’s focus on getting you naked.”

“That’s more like it, cap.”

“First, though,” he says softly, pleading, “I want you to say it back.”

It’s as easy as a heartbeat. You kiss him again and murmur against his lips, “I love you.” You drag your bralette up and over your body, leaving you bare-chested and blushing. As Michael’s black eyes devour the sight, you repeat, “I love you.” Then you slip off his lap, lay back on the bed, and coax him to come with, caging you between his strong arms. Before he can descend and devour, you tilt your face upward, kiss him gently, and say one more time, “I love you.”

Robby shoves his hand into your pajama shorts with no hesitation or pretense, wanting to feel you so bad he doesn’t even bother taking the clothes off first. As his fingers part your lips, dragging slickness up to your clit, he groans delightedly, “Fuck, you’re soaked.”

With a soft moan, you explain, “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

You shimmy to push your shorts off, kicking them away. Robby roughly shoves your legs apart right away. He’s reluctant to remove his fingers, but he’s devastatingly hungry for your pussy on his tongue. He moves to the end of your bed and, just to make you shriek out a laugh, grabs you by the ankles and yanks you down, the fabric of your comforter turning into a sled toward his body. Then he smiles wide, shakes his head in disbelief, and praises, “You’re so gorgeous it’s almost offensive.”

You roll your eyes and fail to suppress a sweet, shy smile. “Thank you.”

Then he drops to his knees, muttering something about getting down to business. Reverently, he kisses and licks your inner thighs, going between sucking marks on your skin and soothing them with his tongue. Once he’s got you squirming and silently begging, he inhales your scent deeply, hovers close to your drenched sex, and groans, “I’ve been wondering how you taste for years. Can’t believe I finally get to find out.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

He grins and ghosts the breath of his words across your clit, “And I bet you taste like heaven.”

The moment his tongue makes contact, you both moan. His vibrates up your spine, turning yours into more of a breathy gasp. He latches onto your clit, then, refusing to tease when he finally has exactly what he wants. Propped up on your elbows, you watch as he greedily devours you, eyes closed and face relaxed with rapture. You’ve never seen him look so stress-free. Like your pussy’s the one thing in the world that can silence his racing mind.

He might not admit it out loud, but that’s the truth. Your tartness on his tongue has his cock leaking through his boxers. He’s rutting against your mattress like a horny dog, imagining how ridiculously good it’s going to be to finally slip his cock inside of you. That dizzying goal combined with the perfection of your taste has him dialed in, focused on your pleasure more than he focuses on most procedures.

He curls one finger slowly inside of you, thrilled out of his fucking mind when you groan louder and buck your hips against his mouth for more. His hands are huge and they’ve always been an object of your secret lust. When he adds a second finger, there’s a slight sting, but it’s quickly eased by his tongue lapping at your clit, flat and confident and accompanied by rhythmic gentle sucking. The pace he sets is indulgent, the first course in a long meal he wants to savor every morsel of.

When Robby feels your orgasm starting to tighten, he slows down. Teases it out. His fingers turn from curling to massaging, firm and insistent against your G-spot like only a doctor could. He makes sure to spread them wide, scissoring them, letting your muscles clamp and stretch. When your wetness soaks into his beard, he finally pulls off, just lightly kissing your inner thighs and breathing you in.

Orgasm-hazy and needy, you manage to stammer out, “I have an IUD, by the way.”

He looks up from between your legs with a mischievously raised eyebrow. Fuck, hes so handsome with his lips all shiny from spit and wetness. “Are you trying to tell me to fuck you raw?”

After a second, you nod bashfully.

“That’s very good to know, kitten,” he praises warmly. Then he pushes his fingers back inside you and moves his mouth down toward your clit again.

Sounding whinier than you’ve ever heard yourself, you demand, “Michael, please, just fuck me. Need you.”

He kisses your clit tenderly, like he’s greeting an old friend, and tells you, sternly and with no room for debate, “I’ll fuck you when I’ve got you taking three of my fingers. You’ve gotta cum one more time.”

You thrash against his hand and groan, “Christ, I want you so bad. I can take it. I swear I can.”

Still curling his first two fingers back toward himself, he gives you a look so perfectly condescending it makes you clench around him. “Trust me, baby, I love your enthusiasm, and it’s taking a hell of a lot of effort to resist you, but I’ve had this dick long enough to know you need to be good and ready.” He kisses your inner thigh and presses his thumb to your clit, which starts to make your thoughts evaporate again. Then he assures you, “I promise I’m gonna fuck you so hard and so deep that you’re gonna forget anyone else has ever fucked you before. Got it?”

You stretch your arms up behind your head and sigh dreamily, “I guess I shouldn’t complain about having a boyfriend who insists on making me cum twice before he puts his dick in me.”

“Twice when I’m feeling selfish,” he corrects seriously. “This is me rushing to get inside of you. When I’m taking my time, I’ll get four or five out of you first – bring out some toys when my fingers get tired – so you’ll be gushing wet and making the dumbest little noises for me. Turn off that big beautiful brain of yours.”

“You say that like it’s a promise.”

“It is.”

And then he’s back to eating your pussy. You’re still so sensitive from your last orgasm that he goes agonizingly gently, just using the tip of his tongue light as a feather to tease you. He holds you tight to his face by the hips so you can’t squirm away, no matter how much the overwhelming pleasure makes you thrash against the mattress. It’s his fingers that keep you grounded to reality, sloppy wet and firm and knowing. It’s like the beginning of your residency when he guided you through everything slow and steady, paying special attention to you and your potential. He holds your pleasure in his hands with expert precision.

Your orgasm slams through you as soon as he adds the third finger, stretching you comfortably open and pushing you forward. He’s holding you up now, your legs on his shoulders as your back arches away from him and your hands try to find anywhere they can get purchase, tugging his hair and beard and scratching his shoulders as your thighs spasm and ache. Your moans are high and stupid, thoughtless as ecstasy spreads out in front of you.

But Robby doesn’t let up, fingers branding into your hips as his other hand keeps working you open through the brutal aftershocks. The brush of his beard against your sensitive flesh has you seeing stars. Tears sting at your waterline and his lips wrap around your clit harder than ever, refusing to give you any relief from the lingering orgasm that’s bordering on painful now. It’s only when your moans turn to gasps and your tears actually crest over onto your cheeks that he detaches.

Robby blows cool air on your pussy and rubs his thumbs tenderly over your outer thigh as he slowly withdraws his fingers. Your whole body shudders from the stimulation and you feel so fucking good it’s like you’re high on the drug of your newly minted boyfriend.

He gradually kisses up your hip, over your stomach, between your breasts, and then finally along your neck to your lips, where he softly sucks your lower lip and praises, “Good job, angel. You ready or can I bring you water or something?”

You kiss him back for a minute, lapping up the taste of yourself on his mouth. He still has his pants on but you can feel that his cock is agonizingly hard and straining against them. So you press your forehead to his, take a deep breath, and nod seriously. “I need you to fuck me.”

Robby grins, pupils dilating and heart slamming. “You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined you saying that.”

“Probably about as many times as I’ve used a dildo and been disappointed it’s not your cock.” At your response, Robby laughs as he steps off the bed, rummaging through his discarded jacket. He pulls a small bottle of lube from one of the pockets and it makes you snicker. “You were that certain I’d fuck you?”

“Yeah, pretty damn sure.” Then he ditches the small talk, moving back to the edge of the bed like a lion and shoving your legs apart again. He uncaps the bottle and trains his gaze between your thighs. “There’s my greedy pussy. So pretty for me clenching around nothing. Fucking begging.” He squirts cold lube on your hot, overstimulated cunt and you hiss in a sharp breath that makes him chuckle darkly with arousal. “So sensitive, too. Fuck, you’re perfect. Need my cock, don’t you?”

You’re such a sniveling mess that you can’t even respond, just chasing your hips toward his cock to silently beg.

“Shh, shh,” he soothes, stilling your hip with his hand and spreading your legs as wide as they can possibly go. He lines up the head of his cock with your weeping entrance, taking a second to memorize the image as he murmurs,  “Gonna take care of you, sweet girl. Don’t you worry. Just breathe for me.”

No amount of preparation could prepare you for the size of his cock. It doesn’t hurt because you’re ridiculously wet and he took his damn time, but the stretch is immense. Like sinking deeper into a yoga pose that makes you groan and curl your toes. A release. Your head snaps backwards and sweat beads on your forehead as he slowly, carefully, lovingly thrusts inside.

Robby touches your cheek and makes sure, “Is this okay? Not too much?”

You gaze up at him with eyes so full of love and lust Robby’s half-sheathed cock twitches inside the heat of your body. Unable to come up with anything else, you just whisper, “Perfect.”

Robby smirks and nods. He’d tell you how you fit him like a glove, how your wetness and tightness has him on the edge already, how you’re everything, but if he opened his mouth right now the string of high-pitched moans would be absolutely pathetic. So he leans down to kiss you, pushing your legs further back and up so he can fit himself between your hips. As his lips meet yours, you moan into the kiss, toes curling as his cock finally reaches into you as deep as he can, maybe three quarters of him piercing you.

Robby gradually draws his cock back and pushes forward again. With a trembling breath and a burning kiss, he groans, “God, you feel fucking incredible.”

Breathing hard, you grip his hair and nestle into the crook of his neck and cry, “So good, Michael. Your cock’s amazing. Like you were made for me. Feels incredible.”

His whole body shudders with pleasure and delight. “You can’t say things like that, baby.”

“Why not?”

He scoffs, one hand going down to play with your pebbled nipple. “I’d like to fuck you more than thirty seconds before I cum prematurely.”

That makes you bite your lower lip and eye him carefully. You file away ‘Robby totally has a praise kink’ for another day because you can’t put any coherent thoughts together as he manages to get deeper and deeper inside of you with every thrust. You didn’t even know your body could feel like this – loose, warm, brilliantly full. If he pulled out, you’d feel incomplete somehow. He’s christening a new version of you to the point that you’re starting to understand that whole ‘ruining you for other men’ thing. His cock is everything. It’s divine and electric at once, a symphony strumming from your cunt up your abdomen, rooted by his greedy hands on your tits and his mouth worshipping along your neck and collarbones.

Then he drops his thumb down to your clit.

You’re sparking toward another orgasm before you can even process the gesture. He grins into your neck as your back arches and your cunt clamps down. With your walls stretched so taut, each pulse of your pussy is sharp as a rubber band snapping, intense and vibrant. When you cum, you lose any control over your body, becoming something primal and raw and animal. Fingers digging into his flesh. Teeth sharp and violent over his shoulders. Legs locked around his ass. There aren’t any thoughts but the drunkenness of his touch, his body pressing down on yours, his claiming grasp everywhere. 

As you shatter into aftershocks, overstimulating and delicious, you’re being so loud, moans and slapping skin and gushing cunt, that Robby probably should slow his fucking or muffle your mouth, but he’s addicted to the sounds. It’s the litany of music from your body that has his balls tightening and him grunting, “Where do you want it?”

All you can do is tighten your thighs around him and stare up with lust-ridden eyes, whining almost constantly, a silent plea for what you want.

Robby holds your face by the jaw, keeping you trained forward to look right at him despite how glassy and dazed your expression is. “If you want me to cum inside of you, you’re gonna have to ask nicely.”

You nod slowly, trying to come up with words when your thoughts are sex-fueled molasses. It takes another few seconds for you to come up with one idea that rings true enough to break through the fog: “I’m yours, Michael. Please.”

“That’s right,” he growls, hands around your ankles to keep you in the mating press as he shoves deep inside of you, cum bursting forward. You watch, rapt, as his mouth falls open into a precious little O and his eyes pinch tight and his right hand smashes back onto the wall to keep him upright. “Fuck. Fuck.” He falls forward and kisses you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance: Desperate and owning. His voice is broken and raspy. “God, I love you. I can’t believe you’re finally mine.”

You just whimper into his neck, wrapping your arms around him and easing your legs down as much as they can with his body still between them. Not so subtly kissing and licking his sweat, you murmur sweetly, “Love you, Michael. Will you stay the night?”

“Of course,” he replies easily. “Stay here; let me get you cleaned up and comfortable. Is it alright if I rummage around to get you something to drink too?”

You nod and hum happily, “You’re an angel.”

After pressing a few more kisses to your lips and cheeks and forehead, Robby stands up, stretches out his arms, chuckles to himself, and disappears into your kitchen and then your adjacent bathroom. You drift contentedly in the blissed-out cloud of your brain, eyes gently closed and limbs heavy, until he returns. You barely notice his presence until you feel a cool washcloth wiping the beading sweat from your forehead and chest and then trailing down between your legs. Robby listens to your heavy, even, satisfied breaths as he works, switching to massaging the bruises his rough hands have left over your hips and his greedy mouth left along your thighs.

Finally, he sits next to you on the bed and softly rubs your shoulder. “Drink some of this for me.”

“Mmm.”

You barely open your eyes as you take the chilled blue Gatorade from him, chugging down half of it before offering it back so that he can drink it too. Then he gives you a tangy bright kiss and says, “C’mon, I’m pretty sure it’s bedtime.”

With a big stretch of your arms over your head, you swing your legs off the bed, kiss him hard, and stand. He slips back into the bathroom as you grab a pair of shorts and tank top to put on after you’ve showered or at least cleaned up some.

“Jesus, sweetheart, you’ve got me looking like I went ten rounds with a boxer,” he whistles low from the bathroom. “You’re awfully cute for a vampire, you know that?”

“I’m sure the marks aren’t that bad,” you reply with an eye roll, joining him through the doorway. Under the real lights, though, you realize with horror that you’ve not only given him hickeys and bruises but you’ve broken his skin in more than one place – both with your teeth and with your nails. There are mean bites all around his neck and down his shoulders, scratches over his arms and upper back, beads of blood mingling among the marks. Tears spring up into your eyes when you realize you’ve caused him pain that he’s going to be carrying around for a week or more. “Oh my god, Michael, I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Sorry?” He turns toward you with an adorably furrowed brow. “What in the ever living fuck are you sorry about?”

You rummage around the bathroom drawers for your first aid kit and sniffle, “I really hurt you.”

“Baby, baby, stop.” Robby snatches you back by the hips and pulls you up. “I’m gonna wear these as a badge of honor. You have any idea how good it feels to fuck a good girl so well she turns feral?”

You pout your lip as you try to suppress your smile. “At least let me look them over. Apply some topical antibiotics and bandaids.”

“I can take care of myself, sweetheart, they gave me a whole degree in topical antibiotics and bandaids,” he chuckles. “And you’re gonna have to get used to it. Now that I know how crazy you get, I fully expect to get these marks touched up more nights than not.”

“Michael,” you protest half-heartedly as he kisses you deeply, “the human mouth is a hotbed for for infections.”

He doesn’t stop smiling, though, tugging you into his body by the waist, his cock debating coming to light against your thigh. “Yeah, baby, I noticed your mouth is fucking filthy.”

“Robby, I’m serious, we need to clean the wound sites or-”

“Ohohoh,” he teases, “if you wanted to shower together, you could’ve just said that.”

You hum as you flip pancakes, pajamas hanging loosely from your body, Robby standing behind you lavishing kisses along the tops of your shoulder. The warmth of his shirtless body has kept you feeling so safe and cozy all night. When the door handle turns nearby, you startle slightly from the intrusion to your peace but don’t move.

Robby doesn’t either. He just shifts his weight so he can look over his shoulder at your roommate coming home. No point in pretending this won’t be a regular occurrence. He offers, trying sound kind and nonthreatening so she won’t get spooked like a rabbit again? “Morning, Dr. King, how was your shift?”

Mel stares at the two of you for about thirty seconds, computing and calibrating, before she just shrugs off her jacket, hangs it on the small coat rack, and replies, “Um, hi, Dr. Robby, it- it was good; finally checked off an emergent birth.”

“Good work,” he tells her earnestly; the first time delivering a baby on the ED floor is nothing short of terrifying. “Congratulations, kid.”

“Looks like I have some congratulating to do, too.” She beams and joins you both in the kitchen. “You two are finally happening? For real?”

“For real,” he confirms with a laugh as he realizes how much you must’ve vented to Mel over the years. “Took us long enough, I’d say.”

With Robby blocking the coffee maker, Mel just presents a mug to him. He fills it with a surprised nod, pleased to see her slightly more comfortable with his presence. She sighs out like she’s getting a massage, “God, this is such a relief for me. You have no clue how annoying she is about you, like, every night. Robby breathed on my neck and I almost passed out. Robby reached for the same suture kit as me. I had that sex dream about Robby again. It’ll be nice to go to bed earlier.”

You glare at Mel over your shoulder as you plate up a stack of pancakes. “You don’t have to make me look bad in front of my brand new boyfriend.”

“Trust me, baby,” he replies, turning to catch you in a quick kiss, “I’m twice as bad. I’m pretty sure Jack was getting ready to file a cease and desist because of how often I complained about not having you. Him and Samira are going to have to come up with a new couple to meddle with; I almost feel bad for them.”

Mel nervously asks, “Dr. Robinavitch, would you grab me the French vanilla creamer?”

“You can call me Michael, if you want.” He opens up the fridge, searches a second, and hands over the half-empty bottle. “Figure I should be on a first-name basis with my future wife’s maid of honor.”

You pour your own mug of coffee and give him a smirk. “Future wife, huh?”

“Mohan shared your ring Pinterest board with me when I left Jack’s to come here last night.” He kisses your cheek, beard scratchy and lovely, and murmurs, “The title being ‘Mrs. Robinavitch’ didn’t leave much to the imagination in terms of your intentions with me.”

Mel, absolutely grinning now as her happiness for her best friend bubbles over, giggles,  “Maybe I’ll start a betting pool for how long it’ll take.”

Robby gives her a conspiratorial wink that makes your heart sing. “Cut me in for half and I’ll help you cheat.”

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Shared custody

 Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x reader

PART TWO Updates account

Balancing your final year as a resident while raising a five-year-old is hard enough. Co-parenting with your ex Michael Robinavitch? That’s a whole different challenge.

warning/tags: smut, minors DNI, porn with plot (lots of plot), age gap (but reader’s age isn’t disclosed) jealous!robby, co-parenting, Robby is sooo girl dad coded, attempt of slowburn, they're down bad for the other, inadequate medical terms, longing, unprotected piv, pussy eating, fingering, handjob, creampie, multiple orgasms

“Robby,” you repeated for the millionth time, staring at the way his focused eyes stayed glued to the computer screen. “Robby, are you even listening to what I’m saying?” Your words went in one ear and straight out the other. His attention was completely locked on the patient charts, as if the world had temporarily ceased to exist. 

You let out a quiet sigh, then reached over the nurse station counter, fished a latex glove out of the open cardboard box, and with a quick movement, snapped it right against his back.

“Ouch!” Robby exclaimed, finally jerking his gaze away from the screen. He rubbed the spot where the glove had stung him, looking equal parts surprised and betrayed. “Why the hell did you do that?”

“Because I’ve been trying to talk to you!” You fought to keep your voice from snapping, though the frustration was definitely leaking through. “Did you call the bouncy castle people already?”

He nodded, leaning back in his chair with a groan. “Yeah, already did. They’re charging me two hundred extra for switching from the unicorn castle to the capybara one with less than a week’s notice, by the way.” He tried to sound annoyed, but it didn’t quite land. Michael loved his daughter far too much for that. If he had to build a goddamn capybara bouncy castle with his own two hands so she could have whatever she wanted in the entire world, he would do it without hesitation. Instead of irritation, his expression softened into something almost endearing, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was fighting back a smile at her latest demand.

“And you’re paying for it without complaining because you’re a great father,” you said matter-of-factly, unable to hide the fond smile tugging at your own lips. “Remember, the party’s at three. You still good for setup?”

Robby exhaled through his nose, the sound almost a laugh but not quite. "They're delivering the capybara monstrosity at one-thirty. Said they'd set it up in the backyard." He rubbed a hand over his jaw as if he was remembering what other arrangements he’d made. "Also confirmed the balloon guy with a helium tank, should be there by two."

You nodded, feeling the relief you always felt whenever Robby managed to take care of everything. Co-parenting with Robby has always been like this, efficient, practical, and competent. No missed pickups, no forgotten appointments. He'd never once let your daughter down, even when work tried to swallow him whole.

"And the cake?" you asked because you can't help it, even though you knew the answer.

He gave you a side-eye, the one that said do you even have to ask? "Chocolate with vanilla buttercream, extra sprinkles. Pickup at two-fifteen, I'll swing by after my shift ends, already talked to Shen and he’ll cover for me.”

Five years ago, you were a fourth-year med student rotating in this very department, terrified of screwing up in front of the mighty Dr. Robinavitch. Then Dr. Robinavitch slowly became Dr. Robby to you… and eventually he was just Michael when you were moaning his name under the weight of his body in his bed.

What you and Robby once had was simple, and you both liked it that way. It was the comfort of each other’s company after a brutal shift when neither of you wanted to be alone. No strings, no labels, no complications of being a real couple. No whispered rumors in the hospital about Robby seeing a med student outside of work. No pressure on Robby’s well-known inability to commit to anything more than passionate sex at night and coffee in the morning.

But simple things didn’t always stay simple, especially not when two adults knew exactly how risky it was to keep skipping protection, and neither of you ever felt much enthusiasm about pulling out. “Fuck, this is the last time, Michael,” you’d said more than once, breathless and frustrated. “Why are you nagging me?” he’d reply with a half-smirk, still catching his breath. “I had every intention of pulling out before you wrapped your legs around me like that.”

And that’s exactly how, six months after the first night you slept in Robby’s bed, you found yourself staring at the most terrifying sight you’d ever witnessed in your life: two pink lines on a plastic stick.

The conversation that followed was painfully awkward. You told Robby you were pregnant, and Robby, being who he was, decided it was time to put on his big boy pants and play his cards right. Life had handed him something he never thought he’d get, a baby, a real chance at a family. So he did what any traditional man would do in his position: he settled with you.

You’d moved into his house, and Robby and you had settled into a routine, not as two people who casually slept together on lonely nights, but as partners, and soon-to-be parents.

Robby took you to every single appointment. He insisted on every test to ensure his child’s safety, blended you the best prenatal smoothies, disgusting carrot-and-spinach concoctions that made you gag but that he swore were just what you needed, and even pushed hard for you to take early maternity leave. But of course, you refused, determined to finish your last year of med school before the baby arrived.

The day your daughter was born was the happiest day of Robby’s life. Even now, it still brought him to tears whenever he thought about it, the moment his entire life changed forever, the day he met his greatest love, his reason to keep going, to keep living, to try harder every single day.

But even as Robby put in his best effort to be a boyfriend, it didn’t take long for the fantasy to crumble.  It wasn’t all sunrays and paradise, and after endless long shifts in the ED, endless diapers, and all-night cries that never seemed to stop, you were both running on fumes. It became painfully clear, day after day, that the only reason Robby had decided to settle down with you was because he’d gotten you pregnant.

You could see how unhappy he was. He barely spoke a word to you when he got home from work. He’d just sit on the couch with distant, lost eyes staring at the wall like he was the most miserable person alive. The only times he laughed or smiled were in the presence of his daughter. You couldn’t help but feel crushing guilt for trapping him in a relationship he never truly wanted. Robby had longed for a family and for company, but once he had it, he didn’t know what to do with it.

That’s why, after five months of fights and desperate trying, you decided it was time to do the most noble thing you could: let him go. Set him free instead of keeping him trapped beside you in a pretend marriage he’d only started because he was too considerate to let you raise his daughter alone.

Hannah Robinavitch had never once envied her friends whose parents were still married. She never got sad or asked why the three of you couldn’t just be a normal family. Because she already knew you were one, a little different from the others, maybe, but still a family nonetheless. And having separate parents actually had its perks. It meant two houses, twice as many birthday presents, and two different vacation destinations every single year.

Sunlight slanted through the tall maple trees lining the backyard fence, painting patterns across the grass. Your yard was huge, the short green grass always perfectly maintained, and the swimming pool sparkled with crystal-clear water that seemed to catch every ray of light. It was the kind of house you could never have afforded on a resident’s salary in a million years. But Robby had made sure you and Hannah had it anyway the moment the two of you decided to part ways and break up. He’d never blinked at the money when it came to his daughter. If giving her (and you) the nicest possible place to live during your half of the week with her, in a safe, beautiful neighborhood full of every comfort meant making his baby girl happy, then he would do it without hesitation.

Because fuck, Robby was such a good father. The kind who puts his little girl first and everything else second. He finally had a real reason to take days off work and actually go on vacations. He finally had something to look forward to, a future worth living for: taking care of his daughter, watching her grow up, teaching her things, just being needed by this helpless little angel who still demanded he check under the bed for monsters every single night.

You’d read once that when it came to having children, women should look for a man who would make a good father, not necessarily a good husband. Because love could run out. People broke up. They got divorced. But a child was a lifelong commitment. And you’d won the lottery with Michael, even if sometimes you still wished he could have been as good a partner as he was a father.

The enormous capybara-themed bouncy castle Hannah insisted on dominated the grass as screams of delight and the rhythmic thump-thump of small feet echoed from inside it. All her kindergarten friends chased each other in circles as their parents clustered near the patio tables, drinking iced tea and making polite small talk about preschool and summer camps.

You were on snack duty, refilling the chip bowls, and right on cue, the side gate swung open. Robby stepped through, wearing dark jeans and a button-down shirt rolled to the elbows, the sleeves catching on the muscles of his forearms, revealing Hannah’s name tattooed on his wrist.

He was carrying a large gift box wrapped in shiny silver paper with a bright red ribbon tied around it. The second Hannah’d spotted him, the entire backyard might as well have disappeared.

“Daddy!” She launched herself down the slide so fast the inflatable nearly tipped. She was sprinting with her bare feet on the grass before she even landed properly.

Robby dropped to one knee just in time to catch her as she collided into his chest like a missile. He laughed and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her clean off the ground for a second, even though she was getting too big for it. She squealed and buried her face in his neck.

“You came! You came!”

“Wouldn’t miss it, babygirl.” He set her down but kept one hand on her shoulder. “Happy birthday.”

She was s already eyeing the box. “Is that for me?”

“Depends.” He raised an eyebrow. “You been good?”

“Super duper good! Ask Mommy! I only ate two cupcakes and I shared my shovel in the sandbox with the other kids!”

You caught his eye over her head, and Robby gave you the tiniest smirk, yeah, he knew “two cupcakes” was probably an undercount.

“Guess it’s yours then.” Robby set the box on the grass, and Hannah attacked the paper. A brand-new bike glints in the sunlight, purple with whitewall tires, training wheels already attached, and even a little bell shaped like a flower.

Hannah froze for half a second, then let out a shriek that made half the parents jump. “A BIKE! Daddy, a BIKE!”

She flung herself at him again, hugging him so hard he had to brace himself. He laughed again, softer this time, and rubbed a hand over her back. “Figured it was time for you to have some riding lessons.”

“I can ride it now? Right now?”

He glanced at you for a quick check-in, the way he always does when big decisions happen, and you nod once.

“Yeah, angel,” you said, walking over. “But helmet stays on, and daddy’ll hold your seat until you’re steady.”

Hannah was already trying to climb on, so Robby steadied the bike with one hand, using the other to guide her foot to the pedal. She wobbled the second her weight hit the seat, but she was grinning so wide it looked almost painful.

Robby shot you another look and then crouched beside Hannah again. “Ready?”

She nodded furiously, and Robby started walking her forward, keeping one hand on the seat, the other hovering near her shoulder to steady her in case she fell. She pedaled hard, poking her tongue out in concentration. The bike lurched, straightened, and lurched again. Robby kept pace easily as you watched from the patio steps. The man who once told you, half-asleep after a fifteen-hour shift, that he wasn’t sure he knew how to be anyone’s dad, was now the same man who walked backward in front of a wobbling five-year-old, talking her through every turn.

“Push harder with your right foot… there you go. Look where you want to go, not at the ground. Yeah, just like that.”

Hannah laughed when the bike finally held a straight line for more than three seconds, and Robby let go of the seat, just for a heartbeat, and then grabbed it again when she tipped.

“I did it! I almost did it!”

“You’re doing it,” he corrected her, encouraging like he’d read in so many parenting books. “Keep going.”

They made a loop around the bouncy castle. Parents pulled out phones to snap pictures of her, and someone even started clapping, making Hannah beam like she was crossing a finish line. You felt eyes on you, Robby’s, briefly. He didn’t say anything, but the look told enough: we made this kid. Look at her.

After another lap, he slowed her to a stop near the bouncy castle. She was flushed and sweaty, but utterly triumphant. “Can we take the training wheels off?” she asked immediately.

Robby exhaled a laugh. “Tomorrow, maybe. Today we celebrate the fact you didn’t eat pavement.”

He ruffled her hair, then stood, brushing grass off his jeans. Robby walked over to you, watching Hannah show off her new ride to anyone who’ll listen.

“You good?” He asked you. “You’ve been running this circus solo all afternoon.”

“I’m fine. Exhausted, but fine.” You paused, then added softly, “She’s having the best day. Because you’re here.”

He looked at you then, and something about his eyes reminded you of the way he used to look at you when you were falling asleep on his couch with a newborn between you. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

Hannah zoomed past again, ringing the little flower bell. “Five,” he muttered, almost to himself. “How the hell did that happen?”

You didn’t have an answer, you just stood there beside him, your shoulder almost brushing his, watching your daughter ride circles around the backyard.

Two hours later, you were cutting slices out of the chocolate cake while Robby stood right next to you, handing them out to the sugar-desperate kids swarming the table.

You passed another slice to Robby. He took it from your hands, brushing his fingers against yours for a brief second.

“You know, I didn’t see Vet Guy over here,” he said, pulling on a dramatically disappointed face. “Bummer. I was really hoping to finally meet the guy.” You decided to ignore the sarcastic, obviously ill-intended comment. Robby, never one to let silence win, kept going. “I suppose he was busy. Did he have a labradoodle to give a haircut?” He let out a loud, self-satisfied chuckle that rumbled into a deep “Ha!”

“That’s a pet esthetician, you know?” You mumbled, aggressively slicing the knife through the cake. “Vets don’t do haircuts.”

“Oh, you’re right,” he mock-apologized, not even pretending to drop the subject, not when he had weeks’ worth of jokes lined up. “Then I guess he had some high-risk procedure. Open-heart surgery on a hamster, maybe?”

“You’re hilarious, Michael,” you said with your biggest deadpan face. “How long did it take you to come up with that one?”

“Oh, I have plenty more where that came from,” he replied, grinning. “Do you even call him Doctor? I mean, vets aren’t even real doctors.”

“Of course they are!” you shot back with sudden, exaggerated respect for the veterinary profession, purely to piss him off.

Vet guy was nice. You’d met him at the hospital after he came in with a nasty dog bite on his leg. You’d tended to the wound while he respectfully flirted with you, not too hard, not desperate or aggressive, but just enough to make you feel seen. He asked genuine questions about you, shared funny stories from his own job, and somehow managed to pull real smiles out of you even after a brutal shift.

When he asked for your number, intending to take you to what he swore was the best Thai restaurant in Pittsburgh, you’d hesitated. You didn’t need more distractions from residency and motherhood. But Dana had insisted you accept. She said you needed to spend time with adults outside the hospital, to do something just for yourself, and to let yourself be treated nicely for one night. Secretly, you knew she was cracking up at the way Robby’s jealousy flared every time Vet guy flirted with you, the way he clenched his jaw, cleared his throat, and rolled his eyes like a petulant child.

You’d gone out with him a couple of times. It was fun. He was a gentleman, smart, funny, handsome, the type of man most women would be thrilled to stumble upon. But then your stupid, stupid brain did that awful thing it always did whenever you started seeing someone new: it compared him to Robby. Robby would’ve ordered that. Robby would’ve said that. Robby would’ve done that. As if your brain had never gotten the memo that you and Robby had broken up. That it hadn’t worked. That you were supposed to be looking for a guy who wasn’t like him at all.

“Oh, please. WE are doctors. They’re frauds.” Robby scoffed. “What’s that guy’s biggest life achievement? Getting vomited on by a dog?”

“You’ve clearly thought a lot about a guy I’ve only gone out with like two times,” you offered him your fakest smile. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were the one dating him, not me.”

Robby’s expression, which up until that moment had been mocking and sleazy, changed completely. His smile flattened into a thin, straight line, and his eyes turned serious. “Funny,” he mumbled as he handed another slice of cake to a waiting kid.

“And to answer your question, no, I wasn’t gonna bring some random guy I had dinner with a couple of times to my daughter’s birthday. You know me better than that.”

He didn’t say anything else. Robby knew you were right, you weren’t the type of person who introduced someone new into Hannah’s life unless it was truly serious. But behind all the mockery and cheap jokes, there was something dangerously close to jealousy. The thought of you deciding another man was better than him, more worthy of your time and interest, the idea of Hannah ever having a stepdad, of him no longer being the only male figure in both your lives… it infuriated him.

Was he an asshole for wanting to keep you all to himself when he had no right to demand to be the only man in your life? Maybe. Was he stupid to pretend that a gorgeous, smart, and amazing woman like you would stay single forever, living on the memory of what you two once were, waiting for him to finally grow a pair of balls and give you what you deserved? The same thing he’d had every chance to give you years ago, but had been too scared to reach for, letting it slip away Definitely.

As the party came to an end, kids hugged, and parents collected backpacks and stray shoes, mumbling thank yous to you and Robby.

You stood by the gate, waving and promising playdates. Robby was on Hannah duty now, helping her say goodbye to each friend, crouching so he was eye-level, reminding her to say “thank you for coming.”

Most of the crowd thinned out quickly, a few stragglers lingered, one of them was Ethan, father of Mia, one of Hanna’s closest friends from the four-year-old room. Divorced last year, or so the gossip went. Nice enough guy. Tall, with an easy smile. He was hanging back near the patio table, helping stack chairs while his daughter ran one last lap around the bouncy castle.

You walked over to grab the last of the empty cups. “Great party,” he said, straightening up. “Hanna’s in heaven. That bike was a killer gift.”

“Thanks. Robby picked it out.” You smiled, tossing cups into the trash bag. “She’s been begging for one since she saw the big kids riding at the park.”

Ethan nodded, lingering his eyes on your face for a second. “Smart move.” He paused, then added, softer, “You pulled this off like a pro. Solo hosting a kindergarten party? Respect.”

You laughed lightly. “Not entirely solo. Robby’s been here all afternoon.”

“Yeah, I saw.” His tone was casual, but there was a flicker of curiosity there, maybe appraisal. “You two seem… good. Co-parenting goals and all that.”

“We manage,” you said neutrally.

He stepped a little closer, dropping his voice like he was sharing a secret. “Listen, if you ever want a break from… all of this. I just… figured it might be nice to talk to someone who gets the single-parent thing.” He smiled warmly. “Mia talks about Hannah nonstop. Be good for them to have more playdates. And for us to… catch up. Maybe you could give me some tips for this whole co-parenting lifestyle.”

It wasn’t subtle at all. The way he held eye contact a beat too long, the slight lean, the casual brush of his hand against yours when he handed you a stray napkin. You felt heat creepong up your neck. It wasn’t interest, exactly, just the awkward awareness of being seen that way. 

You opened your mouth to deflect politely. But before you could, behind you, a voice cut in.

“Ethan, right?” Robby was there suddenly, casual as anything, holding Hannah’s new helmet in one hand. “Mia’s dad.”

Ethan straightened, his smile faltering only a fraction like he’d been caught red-handed. “Yeah. Hey, man. Good to see you.”

Robby nodded once. “You too.” He flicked his gaze to you, then back to Ethan. “We’re starting to clean up over here. You need help finding her shoes? Think they’re by the slide.”

Ethan blinked, then laughed it off. “Nah, we’re good. Just saying goodbye.” He looked at you again. “Think about what I said, okay? No rush.” He waved, called for Mia, and headed toward the gate.

You exhaled slowly, but Robby didn’t move. He was quiet for a long minute, then: “Sooo. Ethan.”

You snorted as you started gathering stray plates from the patio table. “Yeah?”

Robby followed, picking up cups without being asked. “Seemed chatty.”

“He’s friendly.”

“Very friendly.” Robby stacked the cups. “Animated, even.”

You glanced at him. His face was neutral, almost too neutral, a sign of how secretly annoyed he was. “Robby.”

“What?” Innocent. It sounded too innocent.

“You’re being nosy. First with vet guy, and now again.”

“I’m making conversation.” He set the stack down. “Guy was all secretive talking in your ear. What’d he want?”

You laughed despite yourself. “None of your business.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”

“Not bad. Just… standard divorced-dad. He wanted to organize some playdates. The usual.”

Robby nodded slowly, like he was filing that away. “Huh.”

You waited, but he didn't elaborate. Instead, he picked up a stray balloon string, winding it around his fingers. “Guy’s got some nerve. Hitting on you in the middle of our kid’s birthday party.”

Our kid. He didn’t say it possessively, just as a fact. You turned to face him fully. “Jealous, Robinavitch?”

He met your eyes without flinching. “Curious,” he corrected. “Big difference.”

“Sure.”

He didn’t deny it. “Anyway,” he said, his voice back to normal without the edge of jealousy in it. “I’ll help deflate that monstrosity in the yard before it blows away. Then I’ll get out of your hair.”

After Robby had helped the bouncy castle guys, he hauled the last of the folding chairs back to the garage and carried out three trash bags without being asked. He stepped back into the kitchen through the sliding door. “Hannah's out cold,” he said, keeping his voice low so he didn’t wake her. “Tried to get her to brush her teeth, but she rolled over and kept sleeping.”

You laughed under your breath. “She’ll be up at six tomorrow demanding to ride the bike again.”

“Good luck trying to talk her out of it.” You felt the weight of his gaze as he pushed off the counter. “Anyway, I should head out. Early shift tomorrow.”

You turned the faucet off, drying your hands on a dish towel. “Thanks for everything today. Seriously. She had a great time thanks to you.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Thanks to both of us. We’re a good team.”

You walked him toward the front door. At the door, he stopped, with one hand on the knob as he turned back to you. For a second, he just looked, not at your face, but at all of you.

His eyes started at your bare shoulders where the thin straps of your sundress sat, tracing the line of your collarbone, then they dropped deliberately down the front of the dress. You felt suddenly aware of every inch it covered, and of every inch it didn’t. Robby lingered his gaze on your waist, the flare of your hips, and the hem brushing just above your knees. Then lower, to your legs, and back up again, slower this time, until he met your eyes.

There was heat in the way he looked at you, nothing subtle about the way his eyes roamed your body. It was the look of a man who was remembering exactly what you feel like under his hands, what you tasted like, what sounds you used to make when he was inside you. The kind of look that said he wanted to back you against the nearest wall, hike that dress up around your waist, and fuck you until the only thing either of you could hear was your own breathing and the wet sound of skin against skin.

He didn’t say anything, there was no need for words. Your mouth went dry as the heat coiled in your lower belly, the same way it had many nights before. Five years since you stopped sleeping together. Five years of boundaries, separate beds, separate lives. And still one look was enough to make your body remember. 

He exhaled through his nose, almost an incredulous laugh, “Happy birthday to her,” he said quietly, nodding toward the living room. “We made something good.”

“Yeah,” you managed to say, your voice coming out softer than you meant it to. “We did.”

The weeks slid by in the same rhythm you’d grown accustomed to: long shifts at the hospital, trying to be a present mom whenever you weren’t buried in charts, and the handoffs with Robby at your house.

It was a Saturday afternoon, the day of Hannah’s ballet recital. You arrived a little early because she had been buzzing about it for weeks, her first real performance after long months of practice. Plus, you appreciated every rare opportunity life gave you to wear something that wasn’t scrubs. You’d gotten your hair done, put on soft makeup, slipped into a nice dress and high heels, and for once you felt like a whole different person. Someone confident. Someone who could take on the world.

You loved Hannah. You loved being a mom. But sometimes you missed the person you used to be before all of this. You missed being seen as more than just “Mom.” You missed conversations with adults that didn’t revolve around kindergarten, tantrums, or pediatric appointments. You were still young, and even though you’d always been mature for your age, you’d had to grow up fast the moment you became a mother. You had never imagined yourself with a child before you even became a doctor. You certainly hadn’t pictured managing residency at the same time you were raising a tiny human being.

But even if life hadn’t turned out the way you’d once planned, you didn’t regret any of the decisions that had brought you here in this auditorium, about to watch your daughter’s ballet recital.

You spotted Robby near the front row, saving seats for the two of you. When he saw you, he stood, waving you over with a half-smile.  “Hey,” he said as you slid into the seat beside him. “She’s backstage, losing her mind. Kept asking if both of us were coming.”

You laughed softly, settling your purse on the floor. “Wouldn’t miss it. Was she nervous?”

“Not one bit. She made me practice clapping in the car.” He glanced at you, his eyes lingering a second longer than necessary. “You look nice.”

You couldn’t avoid feeling the heat creeping up your neck, but you brushed it off. “Thanks. You cleaned up nice, too.”

Before he could reply, the lights dimmed, and the ballet instructor, a woman in her sixties, welcomed everyone, and then the curtain slowly parted.

There she was. Hannah stood front and center in her pink leotard and tutu, her hair,the same brown shade as Robby’s, pulled into a slightly lopsided bun secured with a sparkly clip. She immediately scanned the audience, spotted the two of you sitting side by side, and her whole face lit up like sunrise. Forgetting every rule about staying still, she waved at you both with both hands.

The routine was equal parts adorable and chaotic, little arms waving with enthusiasm, a few spins that turned into giggles, and tiny dancers bumping into one another. But when it came time for her part in the middle, Hannah nailed it,  twirling with maximum concentration, poking out her tongue slightly the way it always did when she was trying her hardest.

You were grinning so hard your cheeks ached as you recorded the whole thing on your phone, careful not to miss a single moment. Beside you, Robby was doing the same, leaning forward in his seat like he was afraid to miss even one second of his little girl shining under the stage lights.

When it ended, the room erupted in applause. You and Robby were on your feet first, clapping loud enough to drown out half the parents. Hannah beamed, blowing kisses at the audience, then bolting offstage the second she was allowed.

Backstage, Hannah launched herself at you both at once, her arms around your legs and Robby’s in a group hug.

“Did you see me twirl, Mommy? Daddy, did you see?”

“We saw everything,” Robby said, scooping her up in his arms. “You were the best one up there, angel. Hands down.”

“You were perfect,” you whispered, leaning to place a big and loud kiss into her hair. “So proud of you, baby.”

Hannah tugged at your hand. “Can we get ice cream? To celebrate?”

Robby raised an eyebrow at you as if awaiting to see what your answer would be, and silently hoping it’d be a yes.

You smiled. “Ice cream sounds perfect.”

He set Hannah down on the floor, then crouched so she could climb onto his back. She wrapped her little arms and legs around him tightly, her favorite perch. With a soft grunt and an easy smile, Robby straightened up, carrying her like she weighed nothing.

The three of you headed for the exit together. You walked beside Robby, close enough that your shoulder brushed against his every few steps, but neither of you pulled away. There was something about the way the three of you looked, almost like a picture-perfect family to anyone glancing from the outside. It made your mind loosen the reins on old fantasies: how different life would have been if the three of you had managed to make it work. If being together had been a choice made out of love instead of obligation, the only option he felt he had at the time.

God, how much you still wished things had worked with Robby. What wouldn’t you give to see him truly happy to be with you, instead of miserable the way he looked every time the two of you came home from a long shift.

The ice cream shop had a neon sign flickering “OPEN” in red letters, sticky vinyl booths, and the widest variety of ice cream flavors you’d ever seen. Hannah insisted on extra sprinkles and chocolate sauce on her cone. She was perched between you and Robby on the bench seat, swinging her legs and recounting her ballet routine for the third time.

“I did the spin and everyone clapped SO loud! Did you hear it, Daddy?”

“Loudest ovation in the room,” Robby said, wiping a streak of chocolate from her cheek with his thumb. “You owned that stage, babygirl.”

You watched them as you ate your strawberry ice cream cone drizzled with hot fudge. It was uncanny how much Hannah looked like Robby,  like he had been cloned into a tiny, feminine version of himself. The same soft brown hair, the same big, puppy-brown eyes that were easily the warmest you’d ever seen in your life. Eyes you could never say no to, because one single look from them melted your heart every time.

She was already slowing down, the adrenaline from the recital and the sugar rush from the ice cream finally catching up with her. Her head rested heavily against Robby’s shoulder as she munched the last bites of her ice-cream, her little eyelids starting to flutter.

The walk home was only ten minutes, but Hannah's steps turned sluggish halfway there. Robby scooped her up without a word, and she curled against his shoulder as she’d always belonged there, tucking her head under his chin as she fisted her little hand on his shirt.

At your front door, Hannah was completely out, her rosy cheek smooshed against Robby’s collarbone, with her mouth slightly open. You unlocked the door quietly and stepped inside. 

Robby carried her upstairs like she weighed nothing. You followed, watching the careful way he lowered her to the bed, tugged off her ballet slippers and pink tutu, and pulled the covers up. 

Downstairs again, you were suddenly aware of how quiet the house was without her chatter filling it. He stopped a few feet away. “She’s wiped..”

“Yeah.” You smiled. “She had a big day today.”

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “And you… in that dress. You’re punishing me. You have no idea what you do to me.”

“Robby.”

He didn’t back off. Just looked at you in the same way he did the night of the birthday party. Tracing his eyes over the neckline of the dress, the way it hugs your waist, the bare skin of your breasts. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” you said, but your voice came out quieter than you intended. As if part of you didn’t really want him to stop. You longed for the validation, for knowing you were still the woman who drove him insane, the one who made him feel things no one else could, his soft spot, his weakness. 

And for Robby, you still were. Until this day, you were the only one who could bring out the most vulnerable side of him. It wasn’t just the physical part, though God, your body drove him insane. He could still feel the ghost of your skin against his every night when he closed his eyes. It wasn’t the sex either, though in fifty-four years of life he’d never found anyone who felt quite like you did, anyone who made him feel so many things, who woke up the most primitive, most virile part of him.

It was simply you. Your strength when you carried a pregnancy and still worked your ass off for your career. Your quick mind and the way you could deliver a witty comeback that put him in his place when he deserved it. Your competence, something he found extremely attractive, both at work and as a mom. And watching you raise his daughter with a patience and love only you could give, loving her so fiercely with every bone in your body… it made him feel things he’d never felt before.

“Like what?”

“Like you want to eat me alive.”

He huffed a half-laugh as he stepped closer. “Can’t blame a guy for looking.”

You swallowed, using all the self-restraint you had in your body to stop yourself from jumping into his arms. “Every time we’re close like this, I have to remind myself why this is a bad idea.”

He tilted his head. He knew you too well, he could see how much you were trying to be strong and how much you wanted it too. “And why’s that, exactly?”

“Because we tried. We crashed. We hurt each other. We’ve got a kid now, it’s not just us we gotta think of, but her. And we’ve got a good thing going on, we’re good at this.” You gestured between you. “At being her parents. At not screwing it up. Adding… whatever this is… risks that.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “Don’t think. Just do what you want.”

You stared at him. “Is that your new motto? ‘Don’t think, just do it?’”

He took another half-step, close enough you could smell the mint from his ice-cream on his breath. “One night,” he said. “Doesn’t have to mean more. Doesn’t have to change anything tomorrow. We used to be so good together. You remember that? Because I do, I remember it every single night.”

Your pulse hammered in your throat, a rhythm that matched the sudden heat blooming in your belly. You remembered it too, every vivid and overwhelming detail.

The kind of chemistry you and Robby had in bed had been like nothing you’d ever experienced before. The way your bodies responded to each other was like they were made for it, instinctive, almost frightening in its intensity. Every single touch felt magnetic and electrifying, sending sparks racing across your skin even from the lightest brush of his fingers. The way he knew exactly how to unravel you, and how you could do the same to him. You had both cried out in pleasure every single time, sounds that echoed in the dark of his bedroom, your bodies slick and trembling, chasing that peak until the world narrowed down to nothing but the two of you.

It was the kind of fire you only find once in a lifetime. But you couldn’t do it.

You couldn’t risk setting that fire loose again and burning down the delicate, carefully manufactured system you had built together. For Hannah’s sake, you needed to keep Robby exactly where he was: your co-parent, your reliable partner in raising your daughter, not your lover anymore. One wrong move, one night of giving in to the pull that still crackled between you, and everything could crumble,  the peaceful handoffs, the shared birthdays, the stability Hannah thrived on. You refused to gamble with her sense of security just because your body still remembered how perfectly he once fit against you, how his voice sounded when he fell apart because of you.

 “Of course you’re horny. You just want a quick fuck. I should’ve known.”

His expression flickered, showing a little of something that looked like hurt in his eyes. “Come on. It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?”

“Okay, fine. Maybe I do want sex,” Robby admitted, “but come on, don’t pretend you don’t want it too. You remember how much fun we used to have.”

He found your waist, pulling you gently against him. You gasped softly as he slid his palms lower, cupping your ass through the fabric, possessive squeezes that send sparks straight through you. He massaged your flesh deliberately, pressing his thumbs in just the right spots, drawing you closer until you were flush against his chest.

“God, I want you,” he murmured against your ear. “So fucking much. Always have. Always will, probably.”

He dug his fingers a little harder into the curve of your ass, kneading the soft flesh with confidence. You were so close that you could already feel the hard outline of his cock pressing insistently against your lower stomach. He was hard for you, just from being this close, just from a few lingering touches. It took every ounce of willpower you had not to give in, not to reach down and palm him over his pants until he groaned into your mouth the way he used to.

“Keep your hands where I can see them, Robinavitch,” you warned, trying to sound threatening. It came out breathy and weak instead. You couldn’t fool anyone, least of all him. You wanted this, maybe even more than he did.

“You don’t want my hands where you can see them,” he replied with that stupid, cocky tone he always slipped into when he knew he had you right where he wanted you. “You want them in places you can’t see. You haven’t forgotten how good I am with them, have you? Nah… some things these hands did to you are impossible to forget.”

You bit your lip hard to stop yourself from smiling. Cocky motherfucker.

Finally, with the last scrap of self-control you could muster, you pushed him away. “You had your fun. Time for you to leave.”

“I was barely starting to have fun,” he said with a wicked smile as he took a step back, rubbing one hand over his face. “You, cruel, cruel woman.”

“You’ll live,” you muttered. “Go chase some nurses. They love you. Well… the ones who don’t actually work with you do.”

“You hurt me,” he exclaimed dramatically, pressing a hand over his heart in mock offense. “I don’t have any nurse to chase. And even if I did, nobody could compare to us. You know that.”

“You broke things off with the last one?” you asked in mock surprise, playing dumb. “What was her name? Nora? N… Natalie?”

You knew Robby had had his fair share of affairs throughout the years, nothing too serious, nothing that ever deserved a real conversation, and definitely nothing meaningful enough to introduce to Hannah. Still, it stung. You couldn’t exactly throw it in his face, you’d gone out with people too. But you wished the asshole would keep his flings away from the hospital, away from the place where you had to watch him flash those stupid little smiles and do his little shoe-lace trick for whatever nurse had caught his eye this month. The same way he’d once done it for you.

“I won’t answer to those accusations against me,” he said, shaking his head with a low chuckle. Robby stepped closer again and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head. “Have a good night. I’ll see myself out.”

You couldn’t stop the smile from tugging at your lips as you watched him walk toward the door and finally leave the house. Five years later, and your body still caught fire whenever his hands were on you. Five years later, and you still loved your silly arguments and the way he could make you laugh even when you were pretending to be mad at him. Five years later… and you were still deeply enamored with Michael Robinavitch.

The clock on your nightstand glowed 2:17 a.m. when the first cry cut through the dark.

It wasn’t not the usual sleepy whimper or the “I had a bad dream” whine. It was a sharp sound, followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of vomit hitting the floor.

You were out of bed before your brain fully registered it, rushing down the hall. Hannah’s room light was already on, and she was sitting up in bed, with the bedsheets twisted around her legs, her face shiny with sweat, and her eyes glassy because of the tears. There was a small puddle of bile on the rug beside her, and another streak down the front of her pajama top.

“Mommy—”

“I’m here, baby.” You dropped to your knees beside the bed, lifting your hand to her forehead. She was burning, her skin hot enough to make your palm sting. “Oh, sweetheart.”

She leaned heavily into you, her body trembling as another wave hit her. This time it was dry heaves because there was nothing left in her stomach to bring up. You lunged for the small trash can under her desk just in time, holding it steady beneath her chin while your other hand gathered her soft brown hair back from her face. With gentleness, you rubbed slow, soothing circles on her back, murmuring the same comforting nonsense you always did in moments like this.

“It’s okay, baby… you’re okay. Mommy’s got you. Just breathe, sweetheart.”

Your voice stayed calm and steady for her sake, but inside, your mind had flipped into full doctor mode, racing through the mental checklist at lightning speed. Fever. Persistent vomiting. She had been fine at bedtime, tired from her long ballet practice, a little sniffly maybe, but nothing that had raised any red flags. 

“Mommy… tummy aches,” Hannah mumbled weakly.

Your heart clenched so hard it hurt. You scooped her up immediately, blanket and all, and carried her to the bathroom. You ran a washcloth under cold water, wrung it out, and pressed it gently to the back of her neck, hoping the chill would bring some relief. Then you offered her a small sip of water from the cup on the sink. She took it obediently, but almost instantly spat it back out, coughing and whimpering.

Reaching out for the thermometer from the medicine cabinet, you grabbed it and slipped it under her tongue, holding her close while you waited for the beep. 103.8. You managed to get a dose of Tylenol into her, but she could barely keep it down, her whole body shuddered as she fought the nausea, and her teeth chattered from the fever chills as she curled into you even tighter, shaking hard.

Helpless, that’s how you felt, completely helpless. And as a mother, feeling helpless was the worst torture imaginable. You were a doctor, and yet here in your own house, with your own child, there was only so much you could do. The cold washcloths weren’t bringing her temperature down fast enough. The medicine wasn’t staying in her long enough to work. Nothing seemed to help.

You couldn’t stand seeing your baby like this: so pale, so tired, her usual bright energy drained away, her little body trembling in your arms.. In this moment, more than anything, you wished Robby were here. Robby would know exactly what to do. He always did. He’d take one look at her, assess the situation and figure out what was wrong with Hannah right away. He’d fix it the same way he fixed dozens of people every single day in the pitt.

You sat on the edge of the tub with her in your lap, rocking her slowly, trying to keep her calm while you dialed Robby.

He picked up on the second ring. His voice was rough with sleep, but instantly alert when he realized you wouldn’t be calling this late at night if there wasn’t something really urgent going on. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“Hannah’s sick. Fever’s 103.8, she’s been vomiting for the last twenty minutes. Won’t keep anything down. She’s shaking.”

There was the rustle of sheets and the immediate creak of a bedframe on Robby’s end. He was already moving, even half-asleep. You could practically see him sitting up in the dark.

“Okay,” his voice came through the phone. “Did you give her Tylenol?”

“Yes.”

“Motrin too? You should alternate if the fever’s that high.”

“I only have children’s Tylenol here,” you answered. “Motrin’s at your place.”

There was a brief pause, then a quiet “Okay… okay. Alright.” You heard him exhale slowly, the sound of fabric shifting as he moved. “Cool clothes? Cold washcloth on her neck or forehead?”

“I’m trying the cloth right now, but I’m not seeing any changes. The fever won’t come down at all.”

“Are you hydrating her? Give her small sips of water, tiny amounts so she doesn’t throw it right back up.”

“I am,” you said, glancing at the half-empty cup on the bathroom counter. “She’s spitting most of it back up. She can’t keep anything down.”

Another pause stretched between you. Even for a man who could keep ice-cold composure during the most chaotic live-or-die codes in the ED, something in Robby’s voice betrayed how uneasy he really was. You heard the rustle of clothes being pulled on quickly, then the unmistakable jingle of keys.

“So, fever’s still not budging?” he asked.

“Not yet. She’s miserable, Robby. Keeps saying her tummy hurts, and the dry heaves are getting worse. She’s shaking so hard her teeth are chattering.”

You heard loud, hurried footsteps crossing his floorboards, followed by the sound of a door opening and closing with a firm sound. 

“Take her to the ER. Now.” There was no hesitation left in his words. “I’ll meet you there.”

Your stomach dropped. “You think it’s that bad?”

“I think 103.8 in a five-year-old who can’t keep meds or fluids down is worth getting checked. Could be viral, could be something else. Better be safe.”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see it. “Okay. I’ll get her dressed. We’re leaving in five.”

“I’m already in the car. Text me when you’re on the road.”

He hung up, and you moved fast, changing Hannah into fresh pajamas, wiping her face, and wrapping her in the softest blanket she owned. She was listless now, her soft head lolling against your shoulder as small whimpers left her lips every time the nausea rolled through her again. You grabbed her insurance card, your wallet, a spare change of clothes for her, and the little stuffed unicorn she’d been sleeping with every night.

You placed Hannah in her car seat, with her blanket tucked around her. You buckled her in carefully, kissing her hot forehead. “We’re going to see the doctors, okay? Daddy’s meeting us there. You’re gonna feel better soon.”

She just nodded with her eyes half-closed. The drive to the hospital was only fifteen minutes at this hour through the dark and empty streets. You kept one hand on the wheel, and the other reaching back to hold hers. She was quiet except for the occasional gags into the bowl you’d wedged beside her seat.

You pulled into the ambulance bay lot, killed the engine and unbuckled Hannah. She was burning up, her usually light body now felt heavy and limp because of the fever. You wrapped the blanket tighter around her and lifted her carefully into your arms as you hurried toward the sliding glass doors.

They whooshed open, and Lena, the night-shift charge nurse, looked up from the desk. Her face immediately softened with concern the moment she recognized you.

“Hey… oh, honey.” Her voice dropped gently. “Is that Hannah?”

“Fever hit 103.8 at home,” you rattled off, shifting your daughter’s weight higher on your hip, trying to keep your voice steady, as if you were presenting a case, not describing your daughter’s symptoms. “Persistent vomiting, abdominal pain. I gave her Tylenol twenty minutes ago, but no improvement at all.”

Lena nodded briskly, already waving you over. “Bay six. We’ll get vitals right away.”

“Who’s on tonight?” you asked, walking fast down the familiar hallway. “Shen?”

“Dr. Abbot. I’ll send him your way as soon as he’s free.”

“Oh, thank God,” you exhaled, the relief hitting you so hard it made your shoulders sag for a moment. If there was anyone in this entire hospital you’d trust with Hannah besides Robby, it was Jack, Hannah’s godfather. You still remembered the day Robby had asked him to be his daughter’s godfather. The way Jack’s eyes had filled with tears, the two men pulling each other into a tight hug like brothers, like two men who were the only ones who truly understood the weight of this life, the long shifts, the losses, and the rare moments of hope like that one. Abbot had promised right then that he’d always have her back, no matter what.

You were halfway down the hall when Robby rounded the corner. The second his eyes landed on Hannah in your arms, his entire expression shifted to fatherly fear.

“Hey, angel,” he said softly, stepping close. He brushed a gentle hand over her back. “Mom said you’re not feeling good, huh?”

Hannah managed a weak, cracked little “Daddy…” before turning her face back into your neck, hiding from the bright lights and the unfamiliar sounds.

Robby flicked his gaze up to yours, doing that assessing scan he always did, checking not just Hannah, but how you were holding up. “You okay?”

“Fine,” you whispered, though your voice trembled as the tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. “Just… scared. I hate seeing her like this. She’s never been this sick.”

He nodded once. “I’ve got her.”

You handed her over without hesitation. Hannah clung to him immediately, wrapping her small arms around his neck and burying her face against his shoulder like he was her safe place. Robby carried her the rest of the way into the bay. He laid her down gently on the hospital bed, keeping one hand resting protectively on her stomach while the other smoothed damp strands of hair off her forehead with tenderness.

One of the night-shift nurses stepped in right away and rechecked her temperature. “It’s up to 104.1 now.” Her oxygen saturation was still holding steady, but she was clearly dehydrated, her lips cracked and dry, her eyes a little sunken, her usually rosy cheeks pale.

A couple of seconds later, Abbot strode into the bay, sweeping his eyes over the scene: little Hannah lying on the bed, Robby standing guard on one side, you on the other.

“Hey,” Abbot said, pulling Robby into a quick, one-armed brotherly hug, clapping his back once, and giving you a nod. “Heard our girl was here. Sorry, I was tied up with a gunshot wound, perforated lung. It’s chaos tonight.”

“She’s been throwing up everything, couldn’t even keep the Tylenol down,” Robby reported, giving the facts the way two attendings would, except this time his voice carried an edge of helplessness he rarely showed. He wasn’t the doctor tonight. He was the father. “Fever’s up to 104.1. We should get an IV going, more Tylenol, Zofr—”

“I’ve got this,” Abbot interrupted gently but firmly, keeping his tone calm and reassuring as he stepped closer to the bed. He looked down at Hannah with the softest smile, dropping his voice into that sweet, playful tone he saved only for kids. “Hey, Hannah Banana… we’re gonna get you feeling brand new before you even realize, okay?” He offered her a warm smile and the gentlest pinch on her cheek.

“Uncle Jack…” she mumbled, her voice cracking pitifully as another wave of nausea rolled through her.

The nurse started the IV in her tiny hand. Hannah cried out at the poke, a heartbreaking whimper that twisted something deep in your chest. Robby was right there, holding her other hand tightly, talking her through it in that calm voice he used with every scared kid who came through these doors. “Just a little pinch, angel. You’re being so brave. Almost done… that’s my good girl. Daddy’s right here.”

You stood on the opposite side of the bed, holding her foot gently in both hands and rubbing soothing circles over her ankle with your thumb, as if your touch alone could somehow absorb her pain and make it yours instead.

“We’ll keep her under observation for a while, wait for the fever to come down,” Abbot told you both. “I’ll come back in fifteen to check on her again, but she’s in the best hands tonight with the two of you right here.”

“Thank you, Jack,” you said quietly with gratitude. He gave your shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze before stepping back.

“Thanks, brother,” Robby added right after you, his hand never leaving Hannah’s hair.

Robby didn’t leave her side for even a second. He didn’t glance at his phone, didn’t step out to grab coffee, didn’t let himself get distracted by anything else. He stayed right there, anchored to the bed, resting one large hand gently on Hannah’s forehead, occasionally stroking her damp hair back from her skin. Every few minutes he’d lean in and murmur soft, ridiculous nonsense to her sleeping body, telling her she was tougher than any superhero, that the doctors here were the absolute best because they all knew her dad, and that meant she was getting the royal treatment, the best care in the house. You watched him from the corner of your eye. Even after everything, this was still who he was when it mattered most: steady, devoted, completely focused on the tiny human you’d made together.

The hours dragged, and eventually, after the second round of meds, Hannah’s fever finally started trending down. It had dropped to 100.7, and for the first time all night, some color began creeping back into her pale cheeks as her chest rose and fell more peacefully under the blanket.

You and Robby were slumped in the two chairs pulled up beside her bed. Robby broke the silence first. “I know what you’re thinking. You did everything right.”

You let out a shaky breath, staring at Hannah’s sleeping face. “Maybe I should’ve brought her sooner. She would’ve gotten better faster.”

He shook his head slowly. “You waited until it was warranted. You’re a doctor. You know the signs.” He reached over without hesitation, covering your hand with his on the shared armrest. His palm was warm and grounding in a way that made your throat tighten. “It’s just viral. She’s gonna be okay.”

Without thinking, you turned your hand over beneath his and laced your fingers through his, holding on tightly. For a moment, you didn’t care what it meant, or what anyone walking past the bay might think if they glanced in and saw the two of you like this, exes, co-parents, sitting together holding hands. The exhaustion of the night had stripped everything down, and right now, all that mattered was that Hannah was improving and Robby was here.

“Thanks for coming,” you whispered, even though you knew the words weren’t really necessary. Robby would drop everything and be anywhere either of you needed him, that had never been in question.

“Always.” He brushed his thumb slowly over your knuckles, a gentle motion. “Wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

By the 6 a.m. check, Hannah’s fever had already dropped to 99.8. The IV fluids had done their job, and she hadn’t vomited anymore, even managed a few sips of apple juice without it coming right back up.

She shifted under the blanket, blinking up at you both. “Mommy? Daddy?”

“Hey, sweetheart,” you whispered, leaning forward to brush her hair back. “How’s your tummy?”

“Better,” she mumbled. “Did uncle Jack cure me?”

“He did.” You smiled, feeling a wave of relief flood through you. “You’re doing great now.”

Robby reached over, stroking his thumb over her cheek. “Morning, angel. You scared us.”

She managed a tiny smile, then winced. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” He kissed her temple, lingering there for an extra second. “Just glad you’re feeling better.”

Jack came back a moment later for a quick exam and a review of vitals and labs, thankfully nothing alarming. Viral gastroenteritis, most likely, with a febrile response. 

“Thanks for curing me, Uncle Jack,” Hannah said softly with that radiant smile that could melt absolutely anyone in seconds. “You’re the best doctor ever.”

Abbot grinned widely, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked down at her. “Well, thank you, Hannah Banana. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”

Robby cleared his throat dramatically from the other side of the bay, crossing his arms. “Second best,” he corrected, raising an eyebrow at his daughter.

“Second best,” Hannah agreed immediately, turning that same sweet, dimpled smile toward Robby now, like she was bestowing him with the highest honor.

“Don’t worry, Hannah,” Jack said, leaning in conspiratorially and lowering his voice as if sharing a great secret. “I won’t tell your dad that you actually think I’m the better doctor.” He glanced sideways at his best friend with a mischievous glint. “A man with a fragile ego like him couldn’t take it.”

Robby let out a low, genuine chuckle, shaking his head. “Is she clear to go back home?” he asked, his tone shifting into something more serious, though the corner of his mouth still twitched. “See? I’m asking for your professional opinion and everything.”

Jack nodded, glancing once more at the monitor readings before looking back at both of you. “I’d say she can go home. Fever’s trending nicely downward, and she’s keeping fluids down now. Just keep checking her temperature regularly to make sure it stays down. If she starts vomiting again or the fever spikes back up, bring her straight back, but you two already know that better than most.”

Robby stood, stretching his back with a low groan. “I should head out,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Shift starts in thirty. Gotta change, grab coffee, pretend I’m human.”

You looked up at him, still holding Hannah’s hand. “You’re going in?”

He shrugged, like it was obvious. “Someone’s gotta run this place. You—” He nodded toward Hannah, then you. “—should take the day. Go home with her. Get some sleep, keep an eye on her. She’s fine now, but she’s still wiped. And you’ve been up all night.”

You opened your mouth to argue, out of pure habit, mostly. The words were already forming on your tongue, something about not wanting to burden the team, about pulling your weight like everyone else. But they died the instant your eyes landed on Hannah.

She was curled up small on her side in the hospital bed, the blanket tucked around her shoulders. You couldn’t stay away from her, not today. The thought of leaving her for twelve long hours, of being stuck in the ED while she was at home, possibly starting to feel worse again without you to notice the fever creeping back up made your stomach drop. You wouldn’t be able to focus. You wouldn’t feel at ease for even a second. Every patient you saw would be overshadowed by the constant fear that Hannah might need you and you wouldn’t be there to catch it, to bring her right back in.

And honestly… part of you simply wanted the day off. You wanted to take her home, wrap her up in her favorite blanket, and spend the whole day curled together on the couch. Just the two of you. A Disney marathon playing in the background while she rested her head on your chest and you stroked her hair.

So instead of arguing, you closed your mouth and let the silence settle. The decision had already been made the moment you looked at her.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Okay.”

Robby nodded, satisfied. He leaned down to kiss Hannah’s forehead again. “I’ll come by after shift to see how you’re doing.” He straightened and hesitated for half a second, then reached out and squeezed your shoulder, brushing the side of your neck, just once, before he pulled back. “Text me updates. I’ll turn off silent mode.”

“Will do.”

He lingered for another beat, like he didn’t quite want to leave the room, then turned toward the door. “See you later, angel,” he called softly to Hannah, who was already drifting again.

“Bye, Daddy,” she mumbled, half-asleep.

He gave you one last look, longer than necessary, before slipping out into the hallway. You exhaled slowly, while Robby and Jack handled the last few details with the nurse, you gathered Hannah’s things. 

Home sounded like the best idea you’d had in hours. If there was one thing you truly hated about this life, it was how little time work left you to be the kind of mom you desperately wished you could be. Residency had already demanded so much, and motherhood had taken the rest. Every free moment you managed to carve out, you longed to spend it with Hannah. You didn’t want her to grow up one day and feel like you had missed it,  like you weren’t there for the special moments. You didn’t want her to remember a childhood where her mom was always rushing, always tired, always halfway out the door. 

By the time you pulled into your driveway, Hannah was already dozing in her car seat again. You carried her inside and laid her gently on the couch. The house felt wonderfully quiet after the night chaos of the ED. You changed into new pajamas, made her a nest of pillows and her favorite fuzzy blanket, then crawled in beside her, pulling her body against your chest. She stirred just enough to wrap one arm around your waist and mumble, “Mommy, will you stay today?”

“I’m not going anywhere, baby,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Today is just us.”

The rest of the day unfolded slowly. You started with her favorite movie, Encanto, because she never got tired of singing along to every song, no matter if she was just recovering. Hannah curled up with her head in your lap, as you gently played with her hair while she hummed to the songs.

When the movie ended, you made a simple lunch together, something easy on her stomach, a bowl of oatmeal with bananas and strawberries. She only ate half, but she kept it down, earning praises from you. After lunch, you moved on to Moana. She sat cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in her blanket like a burrito, occasionally lifting her head to point at the screen and say, “Look, Mommy, the ocean! Can we go to the beach too?” You laughed softly and pulled her closer, letting her rest her cheek against your shoulder.

Robby’s shift ended late, as usual, and by the time he signed out, he was bone-tired, but the pull to check on Hannah overrode everything else. He texted you: Just got off. Coming by to check on her. You home?

Your reply wasquick: Yeah. She’s asleep. Door’s unlocked.

He let himself in quietly, finding you on the couch where you were curled up with a blanket. “Hey,” you whispered. “She crashed about an hour ago. Fever stayed down all day, no more vomiting.”

Robby exhaled, shrugging out of his jacket and walking over. “Good. That’s good.”

You nodded toward the hallway. “You want to peek in on her?”

He did, already heading to Hannah’s room. She was sprawled on her stomach, with one arm flung out and her stuffed bunny tucked under her chin. Her breathing was deep and even, Robby stood in the doorway for a long minute, just watching her chest rise and fall.

When he came back to the living room, you’d poured two glasses of water and set them on the coffee table. He sank onto the couch beside you, close enough that your knees almost touched, far enough to keep the boundary.

“She looks so much better,” he said quietly. “Color’s back.”

“Yeah.” You tucked your legs under you, pulling the blanket tighter to your body. “I was terrified last night. Thought… I don’t know. Worst-case scenarios kept running through my head.”

He nodded. “Me too. When you called, my heart stopped for a second.”

You took a breath, then another. “You’re a great dad, Robby. You know that, right?”

He glanced at you, surprised by the sudden moment of honesty. “Trying to be.”

“No. You are.” You met his eyes so he could see how much you meant every word that left your lips. “I always knew you would be. Even back when… everything was a mess. When we were still figuring out how to be parents instead of just two people who accidentally made a kid. I saw it in the way you held her the first time. You stepped up. Every single time.”

He looked down at his hands, rubbing his thumb over a callus on his palm, like he didn’t know how to take the compliment.

“We might not have planned her. But Hannah got the best possible dad out of the deal.”

Robby swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the movement of his throat. His voice came out rough when he finally spoke. “I’ll always be grateful to you for that. For giving me her. For making me a dad when I didn’t even know I could be one. When I didn’t even know if I wanted to be alive.” He exhaled, sounding almost like a laugh without humor. “I look at her sometimes and think… how the hell did I get this lucky? She’s smart, she’s kind, she’s fearless. And half of that’s you. But the other half… I get to be part of it. Every day. Because of you.”

The air between you thickened, it was full of years of shared history, good, bad, messy, beautiful. “I still love you for that,” he said quietly. “Not like… not trying to cross lines. Just… I’ll always have love for you. Because you gave me the best thing in my life. And you trusted me with her. That means more than I could ever express.”

“I know. I feel the same way.” You rolled your head to the side, trying to loosen the knot that’d been building since last night. The motion made your neck crack loudly, and it pulled a wince out of you.

Robby lifted his brow. “You okay?”

“Just the couch napping. My neck’s killing me.”

He didn’t hesitate, standing up right away. “Come here.”

You did hesitate for half a heartbeat, long enough to consider the offer. You were too tired to argue, and you knew how good Robby’s hands were, so you stood up from the couch, then turned so your back was to him. He stepped in behind you, close enough that you felt the warmth of him before his hands even touched you.

He settled his fingers on your shoulders first, pressing his thumbs into the muscles along the tops of your traps, working in slow circles. You couldn’t help dropping your head forward on a soft exhale, closing your eyes as the pressure hit exactly where you needed it.

“God,” you murmured. “You’re still really good at that.”

He huffsed a quiet laugh against your hair. “Muscle memory.”

Robby moved his hands, working down the column of your neck, tracing the tense line on either side of your spine, then out across your shoulders again. You melt into it without meaning to, dropping your shoulders and slowing your breath as the ache unwound thread by thread.

For a minute, it was just that: his hands on your shoulders. Then he slid his palms lower, intentionally, until they settled at your waist. He pulled you back gently, just enough that he had your back pressed against his chest. 

He brushed his lips along the side of your neck, teasingly soft at first. Then, firmer in a slow, open-mouthed kiss just below your ear.

Your pulse jumped immediately at the contact of his lips against your skin. “Robby.”

He didn’t stop. Another kiss, lower this time, along the curve where neck meets shoulder. He tightened his hands on your waist, slipping his thumbs under the hem of your top, grazing your bare skin.

“This is a bad idea,” you whispered but it came out unsteady. 

Robby moved his mouth over your skin. “Then why does it feel so good?”

You didn’t have an answer, you couldn’t think of one that made sense. He kept going, trailing kisses along the side of your throat, sliding one hand up your side, splaying his fingers across your ribs, the other staying firm at your hip, holding you against him. 

You tipped your head back against his shoulder in instinct, and he took the invitation, kissing the exposed line of your throat. Robby drifted his hand higher, brushing the underside of your breast through the fabric. Your hands came up in response, half to stop him, half to hold on, and they landed on his forearms, gripping them.

He murmured against your skin. “Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t stop it. Not one single part of you wanted to. Maybe if you weren’t so bone-deep tired, physically drained from years of resisting him, of constantly convincing yourself that you didn’t want this, that you weren’t aching for this every time he got too close, you might have found the strength to push him away again. To remind yourself of all the careful boundaries you’d built for Hannah’s sake. To remember why this was dangerous.

But right now, none of that mattered. Right now you needed Robby. You needed his warmth, you needed his touch, those large, capable hands that knew every inch of your body better than anyone else ever had, or ever would. You needed the intoxicating pleasure only he could ever give you, the rumble of his voice in your ear, and the way he could make you forget every careful reason you’d built to keep him at arm’s length.

The resistance you’d been carrying for years suddenly felt too heavy to hold anymore. In this quiet moment all you wanted was to let go. To stop fighting the pull that had never really gone away. To let Robby remind you, just for tonight, how good it felt to be wanted like this.

Under your shirt, one of Robby’s hands cupped the swell of your breast through the fabric of your bra. He traced slow circles over the peak, teasing the nipple into a tight point, making you arch without meaning to, and he rewarded you with a soft bite at the curve of your shoulder.

“Fuck,” you whispered, the curse slipping out before you could stop it.

Robby exhaled a rough laugh against your throat. “There she is.” He sounded proud of getting this reaction out of you, of remembering your body even if it’d been years since the last time he’d touched you.

He palmed your other breast now, both hands working in tandem to knead your flesh, brushing his fingers back and forth until the friction through your bra was almost too much. Your nipples ached, already feeling oversensitive, and every pass of his fingers sent heat straight between your legs. You could feel him behind you, his thick cock rigid, pressing against the small of your back through his jeans. The size of him, the heat of him, the way he rocked forward just enough to let you feel every inch, made your thighs clench.

You should stop this. You knew you should. But your hands were already reaching back, curling into the fabric of his shirt at his hips, holding him closer instead of pushing him away.

He growled with approval, leaving one of your breasts to slide his hand down the front of your body. He was slow, giving you every second to say no.

“When was the last time someone fucked you the way you deserve?” he murmured against your neck, slightly tightening his fingers once he reached your thigh, dangerously close to the waistband of your shorts.

You stayed silent, like part of you didn’t want to admit the truth. Robby didn’t pull back, he kissed your neck again. “Tell me, baby. When was the last time you were properly fucked? Deep and hard like I used to… Until you couldn’t think straight?”

You swallowed once, then answered honestly, barely above a whisper. “I haven’t slept with anyone since the last time we were together. About four years ago.”

Robby stilled completely. He lifted his mouth from your neck like he was waiting for the punchline. “You’re joking.”

You shook your head. “I’m not.”

He stared at you for a moment, processing the new information. Then he let out a slow, disbelieving breath. “What about those guys you’ve dated? The vet? That other guy a year ago, what was he? An engineer? What about him?”

“Two dates, maybe three at most with any of them,” you said quietly. “Never went further. Never slept with any of them. Being a mom and a resident… there’s no time. Between Hannah’s schedule, shifts, studying, and trying to keep everything together, sex just wasn’t a priority.”

Robby tightened his jaw, and a fix of emotions flashed through his face, surprise, heat, and a fierce kind of possessiveness. “Fuck,” he muttered. “You can’t just tell me you haven’t been fucked in four years and expect me to act like it’s nothing.”

Before you could respond, he dipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, then under the elastic of your panties. “Four years. Four fucking years without anyone touching you the way you need. Without anyone filling this perfect pussy. I’m gonna leave you so fucking wet and satisfied when I’m done with you tonight. You’re gonna be ruined for anyone else after this.”

There was no hesitation now. He parted your pussy with two fingers, finding you already slick with arousal, your lips swollen, and he dragged his digits up through your folds in one long stroke, making your knees nearly buckle.

“Jesus,” he whispered against your ear, already sounding wrecked. “So fucking wet for me.”

Robby circled your clit, it was light at first, his touch feather-soft, just enough to make your hips jerk. Then it turned firmer, pressing down in tight circles the way he always knew you liked. The exact pressure, the exact rhythm. Muscle memory for him too, apparently.

You tipped your head back against Robby’s broad shoulder, fluttering your eyes shut so you could focus entirely on the intense pleasure flooding through your body. A shaky breath escaped your lips as his fingers worked you open with precision.

He kept his other hand on your breast, tugging your bra down roughly so he could give your nipples the attention they craved. He rolled the sensitive peaks between his thumb and forefinger, pinching and tugging in perfect time with the slick strokes between your legs. The dual sensation was devastating in the best way, making your pussy clench and flutter around nothing.

He slid one thick finger inside you, stretching you carefully, opening you up with a patience that drove you insane. When you pushed your hips back greedily, silently begging for more, he added a second finger, sinking them deeper. You were so tight, clenching hard around the intrusion, and Robby let out a guttural groan against your ear, like the feel of you was almost painful for him too.

“Still so fucking perfect,” he rasped with want. “Fuck… the way you grip me. Like you never want to let go.”

He curled his fingers deliberately, hooking them forward until he found that spongy spot inside you that made your vision flash white for a second. A broken moan tore from your throat as he started stroking your g-spot with every thrust. The sound was loud enough that you both froze for half a heartbeat, listening for any noise from upstairs. The house stayed quiet. Hannah was still fast asleep. Robby didn’t waste another second, he resumed his movements, going deeper now, fucking you steadily with his fingers while his thumb kept the pressure on your clit. 

Robby alternated the pace just to torment you, slow and deep, then faster and harder, then dragging it back to that torturous slow rhythm again. Teasing you right up to the edge without ever letting you fall over it.

You rocked back against his hand, chasing the pleasure, chasing him. Every curl of his fingers and every swipe of his thumb made your clit throb and your walls flutter around him. You were soaking his hand, the wet sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of your dripping pussy filling the quiet room.

Your breathing turned ragged. Small and desperate sounds slipping out despite your best efforts, whimpers, half-moans, his name once or twice when he hit the spot just right.

He kissed your neck again, sucking lightly and then soothing with his tongue. Robby couldn’t stop his hips from rocking against your ass in shallow thrusts, matching the rhythm of his fingers, allowing you to feel how hard he was, painfully so.

Your thighs started to tremble. The coil in your belly wound tighter and tighter. You were close, so close, and he knew it, still remembered how your body shook, how your pussy pulsed and clenched when you were about to let go.

“Come on,” he murmured against your ear. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.” He pressed his thumb harder on your clit, and crooked his fingers again, stroking that spot in quick pulses. “Let me feel you cum. Please, baby, I want it so bad.”

It hit you like a wave. As you orgasmed around his fingers, your back arched, throwing your head back against his shoulder, opening your mouth on a silent cry that turned into a choked moan when the pleasure finally broke. You came hard, shuddering and clenching around his fingers. He had to tighten his arm around your waist to keep you upright when wave after wave of pleasure hit you, until your legs felt like liquid.

Robby’s arms stayed locked around you for a long moment after you came down. Slowly, he turned you in his arms until you were facing him. Your legs felt unsteady, so he steadied you with his hands on your waist.

When he lifted the hand that was inside you, the one still slick and shining with you, he brought it to his mouth without breaking eye contact with you.

Robby licked his fingers slowly, first one, then the other, dragging his tongue flat and thorough, tasting every bit of you. 

“Fuck,” he murmured, humming as if the taste of your slickness pleasured him. “Still taste the same. Sweet. So goddamn good.”

Heat flooded your face, your chest, everywhere. You couldn’tlook away, the sight of him, with his lips wet and his eyes locked on yours, while he savored you like that, made your core clench again. It felt so aching and empty without him inside you, and you desperately needed to be filled again, to feel the stretch of his cock impaled inside you, to have his weight over you while he made you feel owned. 

The words slipped out before you could think them through. “Fuck me, Robby.”

His mouth curved almost predatory. The words he’d longed to hear for so long. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He leaned in until his forehead rested against yours, allowing you to feel his hot breath on your lips. “Ask nicely.”

You narrowed your eyes with defiance even through the haze of want. “Go to hell.”

He laughed, the same laugh he used to give you in stolen moments years ago, when you’d push back just to watch him unravel. “Still stubborn,” he said, almost fond. “Good to know some things don’t change.”

Robby didn’t hesitate. In one smooth motion, his hands were under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed nothing. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, nd your arms around his neck, as he carried you up the stairs. His mouth found your neck again on the way, kissing and nipping while he navigated the familiar hallway in the dark. 

He pushed open the door to your bedroom with his shoulder, kicking it shut behind him, and turning the lock with a click. Robby set you down on the edge of the bed but didn’t step back. He stood between your spread thighs, looking down at you with an expression that made your stomach flip.

“Fuck… I feel like I’m dreaming,” he cupped your face, stroking his thumb over your cheeks. “You, here, letting me touch you again after all this time. After everything.”

Then he was on you, Robby climbed onto the bed, his knees bracketing your hips, and pressing you back into the mattress with his weight. He crashed his mouth down on yours in a desperate kiss while he ran his hands over your body.

He groaned like a man starved, staring at your chest. “These tits… God, I missed them.” His mouth descended immediately, devouring you with almost frantic need. He sucked one nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue roughly around the peak before he sucked it hard, hollowing your cheeks. He kneaded the other breast, digging his fingers in, flicking and pinching the neglected nipple until you arched off the bed with a loud moan. He switched sides, licking and biting, sucking marks into the flesh like he wanted to claim every inch. His stubble was scraping deliciously against your skin, making you whimper and thread your fingers through his brown hair, holding him to you.

He was almost desperate in the way he worshiped your body, groaning against your skin, grinding his hips down against your thigh so you could feel how painfully hard he was. “So fucking perfect,” he mumbled between sucks and bites. “These tits were made for my mouth. Look at how pretty they look. I love sucking on them… fuck, baby.”

You were panting, pushing your chest further into his face as pleasure shot straight to your cunt. Robby spent long minutes there, alternating between teasing licks and rough hungry suction, until your nipples were swollen, sensitive, and glistening with his spit.

Then he started moving lower. His mouth trailed wet kisses down your sternum, over your stomach, pausing to nip at the soft curve just below your navel. He settled between your spread thighs, pushing your shorts the rest of the way down to bunch around your ankles. For a moment, he just stared at the damp spot on your panties with eyes full of lust.

“Look at you,” he rasped, his hot breath right against your dripping pussy. “You’re making such a big mess for me. You ruined your panties… so fucking soaked.”

He leaned in and mouthed at your pussy over the thin fabric, pressing kisses along your slit, dragging his tongue slowly from your entrance up to your clit through the soaked cotton. He sucked gently on your clit through the material, making your hips jerk. Then he pulled back just enough to blow cool air over the damp spot before diving in again, licking broad stripes, nipping at your folds, mouthing at you like he was trying to taste every drop of your arousal through the barrier.

You moaned louder, with your thighs trembling around his head and your hands fisting the sheets as he teased you mercilessly. Robby hooked his arms under your thighs, holding you open while he continued the torturous worship of his mouth. Every time you tried to grind harder against his mouth, he pulls back slightly, keeping you right on the edge, whimpering and desperate.

“Robby… please…” you gasped, but he only groaned against your pussy and keept teasing, determined to drive you insane before he finally gave you what you both needed.

He looked up at you from between your thighs, gleaming with satisfaction. Robby hooked two fingers into the thin cotton at your hip and ripped. The sound of fabric tearing filled the quiet room. You only had a second for the cool air to hit your bare, dripping pussy, because right away Robby’s mouth was on you, aggressive and devastatingly skilled.

He devoured you like a man who’d been starving for years. There’s no gentle buildup or teasing licks. He buried his face between your thighs with a hunger that bordered on feral. He drags his tongue broadly, giving you flat strokes from your entrance all the way up to your swollen clit, lapping up every drop of your arousal like it was the only thing keeping him alive. 

He groaned deeply into your pussy, the sound was filthy. “Fuck, baby… you taste even better than I remembered,” he said against your folds before diving back in.

He ate you out with aggression, swallowing your clit into the heat of his mouth, swirling his tongue around the bundle of nerves before releasing it with a filthy pop. The sudden loss of suction made you whimper, only for him to immediately flick the tip of his tongue rapidly against your clit as his stubble scraped against your inner thighs with every movement of his head.

Robby alternated between deep licks that plunged his tongue inside you, fucking you with it in slow strokes that had you dripping down his chin, and tight suction on your clit that made you curl your toes hard.

Every time you tried to muffle your moans, he only doubled down, sucking harder, licking deeper, devouring you like he’d been dreaming about this exact taste for years. He gripped your ass, spreading you wider for his mouth, holding you firmly in place so you couldn’t escape the assault of his tongue.

“Oh my God… Robby—” Your voice cracked as he flicked his tongue rapidly over your clit. “Fuck, right there, don’t stop, please don’t stop…”

He ate it like he loved it. Like he needed it. His hands weren’t idle either. One arm banded across your lower stomach, holding you down when your hips started bucking too wildly. The other hand reached up to palm and squeeze your bare breasts, making you moan louder.

You pushed up onto your elbows, desperate to watch him. The sight was both obscene and intoxicating, Robby’s head buried between your thighs, his shoulders flexing as he worked, eyes closed in pure bliss while his mouth devoured your cunt. His jaw was moving with every lick and every suck, his lips and chin already shiny with your wetness. When he glanced up and caught you watching, his eyes darkened even more.

He pulled back just enough to spit directly onto your swollen pussy, a thick glob of saliva landing right on your clit. The warm sensation made you gasp, asd he watched it drip down your folds for half a second before he drove back in, spreading the spit with his tongue, mixing it with your own slick until everything was messy and glistening.

“God, look at this pretty pussy,” the words came out muffled against you. “So fucking wet for me. Been waiting four years to taste you again.”

He continued his relentless assault on your clit, and you couldn’t look away. The sight of this strong man, completely lost between your legs, eating your pussy like it was his favorite meal, was almost too much.

“You’re so fucking good at this… shit, your mouth—” A broken moan escaped you when he sucked hard on your clit again. “I’m gonna… I can’t!  Robby, I’m close already…”

Your second orgasm built fast, and it crushed over you without mercy, making you bow your back off the bed, tearing a broken cry from your throat as the pleasure peaked. Robby didn’t let up for a second, he sucked your nub harder, drawing the orgasm out until it felt endless.

Your vision whited out, tears spilling down your cheeks as the pleasure rolled through you while he kept licking you through it greedily.

You sobbed his name, “Robby… fuck—oh god,” as your body shook uncontrollably, clamping his thighs around his head when the intensity bordered on too much. 

He finally eased off only when your cries turned into overwhelmed whimpers, your body limp and trembling on the bed. But even then, he didn’t pull away completely. Robby continued placing soft kisses to your folds, licking up every drop of your release like he couldn’t bear to waste any of it. His hands soothed your thighs, rubbing circles while you came down.

Robby lifted his head, letting you admire his lips and chin glistening with your cum between your spread thighs. “Four years… and you still taste like heaven.”

When he finally started kissing his way up your body, his mouth was soft, reaching your mouth and kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. He pulled back, hovering his face above yours. “You okay, baby?” he asked with an edge of worry in his tone, cupping your cheek with one hand, brushing away a tear. “Talk to me. Was that too much?”

You managed a shaky nod, still catching your breath. “I’m… fine. Just… holy shit, Robby.”

He chuckled softly, pleased with himself after seeing the effect his mouth had on you. “You’ve got the most perfect pussy in the world, you know that? So fucking pretty when you cum. And look at the mess you made…” He glanced down between your bodies at the soaked sheets, a proud and filthy smirk tugging at his mouth. “You still soak everything when I eat you out. God, I love how wet you get for me.”

Your voice came out breathy, needy, honest in a way you haven’t been with him in years.You were finally embracing what you truly wanted. “I need you, Robby. All of you. Please.”

Something possessive flashed in his eyes. He didn’t make you ask twice this time, just sat back on his heels and stripped in a rush, yanking his shirt over his head, then shoving his pants and boxers down his thighs in one impatient motion. His cock sprang free, looking every bit as thick as you remembered it, with the head already flushed in a dark red, leaking precum. 

He was rock-hard, with the veins standing out along the shaft, curving slightly upward the way you loved, because it hit your g-spot so easily. He knelt between your spread thighs, pressing his into the mattress, and looked down at you with hunger. “Stroke it a little,” he asked you. “Let me feel your hand on me first.”

You sat up just enough to reach him, wrapping your fingers around his impressive length. He felt hot in your palm as you gave him a firm stroke from the base to the tip, swirling your thumb over the leaking head to spread the precum. Your touch made Robby groan deeply, twitching his hips forward into your touch.

“Fuck… It’s so big,” you whispered, locking your eyes on the way your hand looked around him. “I need it so much, Robby. I’ve missed this cock. Missed how full you make me.”

He watched your hand move, his breathing growing increasingly ragged with every stroke. “Slow, baby. Just like that. Real slow.” His voice was strained, like he was already fighting not to cum from your touch alone. “Shit, I’m close already. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this… your hand feels too fucking good.”

You kept stroking him slowly, twisting your wrist on the upstroke, squeezing just the way he’d always liked. Robby's head fell back for a moment, a moan rumbling in his chest, before he looked down again, watching your tits move with each stroke, watching your slick pussy still glistening from his mouth, waiting for him.

He reached down and gently took your wrist, stilling your hand. Then he shifted forward, gripping the base of his cock and rubbing the thick head up and down your soaked slit, coating himself in your wetness. The pressure against your clit made you whimper.

Robby leaned over you, bracing one hand beside your head, the other still holding his cock against your entrance. He locked his eyes onto yours. “Should we.. uh… grab a condom?”

You didn’t even hesitate, spreading your legs wider for him, sliding your hands up his arms to grip his shoulders. “I’m on the pill,” you whispered. “Go raw. I want to feel all of you.”

A deep groan escaped him as he notches the head of his cock right against your entrance, pressing just enough to tease the stretch without pushing inside yet. He cupped your face with his free hand, brushing your lower lip while he held himself right there, waiting for the moment he finally sank into you after four long years.

When he finally pushed forward, you felt the blunt pressure increasing, letting you feel every inch as he sank into you. You both moaned at the same time, he was thicker than you remembered in the haze of memory, and the stretch was intense, bordering on overwhelming after so long without anyone inside you. Your walls parted around him, fluttering and clenching as he slid deeper, inch by slow inch, until his hips were flush against yours and he was buried to the hilt inside you.

The fullness was perfect, almost too much, pressing against that deep spot that made you curl your toes instantly. “Fuck… baby,” Robby groaned, dropping his forehead to yours for a second. “You feel… Jesus Christ. So tight. So fucking wet and warm. I missed this pussy so much.”

He stayed still for a heartbeat, letting you adjust, both of you just breathing each other in after four long years. Then he started to move. The first thrust was slow and deep, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in with a wet sound. The second was a little harder. By the third, he’d found a steady rhythm, long and powerful strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. The drag and stretch were incredible, every time he bottomed out, the head of his cock kissed that deep place that made sparks explode behind your eyes.

“Oh my God… Robby,” you moaned, already trembling, and he’d just started. “You’re so fucking deep.”

It felt amazing for both of you. For you, it was like waking up after years of numbness, every nerve lighting up, pleasure flooding your body in waves with every thrust. For Robby, the groan that left him is guttural, almost pained with how good it felt to finally be inside the only place that’d ever made sense in his life.

His hips snapped forward harder, the slap of skin on skin filling the bedroom as he fucked you with measured strokes. You were trying so hard to stay quiet, bringing your hand to your mouth to bite down on the side of it, muffling the moans that kept trying to spill out. You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, then fluttered them open again. Robby was watching you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, flicking his gaze between your face, your lips parted, eyes glassy with pleasure, to your tits bouncing with every thrust, and down to where your pussy was stretched wide around his cock. 

He watched himself disappear inside you, the shiny wetness coating his shaft every time he pulled back, your folds clinging to him greedily. “Fuck, look at that. Your pretty pussy taking me so well after all this time. Stretched so tight around my cock… making such a mess on me.”

You bit harder into your hand as a particularly deep thrust made you whimper loudly. Robby’s rhythm started to pick up, snapping his hips with more force, the perfect angle to hit your spot inside you over and over, making you clench around his length.

“Shit… right there,” you whimpered. “That spot… fuck! I can feel every inch. God, I’m so full.”

“Stop squeezing like that,” he groaned, almost pleading, tightening his grip on your hips. “You’re gonna make me cum already if you keep clenching around me like that. This pussy is too perfect… so fucking good. Feels like heaven. I’ve dreamed about this for years… being buried inside you again.”

He leaned down and captured your mouth in a messy kiss, swallowing your muffled moans, before he suddenly gripped the backs of your thighs and lifted your legs, hooking them over his broad shoulders. The new angle let him sink even deeper, and the next thrust punched the air out of your lungs as he bottomed out completely, pressed his hips tightly against your ass, grinding his cock against that deepest spot.

“Oh my god—Robby!” You gasped against your hand, rolling your eyes back. “Like that! Like that… Please don’t stop.”

He fucked you harder now, making the bed creak softly beneath you. “So perfect,” he panted between thrusts. “You feel so fucking perfect. This body… these tits… this tight little pussy squeezing me. I missed you so much. Missed fucking you like this.”

He slid a hand between your bodies, finding your swollen clit with his thumb and rubbing firm circles in time with his thrusts. The added stimulation was pushing you toward the edge fast.

“Cum for me, baby,” he growled. “I want to feel you cum around my cock. Let me feel it.”

When the pleasure started cresting, your words turned into fragmented, needy whimpers. 

“Yes… yes… right there, oh fuck, I’m cumming. Michael, I’m cumming—”

The combination of his deep strokes, the pressure on your clit, and the overwhelming fullness after four years was too much. Your third orgasm of the night crashed over you even harder than the other two. Your back arched violently off the bed, a broken cry tearing from your throat despite your teeth sinking into your hand. Your pussy clamped down around him like a vice, pulsing and fluttering rhythmically as waves of intense pleasure ripped through you.

Robby groaned loudly, his hips stuttering as he felt his own impeding orgasm approaching. “That’s it—fuck, yes—milk me, baby. I’m cumming—”

He thrusted deep one last time, burying himself as far as he could go, and finally allowed himself to cum. You felt the thick pulses of his seed as he filled you up, rope after rope of cum flooding deep inside you, so much that you could feel it spilling out around his cock where you were stretched around him. Robby kept grinding his hips against you through his orgasm, drawing it out, making sure every drop stayed inside you as long as possible.

He stayed buried deep while you both came down, breathing hard, your bodies slick with sweat. Your legs were still over his shoulders, your pussy still gently fluttering around his softening cock. 

“Four years,” he whispered hoarsely against your lips. “And you’re still mine.”

An incredulous chuckle rumbled out of his chest, utterly satisfied. His brown eyes were in disbelief, like he genuinely couldn’t believe he just got to be inside you again after all this time. The lines around his eyes crinkled deeply as he smiled. “Jesus Christ,” he murmured, sounding a little husky fro  the exertion. “I can’t believe I just got to be inside you again. That was… fuck. That was the best fuck of my life. Better than I remembered. Better than anything.”

He stayed there a moment longer, savoring the connection, before he finally pulled out of you. You both groaned at the loss, a thick of his cum leaking out of you onto the already-soaked sheets. Robby rolled off you and onto his back beside you, reaching out with one arm to pull you against his side

He turned his head to look at you, brushing damp strands of hair off your forehead with gentle fingers. “How was that for you, baby?” he asked softly. “Tell me. Was it okay? Did I hurt you at all?”

You huffed a small, tired laugh against his collarbone. “You already know the answer.”

He hummed, but didn’t let it drop. “Say it anyway.”

“Robby.” You tilt your head back just enough to meet his eyes. “Stop fishing for compliments. You already know exactly how good it felt. It was amazing. More than amazing. I don’t even have words for it. I came so hard I— God, I needed that.”

He smiled again with a satisfied grin, and pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. “Good. That’s all I wanted, to make you feel as good as you made me feel.”

As the afterglow started to fade, and reality started to creep back in… the sleeping five-year-old down the hall, the careful co-parenting boundaries you’ve both worked so hard to maintain. You shifted slightly, propping yourself up on one elbow to look at him.

“You should get going now. It’s late. Hannah will be up early, and I don’t want her to wake up and find you here. It might make things weird or confusing for her.”

Robby let out a genuine laugh, rolling onto his side to face you fully. “Oh, so that’s how it is? You use me to break your four-year celibacy, three orgasms, mind you, and now you’re kicking me out?” His eyes sparkled with humor, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Cold, woman . Real cold. I give you the best, and only, dick you’ve had in years, and this is the thanks I get? Straight to the door?”

You couldn’t help but laugh with him, swatting lightly at his chest. “I’m serious. You know how she is. If she comes in here looking for me in the morning and sees you in my bed, she’ll have a million questions. Or she’ll think we’re back together and get her hopes up. We can’t do that to her.”

He propped himself up on one elbow, too, mirroring your position, still grinning that cocky grin that made him look ten years younger. “Three orgasms,” he repeate, holding up three fingers like he was making a point. “I ate that pussy until you were crying and shaking, then fucked you so deep you saw stars, and now I’m being evicted? Harsh, really harsh. I feel so used right now.”

“Robby,” you said, trying to sound stern but failing as another laugh bubbled up. “Come on. You know I’m right.”

He sighed dramatically, flopping back onto the pillow but keeping one arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer so your bare breasts pressed against his chest. “I don’t want to go. Not yet. I want to stay here and cuddle you. Just hold you for a while. I promise I’ll leave early tomorrow morning, before Hannah wakes up. I’ll set an alarm, sneak out. She’ll never know I was here. Please, baby. Let me stay. I missed this. Missed holding you after.”

You hesitated, chewing your lip. The warmth of his body against yours, the beat of his heart under your palm, the way he kept tracing circles with his  fingers on your lower back… it all feels dangerously good. 

He sensed your wavering and leaned in, pressing soft kisses along your jaw, then to your lips. “You’re perfect,” he murmured between kisses. “So fucking perfect. The way you took me tonight, the way you came for me… You made me feel whole again. Nothing in my life has ever compared to this. You and Hannah… you two are the best things that ever happened to me. Being inside you again, hearing you moan my name… it reminded me how much I still need you. How much I’ve always needed you.”

He tightened his arm around you, pulling you fully against his chest so you were tucked into his side, resting your head on his shoulder. Robby slid one of his legs between yours, tangling you together under the messy sheets. He kept kissing you, your forehead, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose, then back to your mouth in lingering presses. 

“I mean it,” he whispered against your hair. “You made me the happiest man alive when you gave me Hannah, but nights like this… being with you like this… it completes something in me. I feel alive. Whole. Like the missing piece finally clicked back into place. No one else has ever made me feel this way. No one else ever could.”

You melted into him despite yourself, and the night passed in fragments of deep sleep, the kind you haven’t had in years. Robby’s arm stayed across your waist the whole time, with his fingers splayed over your stomach like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. His chest rose and fell against your back in an even rhythm, and the snoring… God, the stupid snoring you’d missed so much.

You woke slowly, first to the weight of him, then to the ache between your legs, the reminder of last night still dried on your inner thighs. You felt him stir behind you as consciousness returned. You could practically hear the smile before you even turned your head.

When you did roll over, he was already looking at you with his eyes half-lidded, sleepy, and crinkled at the corners. And yeah, there it was, that stupid and contented grin spreading across his face like he’d just won the lottery.

“Stop smiling,” you muttered. “You’re creeping me out.”

He huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, didn’t even try to dial it back. If anything, it got wider. “Can’t help it,” he said. “Woke up next to the most gorgeous woman in the world. Kinda hard not to smile about that.”

Heat climbed up your neck despite yourself. You rolled your eyes, trying to play it off. “Flattery at six a.m. is a cheap move, Robinavitch.”

“Fuck,” he breathed, roaming his eyes over your face like he was seeing it for the first time. “Look at you.”

He dropped his gaze appreciatively, taking in the messy hair spilling across the pillow, the sheet tangled around your bare hips, the faint marks his mouth left on your collarbone last night. He reached out, tracing one with his thumb, gently.

“Don’t even think about it, Michael,” you warned him. You’d had your fun last night. It had been amazing, even better than you remembered sex with Robby ever being. But it had been one time. One stupid lapse of judgment, one moment of weakness that couldn’t repeat itself again. You couldn’t let it. Not when the delicate balance you’d fought so hard to maintain for Hannah was so stable. You refused to risk your daughter’s sense of security just because your body still craved the man who used to know every inch of you better than anyone else.

Robby snapped his eyes back to yours, looking equal parts hungry and amused. “You know how I get when you call me Michael.”

“Last night was a relapse. I was tired, and… Emotional. Not happening again today. Not happening again ever, as a matter of fact.”

“Yeah?” He laughed before he shifted, rolling you onto your back in one smooth motion. His body came down over yours, caging you under his weight. Robby braced his forearms on either side of your head, his knees bracketing your hips. “You sure about that?”

You pushed at his shoulder. “Robby… get off.”

He stirred above you, lifting his head. For a moment, he didn’t move, but you kept pushing, gentle but insistent, until he finally rolled off you with a sigh and propped himself up on one elbow.

“All of this… It was a mistake,” you sat up and pulling the sheet up over your bare chest, suddenly too aware of your nakedness.

Robby reached for you instinctively, but you shifted away, scooting back against the headboard. “Why?” he asked. “It felt fucking amazing for both of us. You know it did. We’re good at this, we’ve always been good at this.”

You shook your head, the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way your bodies still fit together like they remembered every single time before… it made your resolve weaken. “You know why not. I can’t just think about ourselves anymore. We have to think about Hannah. We can’t hurt her. We already crashed once, and I’m not putting her through big changes, through the uncertainty, the chance that everything falls apart all over again.” You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “I know you, Michael. In a month you’re going to regret this. You’re going to need space, and your head won’t be in the right place for commitment. I won’t do that to her. I won’t do that to any of us.”

Robby sat up fully now, the playful morning haze completely gone from his face. “It’s different this time. The first time… everything was happening all at once. You know how fucked up I was… After Covid, after… everything that happened. Having to take care of the whole ED… I was drowning. I couldn’t be what you needed. But I’m not that man anymore. You know I’ve changed. You’ve seen how much being a father changed me.” He leaned forward slightly. “I want you. I want this. I want the family. I want the commitment.”

You swallowed hard, and for one dangerous moment, you let yourself imagine it, waking up like this every morning with his warmth beside you, the three of you as a real family, lazy weekends and shared dinners and Hannah running between you both. The picture was so beautiful it hurt, but reality settled back in fast.

“You should go,” you whispered, looking away toward the window so he wouldn’t see the tears gathering in your eyes. “We shouldn’t keep talking about this anymore.”

Robby exhaled, running a hand through his messy, sleep-tousled hair. “It’s not fair.”

You let out a bitter little laugh. “A lot in life isn’t fair, Robby. You know that better than anyone else.”

He watched you for a long moment. The silence stretched between you until he finally swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. You stayed under the sheet, trying not to watch the familiar way his muscles moved as he gathered his clothes from the floor and got dressed.

When he reached the bedroom door, he paused, turning back to you with that half-smirk that you knew meant trouble. “You can try, but I know you can’t stay away from all of this for too long. I’m a real catch.”

You couldn’t help the tired laugh that escaped you. “Goodbye, Michael.”

He gave you one last long look full of affection before he slipped out of the room and down the stairs. The sheets still smelled like him, your skin still remembered his hands, nd you were left alone with the echo of everything you wanted but couldn’t let yourself have. 

PART TWO HERE

A/N: Oh my god, I finally wrote something!!!😭 I’d had this idea sitting in my brain for so long, and the other day I finally felt the urge to start it. After about a week, and using all the free time I have between work and college, I actually managed to finish it. Finally something with a bit of plot, lol.

I really hope you enjoyed this idea! I’d love to write a second part, but with my schedule… that could be anywhere from two weeks to a year from now. It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything, so it’d be really nice to hear your thoughts, if you liked it, your favorite parts, anything really🫶🏻

dividers by: @cafekitsune

[queensinxs]

his wife ── michael robinavitch michael 'robby' robinavitch x wife!reader.

summary: robby doesnt advertise his marriage. so when his wife shows up at ED to discuss their son, safe to say the residents were shocked. now they wonder how the two of you met. this throws him back to when he was a ms3.

content warnings: reader and robby w/ 2 year age gap. thought to be 22 and robby 24 when met, around when he'd be a MS3. fluff. med school robby. lightly flirty young robby. lil mention of mature content so pls mdni 18+. reader is clinical psychologist/completeting masters to be one. lowkey implied fem reader shorter than robby. im short im sorry. he adores his wife like hard. two kids.

authors notes: lowkey med school au and robby who isn't as emotuonally consipated in the show. lowkey wanna do a few bits here and there about their life but not sure lol. inspired by this meme.

word count: 4079

Everyone was aware of the chain that hung around Robby’s neck. It peeked from under his scrubs sometimes. Though, no one knew what might be on the chain. There might be nothing or there could be something. Either way, it was always tucked under his shirt.

Nobody questioned it, never really thought to. He’s a private person. Residents don’t ask about his personal life. But they get curious when he steps out to the ambulance bay sometimes, phone to ear. 

Santos thinks that maybe he’s faking to take a break. Whitaker thinks he might be talking to a relative, parent or sibling. Javadi thinks … Well, she isn’t quite sure what to think. But she doesn’t think its what Santos or Whitaker’s thinking.

So when a gorgeous woman strolled into the department, beelining towards the charge nurse with a smile, they were confused to say the least. You seemed to be friendly and familiar with Dana, greeting each other like old friends. 

The med student and two residents share subtle looks, watching the interaction. 

“Is my husband around?” You asked Dana, glancing around to see if he was nearby. It was never predictable where he might be. It’s not uncommon for him to not answer his phone when he works and you don’t blame him. It’s understandable. But it’s rare for you to show up at the department, that usually means it’s important.

The three watching noticed your eyes wandering, quickly busying themselves. Santos and Javadi looked at the same computer, as if they were reading results together. While Whitaker fumbled with the chart he’d picked up. The two women look at him in disbelief and annoyance. Smooth. 

“Trauma one. He’s in a mood.” Dana pre warned you, giving you a knowing look. You weren’t surprised by the fact, very aware how moody Robby can be when he’s stressed. 

“Not surprising.” You huffed out a dry laugh. “When isn’t he?”

“True that.” The charge nurse hiffs, knowing you'd understand more than anyone. But you’re able to diffuse him unlike anyone else. 

“Alright if I hang around?” You asked, knowing the answer but much preferring to be sure instead of assuming. 

“Of course.” Dana assured you, well aware you don’t like to presume but instead hear directly. Everyday is different in the ED. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just Levi.” You explained, not details but enough for her to understand that something had happened. Your son could get into his own mess these days, he’s 22 and at college, figuring out his life. Didn’t mean he didn’t avoid doing dumb shit. 

Before Dana could respond, her mouth hanging open before shutting as a painstakingly familiar voice rang out. 

“What’re you doing here?” You heard your husband’s gruff voice, head turning as he wandered up beside you. He pressed a kiss to your head before his eyes returned to your face. Concern was etched across his features, worried that something was wrong. You didn’t show up here without a reason. 

Javadi tried to not look invested but she was, Robby was married? Santos and Whitaker thinking the same thing. And this woman is his wife? No way. That can’t be right. 

“Your son decided that getting drunk and running around campus was a good idea.” You informed him dryly. This is the second time you've talked about this. Not that you were angry but more annoyed. You had to leave work, because Robby couldn’t, to go and get him from the police station by his campus. “Naked.”

“Why is he always my son when he does something stupid?” Robby inquired in disbelief before shaking his head immediately. It was too early for this, barely 8:30am.  “Actually, don’t answer that.”

He knew that if either of you had passed the doing something dumb gene, it was him. He had never done something quite like that but he was the more reckless between the two of you. He didn’t need to have his workplace hear about some of the dumb things he’s done in his 20s. 

Levi isn't a bad kid. Just tends to do dumb things.

Javadi, Whitaker and Santos all shared glances in utter shock. This man has a son? A kid? No way. They don't believe they’d heard this correctly. 

“Anyways. He’s alright. But he called Jack who called me.”

“Fuck.” Your husband signed, hanging his head low before looking back at you. “You going to get him?”

He gave you a look that said you gonna go or… not to rush you out but instead to figure out why you were hanging around with your shared son behind local station bars. 

“Yeah.” You nodded, pausing before you explained absentmindedly. “Letting him sweat a bit.”

“You’re evil.” He commented dryly. 

“It’s why you married me.” You grinned. 

He huffed a soft yet dry laugh. He won’t even deny it. Your nature was one of the many reasons he’d fallen inlove with you in the first place. He knows how incredible of a mother you are. He’s cherished raising children with you. He’d never seen you so soft and loving. He sometimes still found it hard to believe you had married and had kids with him. 

But he was aware that you weren’t going to let this stint slide. 

“That’s why you’re here?” He quizzed, almost a little amused, though pissed that his son had done something so stupid. This would be something you two would discuss with him later. 

“Partially. But thought I'd tell you before Jack blabs at shiftchange.” You answered, not going to have spoken to him later about this. It was too important. And you knew Jack would’ve let him know this evening. Better if it comes from you. 

Jack has been a staple in your kids' lives since he’d met Robby years ago. When Robby had started working at PTMC as an attending, you’d been pregnant with your second child. When Jack had joined a few years later, your kids were 8 and 6 at the time. He’d immediately grown attached, loving them like they were his own. They adored him, not having a day without him since (minus when he’d been in the army and deployed). 

As much as he loves them, he made it clear he wouldn’t keep things from you and Robby. Especially when it’s important. He loved them. But he loves you both too. All of you are like his family. He wasn’t going to lie. 

“Good thinking.” He nodded, appreciative you’d told him instead of letting him be blindsited later. 

“I’ll head out.” You said, wanting to get this whole thing sorted and just get back home. Not like you’d go back to the office. Thankfully your appointments were all via zoom today, it helped. “Hopefully won’t take too long but i’ll let you know.”

“Alright, thanks.” Robby replied, pressing a kiss to your forehead. It was something he always did when you’d separate for the day. “See you after work.”

“I love you.” You said softly, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips.

“I love you, honey.”

You waved goodbye to him and Dana, turning back around and heading back to your car. 

“You’re married?” Santos blurted in disbelief, unable to keep it in. Whitaker nudged her with his elbow in panic, she should not have said that. 

He looks over at her, pulling the chain out from under his undershirt. The chain dangled with a gold band hanging from it. His wedding ring. “26 years.” 

He doesn’t hide he’s married. He just doesn’t find himself needing to share that information unwarranted. He loves his wife and kids but he prefers to keep his family outside of the workplace. So if he’s not prompted, he doesn't talk about them. 

“How… when … what?” Santos stammered, in disbelief he’s been married. To you. For 26 years. 

“You didn’t know?” Langdon quizzed the three as he wandered to the desk, amused at their shocked expressions.

“Don’t act like you didn’t react the same way when you found out.” Dana mused, shooting Langdon a knowing look. 

He can’t even deny it. When he discovered his attending’s long-lasting marriage, he was shocked. The man didn’t seem emotionally capable. But must've been wrong. He’s grown to know that over the last few years when he’d seen you two interact. 

Robby is a man inlove. 

“How’d you meet?” Javadi mustered up the courage to ask, curious to hear how you’d met. Especially since you’d been married for so long. 

Robby huffed a laugh at the memory, recalling the evening you’d met. It was forever seared into his memory.

1995.

Robby was out with a couple of his med school classmates for a rare night out between rotations. Being a MS3 was intense, going from classroom to real direct-contact work with patients. 

The four of them were mostly sharing how their recent rotation had been. They’d all been put into different specialties. Paediatrics, orthopaedics, cardiology and gastroenterology. 

He was mid laugh when his eyes glanced over the room, eyes locking on you. It felt like his breath had been pulled from his lungs. 

You were out with friends for a monthly catch up. Since you’d both graduated and begun your career’s, you rarely get to spend time together. The two of you made it a point to organise a once a month where you’re both free to catch up in person. Talking on the phone can only do so much for a friendship sometimes. 

The two of you were chatting, discussing recent events in your lives. She was halfway through telling you about an incident at her new job. 

“God, can you believe it?” She said in disbelieving scoff. “I mean, who in their right mind thinks that it’s okay to show up drunk and deny the whole thing, it's just dumb to try and gaslight your boss.”

“That’s so fucked. Please tell me he was fired. Or at least suspended.” You said in disgust, already hating whoever this guy was.

“I wish.” Your friend shook her head in annoyance. She went to take a sip of her drink, to realise it was empty. “But I will say that I need another drink.”

“I’ll get some.” You said as you stood up with a chuckle, grabbing your wallet. Though you gave her a playfully pointed look. “Don’t venture anywhere.”

“No promises.” she teased, though not really planning to go anywhere. She was the type to just wander away without prompt. But honestly, so are you. She’s just worse than you, especially when intoxicated. 

You chuckled and rolled your eyes at the tease, but accepted it. It's normal for the two of you, the teasing. But you do hope she won’t venture far if she decides to. 

You made your way to the bar, sliding up between a tall man and a woman, there being a gap. They weren’t interacting so you took it as a safe spot to choose. It didn’t take long for the bartender to make it to you, barely 30 seconds.

“What can I get for ya?” He asked, leaning forward slightly to make sure he could hear you. It wasn’t too loud but to be safe. 

“Vodka lemonade and a vodka coke please.” You asked kindly, always making sure to be nice to staff. He nodded and got to making the drinks.

Robby glanced down at you when he heard the honeyed voice. Oh shit. It’s you. He made an effort not to stare at you from a distance when he’d noticed you earlier. He’s not shy but he respects you’d been with a friend and he’d been with his. He barely noticed the bartender he’s spoken to before, placing the beers he’d asked for in front of him. 

“Thanks.” He said to the guy but he made no effort to move. He glanced down at you again, at the same time your eyes had flickered up to him. You gave him a smile before looking back ahead of you, eyes seemingly glancing around behind the bar. 

Robby’s attention went back to the bartender as he dug out a few bills and handed them over. He gestured with his head towards you besides him. “Her’s too.”

The bartender nodded, not really having much of a thought as he put the money through, conversing with the other bartender for what you’d asked for to figure out the total cost. 

Your head had snapped up towards him, eyebrows slightly furrowed. You’ve had guys offer to buy you drinks, your friend too. Though never had been quite as forward as this. 

“That’s awfully nice of you.” You commented dryly, looking up at him. You were a little suspicious. But you can't help but think of how gorgeous he is. It’s not actually fair. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch.” He said honestly, offering you a grin that made your heart skip a beat. Fuck this guy. 

“But it got you talking to me.” He added a beat later, that breathtaking grin widening a smidge. 

“Ah, so that was your plan, huh?”

“No, kinda just happened in the moment.” He said with a shrug, grin not faltering. It wasn't a total lie. He had been thinking about ways he could start a conversation with you. He normally can do without ease. But you’d made him throw away the idea of using shitty pickup lines. 

“In the moment.” You chuckled, a grin of your own forming. Somehow you could tell it wasn’t a complete lie, but he wasn’t telling the whole truth. For not, you wouldn’t question it. As gorgeous as he is, you didn’t plan on hanging around long. You had your friend to get back to. 

“That hard to believe?” He teased, having noted you seemed to be somewhat amused. 

“Nope, but you can’t tell me you don’t already have a list of pick-up lines ready to go.” You joked, but half-meaning it. He was unfairly attractive and you’re sure he knew it. No doubt he could easily get a girl’s attention. 

The bartender placed your drinks in front of you. Thanking him, you turned back to the man you’d been interacting with. 

“You got me.” He chuckled, not going to deny it. “But they don’t seem like something you’d be interested in”

“Now that's a line.” You laughed, grin turning into a genuine smile. 

That smile? That nearly stopped his heart. 

“Maybe it is.” He said with a light laugh, not denying but not having intended on it being that way. But really, anything to make sure you kept smiling like that. He leant his head slightly forward towards you, speaking in a conspiratorial murmur. “Did it work?”

“I’m not at liberty to answer that.” You chuckled, unwilling to admit that maybe it was. It might just be his pretty face. But you weren’t immune. 

“Besides, I have my friend to get back to.” You added, gesturing over to your friend. When your eyes landed on her, she seemed to be occupied with a guy. The two close together as they seemed in deep conversation. Good for her.

“Ah, that's one of mine.” he chuckled, eyes having followed where you’d directed and seeing it was one of his friends with your friend. He hadn’t quite anticipated his friend chatting with yours. But it certainly seemed to work in his favour here so he won’t complain. 

“Yeah?” You quizzed but weren’t completely convinced he hadn’t coordinated that. 

“Not my doing. Promise." He chuckled, raising his hands in faux-defence, sensing you thought it may have been. He meant it, genuinely not having a single thing to do with the situation. But he thought of it as good luck. 

Your eyes drifted back to him, eyebrows raised. You looked at him for a few beats before grabbing your friend's drink and one of his beers. “Don’t move.”

He didn’t say anything as you left him, and your own drink. Not a smart move but it hadn’t even occurred to you in the moment. You made your way back to the table your friend was at, placing the drinks down in front of her and her guest. You subtly winked at her before you turned back and headed towards the drink and man you’d left.

As you slid back besides him, he felt elated. He hadn’t felt this excited to just talk to a woman in well … ever. 

“Gonna tell me your name or am i gonna have to guess?”

“Michael. But you can call me Robby.”

“I don’t see how that correlates.” You mused, raising an eyebrow at him. You don't exactly see how those names worked together. Robby? You think Robert. 

“Robinavitch.” he explained with a chuckle, eyes dazzling. 

“Ah, gotcha.” You nodded with another light chuckle. Last name. You told him your name in return. 

He repeated your name, letting it roll off of his tongue. He liked it. It was your name after all. 

The two of you converesed. You discussed your lives, work, study, friends, hobbies. You discovered he was a third year med student, just completing a rotation in cardiology. He mentioned he liked the idea of emergency, wanting to help people at the hardest point of their lives. You respected it, understood it even. You were hanging onto every word he spoke, enjoying the words rolling off his lips and interested in what he was saying. That hasn’t happened in a long time.

He discovered you had graduated with a bachelor of psychology last year, now practising as such as you worked on completing your masters of clinical psychology. You explained how you want to conduct cognitive clinical assessments for patients who think they might have ADHD, autism and anything else that might support patients understand what is going on inside their brains. You didn’t go into details but you had admitted you’d had your own struggles with mental health. That being a huge part of wanting to support others with theirs. You wanted to work in a few areas of psychology, he had gathered. 

You two spoke for hours. Literally hours. About everything and nothing at the same time. You joked, had serious topics at hand and discussed absolutely anything either of you could think of. 

You checked the time on the wall with a glance, realising it was nearing 12am. God, you’d been talking to him since about 9, knowing you’d been here since at least 8 when you and your friend had arrived. Neither of you even touched your drinks, both just sitting there useless. 

“Not to cut this short…” You said with a light huff as you got up from the seat you’d been on. Eventually the two of you had drifted to an empty table, finding it more comfortable to be seated as you chatted. But he would’ve happily stood there in discomfort if he got to hear your voice. Not that he’d admit that. “...but I should go, it's nearly 12.”

He looked at the clock as you spoke, eyes widening in surprise. It had been 3 hours? That’s how long he’d been talking to you. It felt like it had been 30 minutes. His eyes drifted back to you, not going to argue. He should probably find out if his friends are still here or not. You’d both noticed yours and his friend leaving earlier, so you didn’t need to worry about her being alone. 

“Yeah, it was great talking to you.” He said with a soft smile. He was disappointed you were leaving but he understood. And he wasn’t going to make assumptions. Not with you. Other women he may have made some sort of line, getting them to go home with him or vice versa to never see them again the next day. But he didn’t want to do that with you. 

“You too.” You replied with a smile of your own. “Bye, Michael.”

“Bye.” He smiled, his lips tugging wider at the use of his first name. Not his nickname. But his name. He watched as you waved and made your exit, eyes trailing you as you walking out the front door. He let out a small sigh, disappointed you were gone. He realised a moment later that he hadn’t even asked for your number. The thought slipped. Likely to avoid the anxiety. He;d never been anxious to ask a girl for her number before. 

Meanwhile, the cold air was a welcomed slap to the face from the heat of inside the bar. It was soothing. But you couldn’t help the disappointment you felt. You had really begun to like him. You’d spoken for hours. Not like you’d spilled your entire life story. But still, you thought something was there. Something you hadn’t felt before. Not with your exes. 

You became annoyed. Had he not felt that? Or did he? Either way, he didn’t ask for any form of contact details for you. 

With a huff, you turned back inside and marched towards him. 

Robby was shocked when he saw your figure storming towards him. He had just stood up to go in search for his friends. 

“Okay. We have something. There’s this … this… I don't know … spark. It's there.” You ranted, eyes wide as you looked up at him. You wished you could blame it on the alcohol because this was not something you did. But you couldn’t help but blurt this at him. You can be embarrassed later. “We’ve been talking for hours. Literal hours. And you don’t ask for my number? Seriously? What the fuck?!”

His eyes were wide in shock as you spoke before softening. He hadn't exactly anticipated you running back to tell him off. It was hot. A soft grin tugged at his lips at each word you said. 

“What?” You asked him in annoyance, arms now crossed over your chest. 

“Is it too late to ask for your number?” He questioned, a hint of tease mixed in the hope in his voice. He had wanted to ask but had been caught off guard by you leaving. He was nervous at the prospect. What if you’d said no? That’d have just about broken his heart. 

“You’re asking now?” You asked dryly. “Because I yelled at you?”

“First, you didn't yell. You firmly stated your annoyance.” He corrected genuinely but firmly  “second, i wanted to but i got nervous.”

“Nervous?” you quizzed, not quite believing that. He hadn’t been nervous the entire time you’d spoken to him. Not openly anyways. 

“Yeah. Nervous.” He admitted without shame. “Beautiful girl I've been talking to all night rejects me? That's nerve-wrecking.”

“Enough with the lines.” You responded dryly. He hadn’t really given you lines but that didn’t automatically exclude him from going to use them. 

“Not a line. I'm serious.” Robby said, sincerity seeping through his voice. His eyes didn’t leave yours. He wanted you to know he wasn’t trying to be smooth. Just honest. 

You stared at him for a few moments, debating if you could trust it. He sounded painfully sincere. You don’t think you can fake this kind of honestly. 

“Still want my number?”

Present. 

“I love her.” Javadi rushed out immediately, then flushing with embarrassment as she realised she said that outloud. Her hand covered her mouth in shock at her own words. 

Robby just chuckled, which surprised her and the two residents. 

“She’s incredible.” He commented fondly. His mind reeled with thoughts of you. Both from recent years and the early times of your relationship. 

“Careful, you’re sounding human.” Dana joked, though she had grown fond of the dynamic between you and the attending. He was practically a different person with you. Your kids too. 

“Don’t let my daughter hear that, she’ll use it against me.” He joked back, having broken out of his thoughts and preferring the humour based dynamic in the workplace. He didn’t need to be vulnerable here. Not about his family.

Before anyone could respond, he headed off. Intending to see a patient, check in to see how his residents are doing. But he’d instead slowed his moments and pulled out his phone, pulling up your text chain.  

Husband <3: if he claims he was dared, you’re going to let me eat you out Wife: if he says that he’s made a mistake and won’t do it again, you’ll eat me out Husband <3: deal

“I’m sorry … DAUGHTER?!” 

He heard the disbelief of his resident, ignoring the question and instead pocketing his phone continuing on his day. He’s the chief attending here. At home? He’s just a man who’s obsessed with his wife.

© queensinxs 2026.

[jacksabbotts]

. ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ THE SOUND OF HEAT

── . ✦ ♯ 𓊆 SUMMARY 𓊇 part fourteen — in which jack asks to eat you out, specifically he asks for you to ride his face. wc 4.0k

possible trigger warnings .ᐟ lowercase intended!!!! ◞ Miscommunication ( with a CAPITAL M ) ◞ face riding ◞ multiple orgasms ◞ dirty talk ◞ overstimulation

the morgue 𝜗𝜚 dividers @uzmacchiato

the bath helped.

your muscles are looser now. your mind quieter. you’re wrapped in soft lotion and warm skin and a fresh pair of lacey things you picked out without thinking too hard—nothing dramatic, not like last time. just soft blush-pink mesh. a little satin. barely anything at all.

jack hasn’t seen it yet.

you step out of the bathroom still drying your hair, and he’s already in the bedroom—clean shirt, sweatpants low on his hips, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. he’s turned down the lights. the bed’s made. and he’s waiting for you.

you stall in the doorway. you pretend to fiddle with your towel. but jack just looks at you and smiles, slow and wrecked like he already knows what you taste like.

you stand there. he crosses the room. and then—without ceremony, without buildup—he says, “can i eat you out?”

your whole body locks.

“w-what?”

you’re not stupid. you knew this moment would come. you’ve thought about it. fantasized. tucked your face into your pillow and whispered his name more times than you’ll admit.

but hearing him say it?

hearing him ask it like that?

plain. confident. like it’s the most normal thing in the world?

devastating.

you look up at him with wide eyes, heat crawling up your spine.

“i—um—what?”

jack steps closer.

you don’t realize you’re backing toward the bed until the backs of your knees touch the mattress. he’s in front of you now, chest broad, towering over you in that way that makes your heart beat in strange places.

he reaches up slowly—one hand cupping the back of your neck, warm and grounding.

and then he leans in.

his mouth brushes your jaw. the edge of your throat. his lips drag up your neck in a slow, open-mouthed kiss that stops just below your ear.

his breath is warm when he speaks. “i want to taste your pussy.” you make a noise that isn’t a word. jack smiles against your skin.

“you okay, sweetheart?”

“i—i don’t—” you’re flustered. blushing. words refusing to form. “i just—are you sure?” he pulls back just enough to look you in the eye. you blink up at him. your voice is barely above a whisper.

“i know some guys don’t like that. you don’t have to. i don’t want you to feel like you have to just because . . . ”

jack’s expression shifts. something darkens behind his eyes. his jaw tightens. “sweetheart,” he says. “you think i’m askin' this to be polite?”

you don’t answer.

“i’ve been dreaming about this,” he says, voice lower now, like it’s dragging gravel through your gut. “i’ve been losing sleep over this. you—spread out, soaking wet, coming on my tongue?”

you whimper. he brushes your hair behind your ear. “i don’t just want to eat you out,” he says. “i want you to ride my fucking face. i want you to hold my head there and use me ‘til your legs give out.”

your knees actually buckle. jack catches you by the waist. still smiling. still waiting for your answer.

“can i?” he asks again. “can i taste you, baby?”

you’re still half frozen when he pulls back—not far, just enough that the warmth of his mouth is no longer trailing your skin. his hand lingers at the base of your neck, thumb brushing softly, like he’s waiting for you to come back to yourself. but all you can do is blink at him, heat rising up the sides of your face like a fever.

“i mean it,” jack says, voice lower than before. firmer. “i want to taste you.”

you swallow hard, caught between the throb in your core and the rising wave of nerves in your chest. “you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

his touch vanishes completely.

and it feels like a slap.

you make a little sound without meaning to—a soft, helpless whine—and it breaks the air between you. jack’s already backing up, already climbing onto the bed. not storming. not annoyed. just slow, smooth, and intentional. like a man who knows what he wants. like he’s been planning this.

he leans back on the pillows, arms relaxed behind his head for one slow, showy beat—and then reaches one hand toward you, palm up. his eyes never leave yours. not even once.

“you wanna know if i want to?” his voice is rough now, edged. “get up here and find out.”

your thighs clench together without your permission. the way he’s sprawled there, shirt still on, sleeves pushed to his elbows—like he couldn’t be bothered to undress fully before he devours you—it’s too much. you don’t know how to look at him. you don't know how not to.

still, you hesitate. just half a second. and he sees it.

his jaw tenses, something flickering behind his gaze. not impatience. not anger. “i’m not gonna ask again, sweetheart.” your breath catches.

and then you’re stepping closer. one knee brushes the bed. then the other. your fingers find his, and he guides you gently—deliberately—until you’re straddling his chest, the hem of your soft, delicate lingerie fluttering against his stomach. you try to shift up onto your knees, to give him room—but jack doesn’t let you.

his hands settle on your hips, firm.

holding you right where he wants you.

you barely have time to settle before his grip tightens.

not gentle. not teasing. claiming.

jack’s hands clamp around your hips with startling force, fingers digging in like he’s holding back the full weight of what he wants—like if he doesn’t anchor you, he’ll lose control completely.

“higher,” he says.

you blink. “wha—?”

“up here.” his voice is so fucking low. commanding. reverent. he tugs—firm, insistent—guiding you up his chest. “on my mouth.”

your breath stutters. “jack—”

“told you, i wanna taste you,” he growls, “but i don’t want to just taste you.”

your heart is pounding. the words are sinking in slowly, heavy and hot, even as your brain tries to claw its way out of the fog. he doesn’t just want to eat you out. he wants you to sit on his face.

literally. entirely. straddling his fucking mouth.

your thighs clench automatically, but you don’t move. you can’t. every thought you’ve ever had is short-circuiting inside your skull. “you want me to—”

“yes.”

“jack, i—i can’t—what if i—” you’re shaking now. not visibly. but inside, you’re an earthquake. “what if i squeeze too hard? what if i, like—suffocate you? what if it’s too much—what if i hurt you?”

he huffs a laugh, sharp and dark and feral.

“you won’t.” his fingers tighten again. “and even if you did—” his eyes flash up at you, pupils blown wide, lips parted. “sweetheart, i’d die happy.”

you cover your face with both hands. “jesus fucking christ—”

jack sits up halfway without warning, one arm braced behind him, the other still on your hip. “don’t hide from me,” he murmurs. “look at me while i ask again.”

you peek through your fingers, flushed beyond saving. he waits. slowly, you lower your hands. meet his gaze. it burns. “i want your thighs around my face,” he says. “i want you to grind on my tongue. i want to feel you fall apart on me, not next to me.”

you gasp—like you’ve been punched, like he’s just pulled the last breath from your lungs. but still, you hesitate. “jack, i—”

he doesn’t give you a chance to spiral. not this time.

suddenly, he lies back flat again, dragging you with him. in one smooth motion, he plants both hands on your hips and lifts you up, guiding you higher, higher—until your knees are on either side of his head and your soaked panties are hovering directly over his mouth.

he groans—groans—at the sight.

and then he just lies there. breathing heavy and waiting.

his grip on your thighs is firm now, holding you right where he wants you, but not forcing. not yet. you tremble, bracing one hand on the headboard to steady yourself. “jack—fuck, this is—”

“i got you.” His voice is dark velvet. “i’ve got you.”

you hover there, caught in a gravity stronger than your own shame.

and then he kisses the inside of your thigh. open-mouthed. wet. slow.“sit down, baby,” he says against your skin. “let me drown.”

your thighs are shaking before you’ve even lowered fully—not from exertion, but from the sheer weight of it. of him. of what this means. you feel stupid for how nervous you are. you trust him. you know you do. but this is different.

it’s raw.

it’s humbling.

it’s intimate in a way that makes your ribs ache.

and jack doesn’t rush you.

even now—pinned beneath you, breath hot on your skin, hands strong and steady around your thighs—he waits. your knees settle first.

then your hips. and then finally—you.

jack groans the second your weight sinks onto him. not because he’s overwhelmed. because he’s is starving. and then he begins.

not with a kiss to your clit.

not with a greedy suck or messy lap.

no.

the first touch is a flick—a light, almost accidental swipe of tongue to the very edge of your folds. so gentle it takes you a second to even register that he’s done anything at all.

your hips twitch. he doesn’t chase.

another lick. slightly firmer. the tip of his tongue drawing a path from your entrance to just shy of your clit. you gasp. “jack—”

but he’s not listening.

he’s focused.

every motion is slow. reverent. teasing. he licks you again. and again. and again. never touching your clit.

never giving you the pressure you need.

just long, unhurried drags of his tongue, slick and warm and infuriatingly precise. like he’s studying you. mapping you. memorizing you.

your thighs begin to twitch around his head. “jack, please—” you whimper, rocking your hips just a little, hoping he’ll get the hint.

he growls. his hands squeeze your thighs, locking you in place. “no,” he says, voice muffled and possessive. “stay still.” you whine—guttural and broken.

his breath fans over your clit—still untouched.

another slow lick. his tongue flattens slightly this time, curling at the end. not enough. not anywhere near enough.

you tip forward on instinct, gripping the headboard again, grinding just a little against his mouth.

jack doesn’t stop you, but he also doesn't give in to you. but he doesn’t give in either. the bastard just chuckles darkly—like he lives for this.

like this is exactly what he wanted.

your desperation. your trembling. your whimpering breaths. your taste, soaking his tongue with every denied second.

you whimper again, nearly sobbing when he licks everywhere but your clit. “i can’t—i can’t take it—” jack finally lifts his head the tiniest bit, lips brushing against you. “yes, you can.”

and then—his voice drops even lower, a growl straight to your core, “you’re gonna take every second of it.”

his hands drift—slow and possessive—from the meat of your trembling thighs to the curve of your hips, then higher. across your belly, where the air kisses the sheen of sweat cooling there, and higher still, sliding beneath the hem of your lingerie top like he has every right to touch the skin beneath.

it’s barely a barrier—mesh and satin, delicate as moth wings—but he peels it away like it’s in his way, like he’s never hated a piece of fabric more.

his fingers skim upward, ghosting over the soft give of your ribs, until you shudder.

then, he’s tracing the crooks of your elbows.

gentle. slow. coaxing.

he brushes those sweet, vulnerable bends with a featherlight touch before curling his fingers around your arms and tugging—gently, firmly—until your grip loosens from the headboard.

you hesitate. your hands were your anchor, your only tether. but jack becomes the new one. he intertwines your fingers with his.

and then he drags them down.

not to your sides. not to the sheets. to his head.

right into the thick of his hair—wild and damp and streaked with silver. he forces your fingers to thread through it, then pull. tight.

your gasp is swallowed by the moan that erupts from him.

a deep, guttural, vibrating sound that tears through his chest and straight into your cunt. you feel it like a second heartbeat. you feel it everywhere.

he licks again—those slow kitten licks—and the vibrations grow louder, more desperate, more feral as your fingers twist harder in his hair.

and then it changes. his hands drop back to your hips. and they grab.

hard.

you cry out as he yanks you forward—down—onto his mouth. no more teasing. no more patience. jack groans into you as he devours you now, tongue slipping everywhere, lips sealing around your clit with so much intent you see stars.

you’re not floating anymore.

you’re plummeting. you’re riding his face like your life depends on it and he’s feasting like a man possessed.

you don’t mean to rock your hips—but you do.

you don’t mean to grind down into his mouth, to chase the pressure, the wet heat, the sheer wicked drag of his tongue—but your body has long since stopped listening to you.

your fingers curl tighter in his hair, and jack growls into your pussy—loud and guttural and filthy. it vibrates through you like thunder. his hands grip your hips like anchors, like if you float too far up again he’ll drag you back down and make you take it like he needs you to.

you try—god, you try—to hold back, to ease off his face before your thighs crush his skull like a fucking watermelon, but—“don’t.”

his voice rips through the haze, hoarse and ragged and dangerous. he lifts his mouth just barely from your cunt, just long enough to speak—just long enough to look up at you.

his eyes are wild. glassy. starving.

“you’re not gonna break me,” he says, breathless. “you’re not too heavy. you’re not gonna hurt me.”

one of his hands leaves your hip just long enough to slap your ass—sharp and echoing—before it returns to its grip, guiding you forward again, forcing you back down onto his mouth.

“i can feel you,” he murmurs between kisses, tongue pressing just shy of your clit again, teasing, taunting. “clenching around my fucking tongue. you don’t need permission, sweetheart—but i’m giving it to you anyway.”

you whimper—wrecked and overwhelmed and shaking—and his hands tighten. “let go.”

you start to shake your head, to resist, but jack’s already there—mouth sealed over your clit again, tongue working in steady, slick, punishing circles—and this time, it’s his voice that sounds desperate.

“let go for me. come on my face, pretty thing—let me taste all of it.”

and oh—

oh, fuck.

you do.

you lose it.

your thighs tremble. your hips jerk. your fingers fist in his hair, yanking as the orgasm rips through you like a goddamn explosion—and jack fucking moans through it, never stopping, never relenting, eating you through every pulse, every quake, every gasping, whimpering, soaked second.

and when it’s done, you collapse forward—shaking, panting, dizzy—but he doesn’t let you go.

his grip on your hips doesn’t soften.

his tongue doesn’t stop.

because jack’s not done yet.

your body’s still trembling—soft and wrecked and dripping—and you think maybe he’ll let up now. maybe he’ll let you climb down, let your heartbeat slow, let your muscles relax into that post-orgasm haze.

but he just groans again—deep and needy, like he’s just tasted something holy—and pulls you back down harder. "jack . . . "

“not done,” he mutters, mouth wet and wicked, dragging his tongue through your mess like a man possessed. “didn’t say i was done.”

“please, jack,” you whimper, but it’s useless.

his hands are iron. his mouth is relentless.

he’s licking up everything you’ve given him and still asking for more, tongue working your oversensitive clit in slow, teasing, cruel circles. your thighs twitch. your hips buck. your whole body shudders like it can’t tell if it wants to run or drown.

you sob something incoherent—half a moan, half a plea—but jack just hums, fucking vibrates into you with a smug little noise that tells you he heard it, understood it, and ignored it completely.

“gimme another,” he rasps, pulling back just long enough to suck your swollen clit into his mouth, then pop off with a wet smack. “you’ve got more for me, i know you do. i want it all. every last drop, pretty thing—every fucking drop.”

his fingers dig bruises into your hips. his nose nudges your crease. his tongue—god, his tongue—slides up and down your soaked folds, deliberately skipping your clit, teasing you up and up again until you're panting, whimpering, clawing at his scalp in helpless, fucked-out rhythm.

“jack—jack i can’t—”

“yes you can,” he growls, breath hot and ragged. “you’re gonna come again for me, and again—and then i’ll let you go. not a second before.”

and then he sucks.

your back arches. your thighs clamp. you cry out—shattered, ruined—begging now, babbling things you don’t even understand, don’t even mean except for the part where you do, because you’d give him anything if he just—if he just—

“please,” you gasp, “pleasepleaseplease—”

he moans, fucking moans, drunk on the sound of you, soaking his face with another rush of slick as your body breaks apart again—your second orgasm crashing over you like a fucking tsunami, loud and hot and overwhelming.

you’re shaking.

you’re crying.

you’re gripping his hair like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this plane of existence.

and still—

still—

jack doesn’t stop.

you don’t even realize it’s happening until it’s too late.

the second wave hasn’t even fully receded yet—your thighs still twitching, your chest still heaving—and he’s already pushing you up the slope again, tongue slow and slick, lips dragging in messy circles, all slippery overstimulation and low, hungry moans.

you’re hypersensitive—every flick of his tongue like a shock to the system, every wet suck making your back arch forward with a gasp—“jack—fuck, i—jack, i can’t—”

but your still grinding your hips down on his face, that is the only reason that he keeps going.

“yes you can,” he growls, mouth hot and soaked, tongue laving broad and slow through the wreckage he’s made of you. “gonna make you fall apart for me one more time. that’s it. give it to me, pretty thing. you’re right fucking there—come on.”

and you do.

god, you do.

it hits like a fucking seizure—sudden, blinding, out of nowhere—your entire body locking up, your breath catching, your hands fisting in his hair with a sob as your hips buck wildly against his face.

you can’t even breathe.

you can’t see.

you’re crying, whining, clenching so hard around his tongue you’re not sure he can move—but he doesn’t need to, because you’re gushing for him again, soaking his mouth, his jaw, his fucking soul, and he just moans through it, like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

and maybe it is.

maybe you are.

you pant—shaky, broken—body jolting with every tiny flick of his tongue as he slows, finally easing the pressure, now just lazily lapping through your folds like he’s cleaning up after dessert.

you twitch.

he hums.

you whimper.

he presses a soft, soft kiss to your clit—like an apology.

then another.

then another.

it’s too much.

you choke on a sob, squirming weakly, and reach down with trembling hands to push at his head, dragging your hips up—anything to make it stop. you can’t take it, you can’t, you can’t—

and finally, finally, he relents.

lets you lift yourself off his mouth, gasping and flushed, thighs shaking so hard you collapse sideways onto the bed. he follows you instantly—devoted, smiling, so fucking smug—and his hands never stop moving.

gentle now.

reverent.

dragging up your thighs, across your belly, over your ribs, smoothing your arms and brushing your hair back—touching you everywhere he can reach like he doesn’t know how to stop.

“jesus christ,” you whisper hoarsely, blinking through tears, “jack, you—you’re insane—” he laughs. laughs.

low and easy, head dropping to your shoulder as he presses soft, open-mouthed kisses to your damp skin. “yeah?” he murmurs against your throat, one hand still caressing lazy circles into your hipbone. “then what’s that make you, pretty thing? letting me do it. giving me all that.”

you groan, swinging your leg around until you are no longer hovering over his face. then you're hiding your face against the pillow, and he grins—grins like the bastard he is, cheeks slick with you, eyes dark and gleaming.

“wasn’t even gonna stop,” he adds, almost thoughtfully, hand now skimming up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip. “you pulled me off. otherwise i’d still be down there.”

you shiver.

he leans closer.

“next time,” he says, soft and dangerous, “you don’t pull me off. you beg.”

no words pass between you at first. just breath. just heat. just the wet, sticky sheen still clinging to your inner thighs. you feel it drip a little when you shift, feel the way your lungs keep fluttering like they’ve forgotten how to settle. jack settles beside you on his back, one arm bent behind his head. his other hand swipes lazily across his face.

you watch as he licks his fingers clean.

like he’s at the end of a good meal.

like he’s savoring the memory of it—you—with slow, unhurried delight.

you blink, throat tight, the edges of your vision a little blurry from the come-down, from the disbelief, from the way he’s looking at you out the corner of his eye while he does it.

his fingers are still glistening when they fall to your belly. his palm is warm. heavy. confident.

you can barely breathe.

he drags his hand beneath the rumpled hem of your mesh camisole, fingertips grazing the underside of your breast in a lazy, meandering path. he’s not trying to start anything again—just grounding you. touching you. reminding you, in that quiet jack abbot way, that you’re here, and that he’s not done holding you yet.

when he leans in for a kiss, your body moves without thinking. you meet him halfway, still boneless and wide-eyed, your lips parting under his without a thought.

the taste of you lingers on his tongue.

your head swims. a low sound bubbles in your throat. you can feel him smile against your lips.

his hand strokes up your ribcage now, gentler than before. reverent. thumb skimming just shy of the curve of your breast again. and closer—he’s inching closer. you feel him shift his weight, feel the soft drag of his thigh nudging yours.

and then you feel it.

hardness. heat.

not pressed against you directly, but there.

real.

and your breath catches again—not from surprise, but from certainty. from that ache in your chest that whispers, this is your fault.

he’s not asking you for anything. in fact, when your fingers reach toward the waistband of his pants, his hand comes up to catch yours—not harshly, just enough to guide your hand away.

“it’s alright,” he murmurs. “you don’t need to—”

but you don’t let go. not immediately.

“are you sure?” your voice is still hoarse from all your crying out, still sticky with shock. “i don’t mind. i want to.”

he shakes his head slowly. kisses your temple. “you’ve done enough for me tonight, sweetheart.”

enough.

you nod. say nothing. try to smile.

but your brain is already filling in the blanks.

he’s hard. and he doesn’t want you to touch him. he doesn’t even want to look at you right now. he said he was going to take care of you, and he did, but now.

now he’s declining your touch.

your stomach turns. the flutter in your chest turns sharp and cold.

you want to ask him what’s wrong.

but your mouth stays shut.

you just turn your head, just enough so he doesn’t see your eyes go soft and unfocused and quiet. you stare past him toward the wall, nod again like you believe him, and pretend your bones aren’t slowly icing over.

© jacksabbotts

[jacksabbotts]

. ᵒ .༄ JACK ABBOT x MORGUE TECH!READER CONCEPTS !  ࿔* ·˚ ༘ ┊͙ # 🥼 possible trigger warnings .' name calling - derogatory towards reader :( and mean comments about the readers looks/apperance and weight ( curvy!reader is heavily implied ) , it is very important to note that while the interaction with dr shepherd happens in the main series, jack does not find out about it until ch12 so this is really just an au of that situation and what would have happened if jack found out about it when it first happened ( if this doesn't make sense please ask and i will try to explain it better )  ‧ 💉 ‧ ━━ WC 3.4k

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the morgue was quiet—eerily so.

the overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly, casting a harsh white glow over the stainless steel counters and beige tile. your shift was nearly over, the final case processed, and you stood in the back corridor, scribbling the last of the postmortem notes on your clipboard.

your handwriting was neat. always neat. timed entries, cross-referenced vitals, evidence seals logged with precision. you didn’t cut corners. you couldn’t afford to.

which is why your stomach dropped when the voice cut through the silence. 'well, well. burning the midnight oil, sweetheart?' you flinched and your stomach swirled and it didn't feel the same as when jack had used that nickname on you.

dr. matthew shepherd. chief neurosurgeon. hospital golden boy. expensive watch, polished smile, zero bedside manner. while he wasn't technically your direct supervisor, when when it came to chain of command and rank, he was higher than you and that meant unfortunately, he thought and acted like he was your boss.

you straightened reflexively, arms tight against your chest, clipboard clutched like a shield. 'just finishing tonight’s logs, sir.' shepherd’s shoes sqeaked against the tile as he approached. the sharp scent of his cologne hit before he did—clean, clinical, suffocating.

he plucked the clipboard from your hands without asking.

your heart stalled.

'no hello? no how’s your night, dr. shepherd? tsk.” He flipped through your notes, lips curling into something between amusement and disgust. 'sloppy handwriting. incomplete time entries. missing technician signatures.'

heat crawled up your neck, flushing hot against the cold morgue air. but it wasn’t yours. you knew it wasn’t. those were early shift notes. you weren’t even on call when the body was first brought in. but to him? all morgue techs were the same. disposable. invisible.

it could’ve been anyone’s notes, you thought bitterly. but no—of course it’s me. because I was here when you needed someone to blame.

but you swallowed it down. 'i—i’m sorry, sir. i’ll fix it.' your voice came out small. pathetic. just the way he liked it. the way everyone liked it.

shepherd smiled—sharp, thin, predatory. 'good girl.' ( disgusting ).

the words felt like a slap. like a shiver running up your back and not in the good way. not the way jack made you feel when he called you things like that.

he took a step closer, invading your space.

'you morgue rats really should learn to double-check your work. you’re not exactly dealing with top-shelf material down here.' he chuckled, flipping the clipboard closed. top shelf material? what the fuck does that mean?

did the dead suddenly not matter anymore?

'but what do i expect? hidden away in the basement like vermin, it's easy to forget how the real hospital works.'

you dropped your gaze to the floor, heat burning behind your eyes.

don’t cry. don’t cry. don’t cry.

then his voice dropped lower, silkier, more dangerous.

'you know, you’re kind of cute when you’re flustered. bet no one’s told you that down here among the dead.' your stomach twisted. you wanted to throw up. preferably on him. maybe then he'd go away.

god, please just leave me alone.

but your mouth moved before your brain could catch up. 'i’ll . . . i’ll make sure it’s fixed by morning, sir.' a pause. a beat of silence where you swore you could hear the blood rushing in your ears.

then shepherd smiled like he owned the room. 'see that you do.'

he placed the clipboard back in your hands like he was doing you a favor. his fingers lingered just a second too long against yours ( barf ). and then he turned, shoes clicking away down the sterile hall, leaving you standing there—small, shaking, and burning with humiliation.

you didn’t breathe again until the doors swung shut behind him. your pulse thudded in your throat, your hands trembling around the clipboard.

it wasn’t your mistake. it wasn’t.

but it didn’t matter. not to him.

to shepherd, you were just the quiet little thing in the basement who wouldn’t fight back.

jack found you wiping down the prep table. again.

the cloth moved in small, anxious circles, over and over the same clean steel. your shoulders hunched, your grip tight. he knew that stance. knew it too damn well.

'hey, morgue girl.' you startled—physically startled—like you hadn’t heard the door open. when you turned, clipboard clutched against your chest, your smile didn’t reach your eyes.

'jack. i . . . thought you were on break upstairs.'

he took a slow step forward, hands in his pockets, voice easy but warm. 'figured i’d spend my last break somewhere better. you got a problem with that?'

the smile cracked a little wider, brittle at the edges.

'no! of course not. i just—didn’t expect you.'

you should’ve. he always came to find you on break. always.

but something in your tone made his chest tighten.

he crossed to you, slow and deliberate, stopping just within reach but not touching you yet. 'something happen?'

you shook your head, too fast, too practiced. 'no, nothing happened.' he tilted his head, eyes narrowing faintly. 'wrong answer, sweetheart.'

your fingers tightened on the clipboard. 'it’s stupid. really. you don’t need to hear about it.'

jack let the silence stretch. didn’t fill it with jokes, didn’t crowd you, didn’t push. just waited. when you didn’t speak, he gently took the clipboard from your hands and set it aside. 'look at me.'

you did, reluctantly. his face was soft. still and steady in a way the rest of your world wasn’t. 'i want to know. okay? no matter what it is.' your throat squeezed shut.

because how did you say it? how did you explain the way sr. shepherd’s words were still ringing in your ears, sticky and sharp and suffocating? how did you tell him that every time someone called you sweetheart now, it sounded like a joke instead of comfort?

so instead, you smiled again. too wide. too fake. 'i’ll be fine. i’m just tired. long shift. nothing big.' jack saw it. saw right through it. but he didn’t call you on it. instead, he brushed your hair gently back from your face, fingers lingering at your jaw. 'c’mon,' he murmured. 'sit with me. you’re not fine, and i hate seeing you like this.'

you hesitated. but the way he looked at you—quiet, patient, warm—it broke something loose in your chest. so you let him lead you to the break room. it was empty, quiet, washed in soft fluorescent light. he motioned for you to sit on the uncomfortable chair and he pulled the other one so he could sit right next to you, your thighs zigzaged, his hand resting lightly over yours in your lap.

'still not fine,' he said softly, teasing but careful. you smiled despite yourself. small. real, for just a second and when he leaned in and kissed you—soft, slow, gentle—you felt something ease.

the feeling was not gone. but less sharp.

he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, voice barely a whisper. 'there she is.' and then, without thinking, without meaning to hurt you at all, he whispered—

'sweetheart.'

and your whole body tensed.

like a wire pulled taut. your breath caught sharp in your throat. your fingers flinched away from his. jack froze. it was so fast. so small. but he felt it like a punch.

'hey.' his voice dropped lower, steady but gentle. 'what just happened? look at me.'

you tried and you couldn’t.

'i—i don’t know,' you whispered, choking on the words. 'i just—it’s fine, i’m fine, i don’t want to ruin this—' jack cupped your face, tilting it up gently, careful not to crowd you. 'you’re not ruining anything. but i need you to tell me what’s going on, baby.'

your chest shook. 'oh gosh, i… can’t. i don’t know how.'

and the ache in his chest when you said that. 'okay.' he softened, thumb brushing your cheek. 'then don’t. not yet. just sit here with me. you’re safe, alright? nothing’s gonna touch you here.”

and for a little while, you let him. still shaking, still unsure. but safe. and then, the break room felt too quiet. too still, like even the air didn’t want to interrupt you.

he sat beside you, waiting. not pushing, not rushing. his hand rested gently over yours, thumb brushing slow circles against your knuckles. you could barely meet his eyes. then finally, you had decided on how to voice your thoughts. 'i . . . i messed up the paperwork.' the words came out small and weak. 'or . . . i didn't. but dr. shepherd said i did.”

jack didn’t speak. he just listened as you continued. 'he… he came down about an hour ago. said my notes were sloppy. that my work was careless. but they weren’t my notes, jack. i checked. they weren’t mine.”

your throat tightened. 'but it didn’t matter. i was the one standing there, so he . . . he just decided it was my fault.' jack’s fingers curled tighter around yours. not hurting, just there. you forced the next part out, each word scraping your throat raw.

'he kept calling me sweetheart.'

jack stilled. 'and then… then he smiled like it was a joke and he said…'

your voice broke. you shook your head, unable to finish. this was the part that really made your stomach turn in on itself. he waited, silent and steady.

you tried again, barely a whisper. 'he said i was a good girl for fixing it. like—like i was some kid getting a gold star for not screwing up worse.' you wanted to vomit thinking about it.

and there it was.

the tears burned, hot and humiliating. pulled your hands out of his and you scrubbed the tears away with both sleeves of your scrubs. 'i know it sounds stupid, i know it’s nothing compared to what you deal with in the er, but it—' your voice cracked. 'it made me feel small. like i wasn’t worth anything. just some quiet little tech no one notices until they need someone to blame.'

the silence stretched between you. then jack stood. slow. controlled. but you saw it in his shoulders—tension coiled tight. 'i'm gonna kill him.' he turned toward the door, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides.

'wait, jack—'

'no, i’ll be right back.' his voice was low. dangerous. 'just gonna explain something to our dear dr. shepherd about how we treat people who work their asses off to keep this hospital running.'

he took a step toward the door. 'jack.' you said his name so softly it almost wasn’t there. but it stopped him cold. he froze, hand on the doorframe, back still to you. 'please.' your voice shook. 'don’t go.'

and that was it. that was what undid him. you didn’t need a hero. you didn’t need a sword drawn in your defense. you just needed him. right here.

jack exhaled slow. shoulders dropping. when he turned back, the fury was gone from his face. replaced by something softer. sadder. he crossed the room in three slow steps and dropped to his knees in front of you, hands gentle on your thighs.

'okay.' his voice was rough, real. 'i’m here. i’m right here.' he leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to your temple. and another to your cheek, where the tears had dried. and then, softer still — 'he doesn’t get to decide what you’re worth.'

your chest crumbled. jack rested his forehead against your knee, voice breaking open. 'you’re the strongest, smartest, kindest damn person in this hospital and i am so proud of you. every second of every day.'

and when you finally slipped your shaking hands into his hair and pulled him close, he let you. because right now, that’s what you needed. not a knight but a safe place to fall apart. jack’s hands framed your face, warm and steady, thumbs brushing the tear tracks still damp on your cheeks.

'you with me?' he whispered, voice rough and aching. you nodded, small and shaky. 'yeah.'

he leaned in slow, giving you every second to pull away. but you didn’t. so when his lips found yours—soft, tentative, trembling—you sank into it.

it wasn’t desperate. it wasn’t heated. it was fragile. careful. like holding porcelain in storm-tossed hands. your breath hitched against his mouth, tears slipping down again, without warning. he kissed them away. one at a time.

and when he pulled back, foreheads resting together, he whispered—so soft you almost missed it— 'i got you.' he wrapped his hands in yours again and pulled you to your feet, guiding you to the couch in the corner.

the break room went quiet but for the hum of the vents and the thud of your hearts beating too close.

jack shifted, pulling you gently against his chest, arms wrapping around you like a shield against the world. you melted into him, letting yourself be small in his arms.

he rested his chin on your head, pressing a kiss into your hair and he stayed with you for a while. but outside those walls, the er wasn’t slowing down.

his pager crackled and subsequently his phone buzzed in his pocket. jack sighed against your temple, torn in two.

'i gotta go, baby.' The words tasted bitter. 'they’re down a man upstairs.' you nodded against his chest, the motion stiff and reluctant.

'i’ll be fine. go.' you tried to smile, but it cracked at the edges. 'really. i’m okay.' jack knew it was a lie. he felt it in your body, still too tense, too fragile. but he kissed your forehead anyway, slow and warm and lingering.

'i’ll be back the second your shift ends. i’ll take you home, alright?'

your voice barely made it past your throat. okay.'

he pulled back just enough to see your face, searching your eyes like he was trying to memorize you. 'promise me you’ll take it easy until then.'

it almost made you laugh. almost. 'i promise.'

he hesitated one more beat. just one. and then, reluctantly, he let go. the door creaked open, the noise of the hospital spilling in. but before he left, he looked back one last time. and you saw it in his face.

he hated leaving you like this. but he trusted you to hold on until he could come back.

and god, you would try. for him you would try your best.

you waited. and waited. and waited.

but Jack didn’t show. the morgue was dim, the clock ticking past the end of your shift, and still—nothing. you tried not to panic. you tried not to take it personally. jack wouldn't forget. he couldn’t. but every minute that ticked by dragged your heart lower in your chest.

you mind began to run wild and overthink all the maybes and what ifs, a habit you were in the process of trying to break. maybe he changed his mind. maybe he realized you're too much—too quiet, too anxious, too broken.

you curled your jacket tighter around yourself, throat tight. then—bracing for disappointment—you headed upstairs. the er was chaos, as always. controlled, constant, relentless. you stuck close to the walls, eyes scanning for him.

no sign of jack. but then—'oh, look who’s come crawling up from the basement.'

you froze. your back went ram rod straight, your heart plummeted into your stomach and you refused the overwhelming urge to snap your eyes shut and curl into yourself.

dr. shepherd stood near the nurse’s station, tablet in hand, expression smug. you weren't sure what he was doing in the er. you thought the one place you would be safe from the chief neurosurgeon would be the er. because he should have been dwelling in the or, doing surgerys. not leaning against the nurses command looking at you like you were a full snack.

you didn’t respond. just tried to keep walking. but he stepped in front of you. 'hey now. don’t be like that.' his voice was syrupy. mocking. 'i was actually just thinking about you. wanted to say no hard feelings about earlier. i can be a bit . . . harsh. comes with the territory.'

his explanation didn't do anything to curve the uncomfortable feeling growing in your stomach. you gripped the strap of your bag tighter. 'sorry, i’m looking for someone.' even now, even with him, even after what he had done, you were still polite as ever.

'yeah?' he smiled. 'why don’t you look for me instead?' your stomach flipped. 'really, im looking for someone else, excuse me, please,' you muttered, trying to brush past him.

but he stepped into your path again, cutting you off. 'aw, come on now. don’t be like that.' he smiled wider. 'rough night? i could make it better. dinner. drinks. you could use a man who knows how to treat you right.'

you froze because this was the man who’d humiliated you hours ago. who’d torn you down and called it kindness. and now he was talking to you like you were his for the taking. 'no thank you, sir. please let me past.'

he caught your wrist before you could step away. it wasn’t gentle. 'stop playing hard to get, sweetheart.' there it was again. one of your favorite pet names now forever tainted by him.

his voice dropped low, sharp and smug. 'no one else seems to be lining up for you.'

and then just like that — 'get your hands off her.' the voice was low. and sharp. cold as a blade. your heart stopped. shepherd turned—half-smirking, half-annoyed. 'abbott. relax, my man. just talking.'

jack stood a few paces away, sweat still clinging to his brow, scrubs rumpled from a recent trauma. and he looked ready to kill. 'i said get your fucking hands off her.'

shepherd scoffed but didn’t move. 'you really don’t know how to take a joke, man.' his tone was lazy, dismissive. 'i was just saying i’d treat her right. god knows she could probably use a good fucking.'

he grinned like he expected jack to laugh. he didn’t. instead, he ripped shepherd’s hand off your wrist with brutal precision and stepped between you. he was face to face now with shepherd. inches apart. 'don’t you ever talk about my girlfriend like that again.”

your stomach dropped. shepherd blinked. 'girlfriend?' he looked over jack’s shoulder at you. 'really? her?' he laughed, incredulous. 'jesus, abbot, i didn’t realize you were into strays. i mean, isn’t she a little—shy for you? little young? little frumpy.' his gaze flicked over you, slow and mean. 'or maybe just soft enough all the way around?'

crack.

the sound echoed across the er. jack’s fist connected with shepherd’s face so fast no one even saw it coming. shepherd stumbled back, hand flying to his nose—already bleeding.

you stood frozen, breath caught in your throat. jack didn’t look away from him. didn’t even blink.

'i told you once. i ain't gonna again.' jack’s voice was low and controlled. deadly. 'you touch her again, you’ll be consulting on your own brain trauma. fucking understand?'

he didn't even wait for shepherds answer, he knew he did. then he turned toward the nearest nurse—dana, wide-eyed behind the nurses command in the middle of the er.

'tell robby he's gonna need a bay for dr. shepherd here,' jack said, completely unfazed. 'looks like he's got a broken nose.'

dana blinked. 'yeah, sure thing, abbot.' jack finally looked at you, his voice softening instantly. 'are you okay?' you nodded, but it was a lie. your whole body trembled, eyes wide, heart in your throat.

jack stepped close—so much softer now—and gently took your hand in both of his. 'i’m sorry i was late,' he said, quiet, his thumb brushing your wrist where shepherd’s fingers had left red marks. 'i had a bleeder come in. no time to text. i'm so sorry.'

you shook your head, eyes stinging. 'it’s okay. you came.'

his jaw clenched. 'not soon enough.' he mumbled, looking at you wrist in his hand. red and angry, surely already starting to bruise. 'i’m okay now,' you whispered, and it broke something in him.

because you weren’t. but you were trying and he loved you for it.

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[jacksabbotts]

. ᵒ .༄ JACK ABBOT x MORGUE!READER !  ࿔* ·˚ ༘ ┊͙ # 🩻 possible trigger warnings .' emotional spiral / anxious overthinking,  ‧ 🥼 ‧ ━━ WC 1.3k

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⤷ ✵ ✧ . · * . · .  CAUGHT IN THE COLD ━━ chapter six ⋆ ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ summary after days of avoidance, emotional overload drives you to the hospital roof—six prep sheets too many, one too-loud memory too far. you just need air. silence. solitude. what you get instead is jack abbott. already there. already listening

the door to the roof creaked open with its usual rusted groan.

you stepped through it like a ghost. shoulders tight. breath short. your scrubs hung loose, streaked with powder and formalin and god knew what else. your hands still smelled like bleach. your brain still pulsed with the click of scalpels and body bags and endless, impossible numbers.

six.

six full preps left behind for you. day shift gone. howell’s clipboard full. the day shift tech voice in your head cheerfully reminding you that the medical examiner's day starts at six am sharp!

your shift didn’t even have time for three. so you came up here. for air. for silence. for a breakdown in peace. you didn’t even check if the roof was empty.

'unbelievable,' you muttered, dragging both hands through your hair. 'six bodies. six. like i’m not human. like i don’t breathe. like—like it’s not insane to leave one tech with six fucking preps like that’s normal.'

you immediatly covered your mouth at the curse because that wasn't you. you weren't one to let your anger get the better of you and you weren't one to let words like that slip. all in testament to your predicament. you paced to the center of the roof. breath fogged the air in small bursts.

'i’m so tired,' you whispered. 'and i can’t even think straight because all i can hear is him.' you laughed, dry and cracked. 'what the fuck is wrong with me!'

you squeezed your eyes shut. 'because apparently one sentence—one coat—can short-circuit my entire life. i can’t go five minutes without remembering how he said i wasn’t a practice body.' your voice cracked. 'who even says that?'

a breeze blew. you didn’t notice but you did look up.

and then you saw him. jack.

oh, fuck me.

standing near the far edge. silhouetted against the skyline. arms crossed. head slightly tilted. he turned slowly. quietly. and your blood ran cold.

'oh my god,' you croaked, stumbling back a step. 'i didn’t—dr. abbot. i didn’t know you were—'

'yeah,' he said softly. 'i figured.' his voice wasn’t angry. it was something else. something that made your skin go hot and cold all at once. 'how much did you hear?'

jack took a few steps forward, out of the shadows, into the spill of light from the rooftop bulbs. 'enough.' you wanted to vanish.

'i was just—i needed air, i wasn’t thinking, and i didn’t mean—'

'why are you avoiding me?' his voice was quiet. steady.

you opened your mouth. closed it. because you didn’t have an answer that didn’t sound pathetic. he stepped closer. not too close. just enough that you could see the concern in his eyes. the exhaustion. the quiet ache beneath it.

'was it the coat?'

'no—'

'the compliments?'

'no, i—'

'was it the part where i said i liked you?' his mouth twitched like it wanted to smile but didn’t have the nerve. you finally spoke. quiet. honest. small.

'i didn’t think you meant it.'

jack blinked. 'why?'

you stared at your shoes. 'because people don’t mean things like that when they say them to people like me.'

silence.

dead, still silence.

and then jack stepped over the railing and walked toward you. you stepped back. he stopped. and then he said, voice low and level. 'i'm sorry, for making thinks worse for you.'

jack took one more step forward. gentle. careful. looking for any sign that you didn't want him to move closer to you. 'you know, i’ve been thinking about it too.'

your breath caught. 'the coat. the compliment. your face when i said it.' his voice dropped to something raw. 'and how much i wanted to say more.'

you stared at him.

he ran a hand through his hair. 'i didn’t push. i didn’t follow you after because i thought maybe you regretted the whole thing. that maybe i’d crossed a line. but hearing you talk just now…'

he finally looked at you—really looked. 'i’m not sorry, morgue girl.' his voice cracked open with softness. 'i’m not sorry i noticed. i’m not sorry i care. even if you don't believe me.'

you didn’t know what to say.

so he filled the silence.

'i don’t care how many bodies you’ve got waiting. i don’t care if you label scalpels or talk to corpses or live in the basement like a ghost.' a soft huff of a laugh.

'i like you,' he said. 'exactly as you are. warm or cold. overthinking or quiet. i like you.'

and then, quieter, 'but if you want me to stop… say the word. i will.' you swallowed hard. your eyes burned. and all you could whisper was. 'i didn't say that, i just—'

'what are you saying?' he asked. it should have been an easy question. what were you really saying? what did you want? as much as you wanted to say you wanted him and his sweet words. you couldn't make yourself speak.

he took another step closer. he was now standing right in front of you. 'tell me what you want.' it wasn't a request. it wasn't a question. it was a command, an order.

and god, if it didn't make your stomach swirl. if it didn't make you want to melt on the spot. you wanted to close your eyes. you wanted to break eye contact before you burst at the seams. you wanted to tell him exactly what you wanted. you wanted—

'you have to say it out loud, sweetheart.'

'oh my gosh.' you groaned, finally burying your head into your hands and breaking the eye contact you were sure was about to kill you. but he wasn't having it. he reached for you, finally, and his fingers brushed your own as he gentle pried your hands off your face.

'look at me, sweetheart.' he mumbled. 'look at me and tell me what you want.'

you groaned loudly. because why the heck was he so persistent. you took a deep breath and looked at him, like he told you to. you looked at him honestly and told him the only thing you knew how. 'this is really hard for me.'

he nodded. 'i know.' he mumbled and then untangled his fingers from you and you frowned. he almost thought it was cute. he brought both his hands to both sides of your face.

'i — i like the compliments. i do, its just — they make me loose focus, i can't concentrate because i sit there and i think about them non stop. i think — i think about you . . . non stop.' you confessed in the only way you knew how, word vomit. 'honestly, i don't think its really healthy the way i think about you and how much i think about you. and really its just —'

you stop talking abruptly when you see the smirk on his face and the impending laugh and you think he's laughing at you. and really you don't blame him. you probably sound so pathetic to him right now. 'and now your laughing at me. i knew this was a mistake.'

his smile immediately fell. 'no, no, no — i am not laughing at you. i am just surprised that you told me all that, your not exactly the most open person, sweetheart.'

and melt. you are a puddle on the ground. here lies the contents of you. cause of death, jack mother fucking abbot. 'so does this mean, your going to stop avoiding me like the plague.'

you flush. 'i wanna say yes, but honestly. i might unintentionally avoid you more. but please don't take it personally.' you confess.

you don't know what it is about jack abbot that makes you unintentionally bare your soul for him to judge with a mere request. he could probably say jump and you would shyly ask how high. it makes you both flush with embarrassment and makes you want to hit yourself for being so fucking whipped for a man you met a month ago ( and not to mention a man who yelled at you the first time you met. )

🔖  .   @princesssunderworld  @mayabbot  @imherefordeanandbones  @arigoldsblog  @oldmanbunnylover  @i-mushi  @autumnleaves1991-blog  @lovelexi717  @peggyofoz  @qtmoonies  @nfwmb-gvf  @britt217  @babybatreads  @cheekym8s  @bitteroceanlove  @spooky-librarian-ghost  @dr-yapper  @yutasgem  @keseqna  @gardeniarose13  @witchbitchlovesdilfs  @sotragedynut  @robbyrosierobinavitch  @anglophileforlife @flyinglama  @reignbooks8506 @kmc1989  @sillymuffintrashflap @letstryagaintomorrow @caterpillarskimono @maiamore  @chuiisi  @madzleigh01 @qardasngan @imightbeinsanebutwtv @Shadowfoxey @foolishseven @anxiousfuckupon  @Lumpypoll  @Coldmuffinbanditshoe  @blueliketheseaa  @Justfaefaeee  @sweetdayme4427  @404creep  @yourdaydreamerfan  @ddrawers96  @m14mags  @generalstarlightobject  @twiddledeedumsworld  @dlljdhsh  @jetless  @Thedamnqueenofhell  @Topnerd03  @misshoneypaper  @abllor @Loud-mouph @cannonindeez @nubecita040@Sabi127  @Coleground  @sevenberry   @idontcarenoughtonamethis  @beebeechaos  @cwzham  @homebytheharbor  @Sammiib444  @painment  @namgification  @Cherry_cosmos  @catmomstyles3 @livingavilaloca  @hello-lisa1026  @emma8895eb  @thesnugglingduck @134340-cm @amindfullofmonsters @FloofMC @moonriseoverkyoto @alldaysdreamers @karavt @beefbaby25 @cruelchants @kiwikitty13 @faerykingdom @i-get-obsessed-fast @badwolfvexa @laerrynseelie @violetswritingg @braindead-raccoon @timeofmadness @bmoplanet @high-functioning-deadgirl @silas-aeiou @BxdBxtxh @rosellerinfrost @saidinpassing @alldaysdreamers @kaiaspapayas @concentratedconcrete @blackirisesinthesunlight @JillB12 @Emmyfairy @notgothenough @timeofmadness @valkyreally @narcolepticduck @hiireadstuff @dlljdhsh @beltzboys2015 @tealcelery @madprincessinabox @fairygardensss @ahleecollaborations @pope-codys @breegirlxoxo @midnghtprentiss @sharkluver @fadeinsol  @trinket-007 @katydunn67 @beebeechaos @knifetotheback @starwars8979 @xxxkat3xxx @blue3delphi @blackwidownat2814

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[jacksabbotts]

. ᵒ .༄ JACK ABBOT x MORGUE!READER !  ࿔* ·˚ ༘ ┊͙ # 🩻 possible trigger warnings .' graphic injury ( scalpel cut, blood ), medical imagery ( stitches, not graphic, er setting ), mild medical anxiety, emotional spiral / anxious overthinking  ‧ 🥼 ‧ ━━ WC 2.3k

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⤷ ✵ ✧ . · * . · .  COLD CUT ━━ chapter five ⋆ ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ summary in which one compliment, one coat, and one very stupid scalpel cut send you spiraling back into jack abbot’s orbit—bleeding, babbling, and absolutely not prepared for what he says next

the coat was back where it didn’t belong—on your desk, draped like a memory you couldn’t fold shut.

you didn’t put it back on ( even though he told you to wear it ). you’d thought about it, thought maybe the extra warmth would keep your brain from spiraling—but the weight of it on your shoulders made it worse. you couldn’t breathe with it on. so you'd placed it carefully in the corner of your desk, hoping it would stop staring.

it didn’t.

you had a body on the table. male, late fifties, post-op complications. nothing traumatic. nothing you hadn’t seen a hundred times before. you went through the motions : pulled the cart into place, adjusted the overhead light, unzipped the bag. the hum of the cooler, the click of your pen, the rustle of latex gloves—routine, familiar, grounding.

still, you kept glancing back.

'don’t look at me like that,' you muttered, tugging the sheet down to expose the man's torso. 'not you. him.' your eyes flicked to the desk. 'the coat. it’s staring again.'

you sighed and looked back at the body. 'you ever have a doctor who ruined your entire emotional equilibrium with one compliment and a jacket? no? lucky you.”

the corpse didn’t answer.

'not that i think it was a real compliment,' you added, setting up your scale and camera. 'i’m not delusional. he was just being polite. a guilt offering. like a sorry for making you feel like a walking pathology specimen last week kind of thing.'

you adjusted the camera. 'still. he didn’t have to say it. it suits you.' you rolled your eyes and shook your head. 'that’s the kind of thing that short-circuits a girl’s brain, you know?'

click. photo taken.

'i’ve been thinking about it for two days,' you continued. 'you know what that means? i haven’t watched any tv. i haven’t listened to my podcasts. i—' you hesitated. '—i forgot to label the scalpels last night. me. the scalpel-labeling queen. not my idea, im not that self-absorbed.'

you peeled back the id band on the corpse’s wrist, checked it against the log.

'i’m pathetic,' you mumbled.

the body, to his credit, said nothing.

'anyway, let’s get your sample. then i’ll stop rambling and let you enjoy your eternal rest in peace and silence and climate-controlled perfection.'

you reached for the scalpel.

and you weren’t looking. not at your hand. not at the angle.

you were thinking about his hands. the way they’d stitched your palm last week. the way he’d said your name—well, okay, nickname. still. his voice had dipped when he said it.

and that was when it happened.

a sharp slip. a hiss of pain. the blade biting in—clean, fast, too deep.

you dropped it with a gasp.

blood bloomed through the glove almost instantly.

'oh, come on,' you groaned, grabbing a wad of gauze with your good hand. you applied pressure, but it wasn’t enough. the blood was already dripping onto the floor, your shoe, the tray of sterile tools.

you turned to the body again, holding up your bleeding hand. 'well, congratulations. you’re the first dead guy to see me have a full-on medical spiral in real time.'

still no reply. obviously.

'don't look so smug. this is your fault, you know.' you pressed the gauze tighter. 'if you’d just let me stay distracted without bleeding about it, we wouldn’t be in this mess.'

the corpse was unmoved.

you looked down at your hand. it was a mess.

you were going to need stitches.

which meant only one thing.

you were going to have to go upstairs.

the elevator ride to the er felt like ascending to your own personal hell.

you kept your hand cradled close to your chest, gauze pressed tight, blood still seeping through the layers. the pain was manageable. the shame? not so much.

you should’ve waited. should’ve radioed someone. should’ve done literally anything else but walk yourself, in your oversized morgue scrubs and haunted raccoon eyes, up to the one place you’d been aggressively avoiding since the beginning of your shift. since he told you it suited you. since your entire brain short-circuited and your hand decided to follow.

the er doors slid open with their usual groan, and you stepped into the chaos like a deer crossing a freeway at rush hour.

don’t panic, you told yourself. just get someone other than jack abbot. anyone. a resident. a nurse. a vending machine with first-aid supplies.

you made it five steps before you heard your name.

'hey—morgue girl?'

she, dana, appeared at your elbow like a horror movie jump scare, coffee in one hand, chart in the other. her eyes scanned you—then dropped to the soaked gauze in your hand.

her whole expression shifted.

'what the hell did you do?' she asked, half-concerned, half-amused.

'i—uh—i had a moment,' you mumbled. 'it’s fine. i’m fine. just need some stitches.'

dana’s brows lifted. 'sure looks like more than ‘just’—wait, you walked up here like that?'

you nodded. she blinked. 'jesus,' she muttered, then turned and called over her shoulder. 'hey, jack!'

'dana!'

but it was too late.

jack appeared from bay two, chart in hand, brow furrowed—until he saw you. everything in his expression changed. his shoulders straightened. his steps quickened.

you wanted to sink into the linoleum.

'what happened?' he asked, voice low, serious, and somehow ten times louder than anything else in the room.

'i—' you lifted the gauze. 'it’s not that bad.'

he didn’t answer. just reached out and gently took your wrist in his hand, tilting it so he could see. the pressure was feather-light. his fingers were warm.

he pulled the gauze back.

blood bloomed. fast. too fast. you felt light headed. his jaw flexed. 'bay three,' he said, already steering you toward it. 'i really don’t need—'

'bay. three.'

you opened your mouth to protest—too late. he’d already turned, barking over his shoulder to dana, 'get one of the kids to cover four and five. i’m taking care of this one.'

dana blinked. 'uh, i could grab shen? he’s—'

'no.' jack’s voice sliced clean through the noise. final. '’ll do it.'

you flinched.

dana raised an eyebrow but backed off with a knowing smirk, already halfway down the hall.

you didn’t move.

jack turned to you, hands already gloved. 'go.'

you followed because your legs didn’t have the spine to disobey. the curtain swished closed behind you, and you found yourself once again in the crash room. the scene of the crime. the battlefield of coats and compliments and feelings.

he gestured to the bed.

you hesitated.

'up.'

you climbed onto the gurney like you were being sent to the gallows.

you watched him gather the suture kit. watched the ease in his movements, the confidence in his hands. prepped a tray of supplies with practiced ease. you stared at the ceiling, avoiding eye contact like your life depended on it.

'you—you don’t have to,' you said, voice shaking as you stared at your shoes. 'i mean, you could ask one of your residents. i’m sure they’re—'

'i trained them,' jack said flatly. 'doesn’t mean i trust them.'

you blinked. 'but—'

he stepped closer. took your injured hand with such deliberate gentleness you nearly forgot to breathe. 'they’re still learning,' he said. 'you’re not a practice body.'

your heart stuttered at that.

his fingers were careful. gentle, even—but his eyes? still sharp. still on you.

the sterile silence stretched while he prepped the stitches. you watched his hands work, the burn in your palm nothing compared to the burn in your face.

he didn’t speak again until the needle was in his grip.

'so, how’d it happen?'

you tensed. 'it’s—uh, it’s nothing, really. just a—uh—a stupid slip. happens all the time, you know, just one of those days and the scalpel was, um, sharp—obviously—and it just—'

'try again,' he said, without looking up.

you swallowed.

'tell me the truth,' he added, quieter this time. 'you’ve done this job for how long? three years?' your heart stuttered because that? there was no reason he'd know that. and that meant that he'd asked about you. he'd purposely tried to find out information about you.

'four.'

'exactly. so i doubt you just forgot how to handle a scalpel overnight.' he glanced up, brow raised. 'what really happened?'

you shriveled under his stare. your mouth opened. closed. opened again. and then it all came out at once.

'i—okay—i was distracted, alright? i was cleaning the table and i just—i wasn’t thinking straight because someone told me to keep their stupid coat and then they told me it—it suits me—and i couldn’t stop thinking about it which is ridiculous because i know you were just being polite and trying to be nice and maybe like, not feel guilty for yelling at me which is fine by the way, i wasn’t mad or anything but it just got in my head and—and—then i knocked the tray over and i grabbed the blade without looking and now we’re here—so.'

silence.

utter silence.

you didn’t breathe.

your eyes were huge.

because, oh god, what had you just said? why had you said that?

and jack abbot was fucking grinning. not smirking. not smoldering. grinning. like a goddamn kid. like someone just handed him the sun.

'jesus christ,' he muttered, shaking his head. 'you’re unbelievable.'

you buried your face in your uninjured hand. 'i know, i know, i didn’t mean to say all of that, just—forget it—'

'no way.' he was beaming now. 'you think I gave you my coat because I felt guilty?'

you looked at him like he’d just accused you of grand larceny. 'well—yeah?' you squeaked. he huffed out a laugh—soft, warm, real. 'morgue girl…'

'what?'

he bent forward slightly, still holding your hand with one of his own, the needle paused in the other. you blinked up at him, still reeling, still red, still trying to play catch-up while he tugged the last stitch tight.

he cut the thread with a flick of surgical scissors.

then he looked at you. really looked.

and he said, voice low, not flirty, not teasing—earnest. 'yeah, okay. the first time i gave you the coat… that was guilt. i’ll admit it.”

you froze. 'but the second time?'

he leaned back on his stool, hands braced loosely on his knees, head tilted like he was debating how honest to be.'that wasn’t about guilt,' he said.

he glanced away for half a second—then back. 'that was because i didn’t like the thought of you freezing half to death down there. not when i could do something about it.'

your lips parted. no words came.

'i’ve worked in this hospital for years,' he went on, almost to himself. 'plenty of people down in the morgue. most of ‘em i barely remember. but you?' his eyes caught yours again.

'you’re the first one i’ve ever gone downstairs for.'

you felt your breath stick in your throat. your fingers twitched. your skin felt too warm under the er lights.

'i didn’t mean to mess with your head,' he added, softer now. 'but i’m not sorry for noticing you. not sorry for the coat. and i’m definitely not sorry for wanting to make sure you’re warm.'

you whispered, 'why?'

his smile curved slow and dangerous.

'because i like you cold,' he said, standing. 'but i like you warm a hell of a lot more.'

then he brushed his knuckles—very gently—down your cheek. just once. he chuckled again, shaking his head as he went back to stitching you up—like he hadn’t just said the most unhinged thing in the world.

and then he walked out like he hadn’t just wrecked your soul and left your brain in seventeen different emotional pieces on a hospital gurney.

your brain fizzled out.

your brain short-fucking-circuited. completely. full system shutdown. he left the room like nothing had happened—like he hadn’t just said those words, hadn’t just looked at you like that, hadn’t just touched your face like you were something gentle.

and you were still sitting on the damn gurney with your hand bandaged and your heart trying to claw its way out of your chest like it was auditioning for a medical emergency of its own.

what.

the actual fuck.

was that.

you replayed it. again. and again. and again.

because I like you cold. but I like you warm a hell of a lot more.

who says that?? who says that and then leaves?? who says that to you, the awkward morgue tech who talks to corpses and can’t look a resident in the eye without breaking into hives?

your ears were ringing. your skin felt like it had been dipped in lava. you could still feel the ghost of his knuckles on your cheek. like it had been branded into your nervous system.

you kicked your feet a little off the side of the gurney.

you wanted to scream into your hands. or crawl into the nearest biohazard bin and never return. or maybe pass away quietly in the trauma bay because that would be less humiliating than what just happened.

you glanced down at your bandaged hand. still there. still throbbing. still very much stitched up by the man who just emotionally detonated you like a code blue in your chest cavity.

you whispered to no one :

'…what the fuck.'

and then immediately clapped a hand over your mouth, because oh my god, that had come out aloud.

you peeked toward the hallway. no one. thank god. except—was that dana? you scrambled off the gurney like it had caught fire.

you needed to get out. away. back to the cold, back to the dead, back to your lane.

because this?

this was too warm. too dangerous. too much. and the worst part?

the worst part was how badly—how embarrassingly badly—you wanted him to say something like that again.

🔖  .   @princesssunderworld  @mayabbot  @imherefordeanandbones  @arigoldsblog  @oldmanbunnylover  @i-mushi  @autumnleaves1991-blog  @lovelexi717  @peggyofoz  @qtmoonies  @nfwmb-gvf  @britt217  @babybatreads  @cheekym8s  @bitteroceanlove  @spooky-librarian-ghost  @dr-yapper  @yutasgem  @keseqna  @gardeniarose13  @witchbitchlovesdilfs  @sotragedynut  @robbyrosierobinavitch  @anglophileforlife @flyinglama  @reignbooks8506 @kmc1989  @sillymuffintrashflap @letstryagaintomorrow @caterpillarskimono @maiamore  @chuiisi  @madzleigh01 @qardasngan @imightbeinsanebutwtv @Shadowfoxey @foolishseven @anxiousfuckupon  @Lumpypoll  @Coldmuffinbanditshoe  @blueliketheseaa  @Justfaefaeee  @sweetdayme4427  @404creep  @yourdaydreamerfan  @ddrawers96  @m14mags  @generalstarlightobject  @twiddledeedumsworld  @dlljdhsh  @jetless  @Thedamnqueenofhell  @Topnerd03  @misshoneypaper  @abllor @Loud-mouph @cannonindeez @nubecita040@Sabi127  @Coleground  @sevenberry   @idontcarenoughtonamethis  @beebeechaos  @cwzham  @homebytheharbor  @Sammiib444  @painment  @namgification  @Cherry_cosmos  @catmomstyles3 @livingavilaloca  @hello-lisa1026  @emma8895eb  @thesnugglingduck @134340-cm @amindfullofmonsters @FloofMC @moonriseoverkyoto @alldaysdreamers @karavt @beefbaby25 @cruelchants @kiwikitty13 @faerykingdom @i-get-obsessed-fast @badwolfvexa @laerrynseelie @violetswritingg @braindead-raccoon @timeofmadness @bmoplanet @high-functioning-deadgirl @silas-aeiou @BxdBxtxh @rosellerinfrost @saidinpassing @alldaysdreamers @kaiaspapayas @concentratedconcrete @blackirisesinthesunlight @JillB12 @Emmyfairy @notgothenough @timeofmadness @valkyreally @narcolepticduck @hiireadstuff @dlljdhsh @beltzboys2015 @tealcelery @madprincessinabox @fairygardensss @ahleecollaborations @pope-codys @breegirlxoxo @midnghtprentiss @sharkluver @fadeinsol  @trinket-007 @katydunn67 @beebeechaos @knifetotheback @starwars8979 @xxxkat3xxx @blue3delphi @blackwidownat2814

* ✷ ⊹ * ˚  want to join the morgue tech!reader taglist??? click here!!!

[jacksabbotts]

. ᵒ .༄ JACK ABBOT x MORGUE!READER !  ࿔* ·˚ ༘ ┊͙ # 🩻 possible trigger warnings .' internalized self-doubt, spiraling thoughts  ‧ 🥼 ‧ ━━ WC 2.2k

series masterlist || inbox || ggc request form ━━━ * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ ✷ dividers by @cafekitsune and @uzmacchiato

⤷ ✵ ✧ . · * . · .  TOO COLD TO TOUCH ━━ chapter four ⋆ ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ summary in which a borrowed coat becomes too much to bear, a trip upstairs turns into something else entirely, and you wind up at the feet of the very man you’ve been trying to avoid

the hallway smelled like antiseptic and floor wax when you stepped out of the elevator. same as always.

you kept your head down, badge already turned backward on your lanyard, shoes squeaking a little against the polished tile. you passed a gurney—empty. a laundry cart—half full.

and just before you reached the swinging doors to the morgue, you heard the telltale whistle of a jazz standard gone slightly off-key.

dr. howell rounded the corner with a coffee cup and a clipboard in hand, coat slung over his arm like he was late to catch a train. he brightened at the sight of you.

'well, well,' he said, dragging out the syllables. 'if it isn’t my favorite wednesday night crypt keeper.'

you offered a quiet nod. he didn’t need much more.

he held the door open for you with a flourish. 'nothing too exciting tonight. one delivery from icu—already logged. couple post-op holds, but we’ve got clearance for morning autopsies. all yours, morgue girl.'

you winced at the nickname, but he was already breezing past you. you were grateful that he didn't comment on the jacket slung over your arm—jack's jacket.

you nodded again, quiet, and let the morgue doors swing shut behind you. the hum of the refrigeration unit greeted you like a familiar friend. low and constant. comforting.

you flicked on the overhead surgical light, just one. no need to flood the whole suite. you changed into your second pair of gloves, tied the back of your gown, and pulled a fresh paper mask over your face. routine. always routine.

the newest body was already laid out on a steel table in the center of the room—male, mid-thirties, no visible trauma. your job was simple tonight.

weigh. photograph. identify. tag. sample. clean. store.

you could do it in your sleep.

you wheeled the scale over and adjusted the position of the sheet. the body had a tattoo on the left forearm—dates and initials. you noted it on the log. took a photo. printed the sticker for his toe tag.

the body didn’t flinch when you looked at it too long. didn’t shift away when your hands lingered. didn’t make you feel like you were in the way.

you moved mechanically.

but your eyes kept flicking toward the desk.

it sat across the room, tucked in the corner where the shadows didn’t quite reach. on top of it, carefully folded and untouched, lay the coat.

jack’s coat.

still too warm. still too him.

you hadn’t brought it back. you told yourself you were waiting for a good moment. a natural one. but the truth was simpler.

you were scared.

scared to go upstairs. scared to see him. scared of what it would mean if he looked at you like nothing had happened. scared of what it would mean if he didn’t.

you turned back to the body and collected a blood sample. the vial clicked into its holder with a soft snap. you labeled it in your neat, silent handwriting.

the silence stretched.

the coat stayed folded.

you washed the body’s hands gently—knuckles blue, nails trimmed short. the water wasn’t warm, but it was warmer than the room. you dried him carefully. smoothed the sheet back over his chest.

you’d just moved to the toe tag when your gaze drifted again.

desk. coat. still there.

you swallowed.

you shouldn’t have kept it.

you should’ve folded it up and left it with security. should’ve returned it with a note, something clinical, something that said thanks without saying i haven’t stopped thinking about it. about him.

but instead you wore it the rest of your shift and all the way home. only slipping out of it confines once you felt the warmth of your sanctuary, your apartment.

you finished tagging the body and pushed the gurney toward drawer twelve. it slid in without a sound.

the room felt heavier with it closed.

you peeled off your gloves. dropped them in the bin. rubbed your arms once against the cold that never really left.

then you stepped slowly toward the desk.

the coat stared back at you like a question you didn’t know how to answer.

it still smelled like him—god, why did you know what he smelt like.

you hadn’t worn it since that night. couldn’t bring yourself to. but you couldn’t fold it all the way either. couldn’t box it up. couldn’t forget how he’d looked at you—like he noticed you. like you mattered.

you sat down.

the chair creaked. you stared at the coat.

he hadn’t come back.

you hadn’t gone up.

the stalemate held.

your shift stretched ahead, and the next body was already waiting in the cooler.

but for now—for just a moment—you let yourself sit in the silence. in the cold. in the not-knowing.

the coat didn’t move. neither did you.

the coat wouldn’t stop looking at you.

not literally—obviously. but it felt like it.lLike it was staring. like it knew. like it had soaked up every thought you’d been trying not to have since the moment jack abbot laid it across your shoulders without a word and walked out.

it was suffocating.

it was warm.

it was his.

and you couldn’t stand it anymore.

you stood so fast your chair scraped loud against the floor. the sound bounced off the stainless steel like a gunshot. your heart was hammering for no good reason, and your hands shook as you folded the coat—neatly, sharply, like you could slice the emotion clean from your chest if you just creased it hard enough.

you grabbed it by the collar and marched toward the door like it was radioactive.

you weren’t thinking clearly. not really.

you weren’t planning on a conversation.

you weren’t planning at all.

you just knew you could not sit with this thing beside you for another minute, another breath, another—

the elevator doors opened with a hydraulic hiss.

the lights upstairs were brighter. the noise immediate.

phones. voices. the beep of a monitor. a burst of laughter from somewhere far too casual for a place built on pain.

you stepped into the er like a deer in a hospital gown. the coat felt heavier now, slung over your arms like a guilty secret. you should’ve dropped it with security.

you should’ve sent it in a plastic bag. you should’ve done anything except carry it back up here like some lovesick victorian ghost on a redemption arc.

you didn’t even know where he was.

you moved on instinct. quiet. eyes down. avoiding eye contact like you could melt under the wrong glance. but the er was a maze of chaos. doctors darted. nurses barked vitals. gurneys wheeled past like you weren’t even there.

you spotted dana first.

she was charting by the central desk, her pen flying across the page like it owed her money. she didn’t see you at first. not until you stepped close enough that she glanced up—

and blinked.

'oh.'

you froze. your voice caught.

dana raised an eyebrow. 'you okay, there morgue girl?'

you didn’t answer. just hugged the coat tighter. you hesitated before starting. 'i was looking for-for dr. abbot.'

dana set her clipboard down. 'he’s, uh, in the crash room. bay three. i think he’s finishing some post-op notes.'

you didn’t move.

she tilted her head. 'want me to call him?'

'no!' you blurted, too loud, too fast. your face went hot. 'no—i mean—i’ll just—i’ll do it.'

she studied you for a beat. then smiled. not mean. not smug. just a little… soft. like she knew exactly what kind of chaos you were walking into.

you turned before she could say anything else.

bay three. crash room.

the distance from the central desk to the bay felt longer than it ever had before. your steps were too loud. the coat too warm. the beat of your heart too fast.

you paused outside the curtain. took a breath. you could still leave. drop it on a chair. walk away. pretend none of this had ever happened.

you could've but you didn't.

you stepped forward and pulled the curtain back. gosh, you don't know where this confidence is coming from.

jack abbot looked up from his chart. his sleeves under his black scrub top were rolled. his curly hair was a mess and he looked exhausted.

exhausted. and, when he saw you—surprised.

'uh, hi.' he said, voice lower than you expected.

you swallowed. held up the coat like it was proof you weren’t here to pick a fight. you couldn't even form words. you hoped the action conveyed what you were trying to say.

he stared at the coat for a second.

then at you.

then back.

something shifted in his expression.

he set the chart down. didn’t speak. didn’t move. just waited. he wanted to hear you say and he wasn't going to let go until you did. you hesitated. you could feel it again—the weight, the warmth, the him of it. 'you left this,' you said, quiet. too quiet.

you stepped forward and laid the coat on the nearest chair. deliberate and controlled. like a surgical hand-off. you cursed all that was good and evil that you couldn't just say two words to this man without wanting to crawl out of your own skin.

it was a nuisance to feel like this. it never really bothered you before that you were what others called shy or introvert. never cared so much about what other people were saying. but jack was different. you didn't want him to think you were this stupidly shy morgue tech who could speak without a stutter.

jack didn’t say anything right away. his gaze didn’t leave your face.

you felt like you were standing too close to a live wire. you don't know why you couldn't just turn around and leave, but it was like his gaze melted your feet to the ground. you couldn't leave even if you'd wanted to.

you cleared your throat. 'thanks. for, um . . . for letting me borrow it. you . . . know last night.' you wanted to hit yourself over the head as you listened to yourself stutter about.

still no reply. now you were really about to spiral. because now you had interrupted his work, made a complete fool of yourself, and probably pissed him off ( by the look on his face you were sure that was the case ).

you looked down. took a step back. and just as you turned to leave—

'you didn’t have to bring it up yourself,' jack said.

you froze. he wasn’t looking at the coat. He was looking at you. 'you could’ve sent it with security. or howell, he comes up here a lot.' a pause. 'or just kept it.'

your throat tightened. why did it have to be him? why could he of all people see past your walls. 'i know,' you said.

he stood. slowly. no anger. no sharpness. just that quiet sort of tired that somehow hit harder. 'why’d you bring it?'

you didn’t know how to answer. so you didn’t. and the silence bloomed wide enough to swallow you both.

jack stepped around the crash bed, slow, careful. not like he was afraid of you—just like he didn’t want to spook you. his eyes flicked to the coat where you’d placed it. then back to your face.

'keep it,' he said.

you blinked. 'what?'

jack shrugged. 'i don’t need it up here.'

your hands clenched at your sides. 'but it’s yours—'

he cut you off with a look. not sharp. not irritated. just steady. 'it’s cold down there,' he said. 'so keep it.'

'but—'

'i know how cold it is.' he cocked his head, and his voice dipped. 'you think i didn’t notice your fingers were red last night?' your mouth opened. then closed. then opened again. no words came out.

jack stepped a little closer. not much. just enough that you could smell the faint metallic tang of antiseptic on his skin again. the same one that still clung to the coat like a fingerprint.

'you’re doing your job,' he said, quieter now. 'better than most people in this place. if a jacket helps, take the damn jacket.'

you stared at the floor. your throat tightened. he was being nice. not polite. not formal. just nice. you didn’t know what to do with it.

'i don’t want to… overstep,' you mumbled.

jack’s brow ticked. 'you’re not.'

'i just didn’t want to—like, assume—'

'you’re not,' he said again, a little firmer this time. then softer : 'it’s a coat, morgue girl. not a marriage proposal.' your throat closed at his words and you forced yourself let out a short, breathless laugh—half-embarrassed, half-relieved.

your voice was barely a whisper. 'okay.'

jack nodded, once. then again, slower. his eyes lingered on yours for a second too long. you didn’t look away. it felt like something shifted in that space between you. not enough to name. not yet. but enough to feel.

then someone called jack’s name from the nurses’ station, loud and urgent. he sighed, rolled his neck like it ached, and turned his head toward the door. before he left, he nodded toward the coat again.

'wear it,' he said.

then added, without looking back :

'it suits you.'

your heart stalled as you watched him leave as if he didn't just say that because what the fuck just happened?

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