Y/N Padalecki loved acting on Supernatural. Working alongside your older brother and your boyfriend, but after ten seasons the guys have chosen to hang up the guns. Now the three of you are moving on to other projects, but that’s all that needs to change right? While you have moved to Austin to be closer to your family and boyfriend, Jensen is working elsewhere. Distance is only the start of your troubles.
Series Warnings-This is the angstiest story I have written. Jensen isn't the best person when the story starts out. Medical Drama, car accident in future chapters.
This is still being written, but about 14/15 chapters are done. Major Thank you to @writercole and @leigh70 for their help with this! 💗
Summary: When it felt like everything in her life was falling apart, getting offered the job as the Ackles’ nanny seemed like the perfect fresh start. It was only meant to be temporary, that is, until one fateful New Year’s Eve. With a promise to keep, she makes it her mission to keep the shattered family from crumbling into dust, but where does that leave her?
Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Fem!Reader
Series Warnings: Language, angst, character death, discussion of automobile accident, discussions and depictions of grief, smut (tbd), (individual chapters will be tagged accordingly)
Author’s Note: This story is purely a work of fiction and intends no harm to Danneel or the Ackles family. This is a Danneel-positive blog, and hate will not be tolerated.
Hey y’all! It’s been a minute 🥴 but I’m back on my bullshit which means I have Part 2 of this series ready to post! I’ll have it coming your way hopefully by this weekend.
I know there aren’t many of you left on here, but here is to hoping at least one other person is excited 🤣
Summary- Postponing his original sabbatical plans, Robby finds a quaint town at one of the most northern points of the country. He's quickly taken aback by a waitress at the first diner he walks into.
Contains- 18+ SMUT MDNI. p in v sex, oral (f receiving), hangover nausea, alcohol use, porn with lots and lots of plot :) lmk if i missed anything!
A/N- the town in this is heavily inspired by my love for northern michigan aka the best part of the best state. divider from @thecutestgrotto !
A soft sun welcomes the calm morning. It streaks through the windshield of Robby's recently swapped Ford Ranger. Unlike his bike, it's built for the curvy, tree lined roads of the small northern town he's traipsing through.
His lids start to droop, stomach growling from the endless hours of driving. He perks up at a neon sign cutting through the pale blue skies. Soon thereafter, wafts of bacon, coffee, and oil drift through his cracked windows, and his stomach does the steering for him.
He's the only car in this parking lot, and he's surprised to see a little white building with pink trimming. Bright pink letters splash across the white wooden door.
Petal and Bloom- it reads in loopy letters, and stepping through the door is like walking through a time machine. It's pure 50s, a vibrant turquoise coating the walls, peach booths lining the width of the pink and white checkered floor.
He can't help but let a chuckle escape his lips, the giddiness knocked completely out of him at the sight of the waitress that greets him.
You're pretty. Gorgeous, even. The shiny gloss of your lips, the curve of your hips, the blush painting your cheeks- they make his heart skip in a way he thought wasn't possible anymore.
You sidle up to him, the sweetest diner dress adorning your figure. It's pink, with a pretty name looped into the stitching. It hangs off your frame with ease, pulled tight at the waist by your white apron. You bounce on your tennis shoes, a sweet smile on your sweet face.
"Hi! Dining in?" You chirp, and it's so perky he debates getting a coffee.
"Yeah, just me," Robby huffs, nodding his head and averting his gaze.
Looking at you nearly paralyzes him, but looking and talking to you? He feels like he's 14 again, talking to Patricia Connors at her locker the week before homecoming.
He slides into the booth you cheerily lead him to, cheeks heating at the new position. He looks up at you now, the early morning sun coating you in a golden glow. Your eyes sparkle in the light, and he swallows a thick lump in his throat.
"What can I get started for you, sir?" You ask, and guilt pools in his stomach at the name.
"Please, call me Robby," he waves you off, and you nod lightly. Your instant obedience gets his heart racing, and he smooths a hand down the back of his neck. It does nothing to self soothe.
Chill out, you gross old man, he kicks himself, clearing his throat before answering you.
"Can I just start with a coffee?" He rasps, eyes trained on the menu in front of him, only darting them up when you walk away.
The sway in your hips nearly knocks him unconscious, dark dots literally starting to pepper his vision. The clink of a cheap plastic glass snaps him out of his senselessness.
He sees water, accompanied by a mug of coffee and a piece of toast he's surprised was made so fast.
"You looked like you were about to pass out," you say, apprehensively.
He makes the mistake of looking up at you, your small smile rendering him breathless.
"Thanks," he breathes, and it's a pathetic croak in the back of his throat.
You chuckle, flipping your notepad open. You poise a pink pen to the paper, a pensive brow pointing right at him.
"What else can I get you?" You ask, and he rattles off his order- unable to resist the bacon he smelled a mile back.
"Alright, that'll be a while," you quip, snapping it shut in the wake of his confusion. "As you can see, we're packed to the brim. There's no way the kitchen will be able to get this out in under an hour. That okay?"
The empty sound of the diner fills the space between you. You're joking. He knows, somewhere deep in his semi-consciousness that you are, but his exhausted haze clouds his logical reasoning.
"What?" Is all he can manage, and he wants to kick himself.
"Nothing, sir," you chuckle, and miraculously, he doesn't feel embarrassed or ashamed, but endeared, almost. "I'll be back shortly."
He watches you walk away again, and curses under his breath. He runs a flat palm down his face, trying to scrub out the weariness in his eyes. His heart pounds a symphony against his chest, ringing even in his ears.
He has no idea what happened back there, can't remember a single time he dropped the ball while flirting. It came so easily to him in Pittsburgh, when he was at his worst.
Another thing clicks, something his therapist has taught him to identify. When we recover from trauma, our brain puts together puzzle pieces that have been scattered around for too long. Or something like that.
He makes a match now, realizing that his desperation for validation projected on his female counterparts, romantic or not. It's jarring for a moment, but he's gotten better at acknowledging it, deciding what he'll do better in the future, and moving on.
It's methodical, the steps to this procedure. It feels right for his brain, to check things off in a sort of list. It feels less daunting, actually doable for him.
Once again, his thoughts are interrupted by plastic dishware clinking on the table. He perks a little, the steam of his eggs and scent of his bacon enough to restart his nervous system.
He nods his head at you, muttering a small thank you, heart sinking a little at the thought of your interaction being over.
Like you can read his thoughts, you slide into the booth across from him, propping your chin in your hand.
"Is this okay?" You ask, smiling. "You seem like you could use a little bit of company."
You have no idea, he thinks.
"That'd be great, thanks," is what he says. He glances around, looking for any other employee in the building. "This won't get you in trouble, will it?" He asks, voice quieter than it was before.
A chuckle stifles past your lips, and the sound swirls around his head like little blue birdies in a cartoon. He feels like a caricature around you, a dopey, wide eyed Popeye, smitten by Olive Oil.
"No," you respond, and relief washes over him. "My best friend owns this place, she's not even clocked in. Still hungover from last night."
There's a teasing lilt to your voice, and he smiles, thinking about what it must be like to know you. To have known you, well enough to work together and live in the same small town together.
He does laugh at this information, eyes finding his plate. He grabs a piece of bacon, nibbling on it lightly without breaking eye contact.
"So, what brings you to our little corner of the world?" You ask him, with the familiarity of a life lived in the same place.
He shrugs, looking at the window to survey the scene. It's remote, located off the highway on the right and a small side street to the left. The left hand road leads to a slightly bigger downtown, if his strained vision proves correct.
"I'm a doctor," he starts, and it feels foreign falling from his lips. "I was…" he starts, and all the possible things he could say dance around in his brain. "…burnt out," is what he lands on.
That's one way to put it.
Your mouth twists downward, brows furrowing. It's not pity, though, and it's not sympathy, either. Both of those would have immediately triggered something deep and angry within him.
No, what he sees is more like empathy. The glint in your eye, the purse of your lips, the nod of your head tells him that you relate. It's what he's choosing to believe, anyway, as he doesn't have any factual information to back this up. He feels it pretty strongly, though, and he's learning that's not always a bad thing.
"I get what that's like," you sigh, and his ears perk up like a dog.
His heart pounds at the immediate validation, swirling a euphoric rush through his veins.
"Yeah?" He asks, voice lilting and a bit pitchy.
You nod again, pretty gold earrings dangling with the motion.
"I just got fired," you admit, and now it's his turn to frown. "That's why I'm working at my best friend's diner at 28."
There's a civil war brewing inside him, the guilt of hearing your age at battle with the giddiness your vulnerability makes him. It all results in a sore tummy, and he shovels scrambled eggs in his mouth to try and tamper it down.
"Please," he says, once he's swallowed, taken a sip of water and grounded himself. "You have your entire life ahead of you."
There's a brief pause in your rapport, then, the weight of his words hanging heavier than intended. You don't seem to mind, unless, again, his calculations are incorrect. He's been proven to read you pretty well so far, though, so he's hopeful.
The sparkle in your eye helps. The sun is now fully up, hanging high in the sky as mid-morning dawns on the both of you. It shines through the window, landing perfectly on you.
It takes his breath away, and he allows himself a moment to sink into it, to enjoy it. Instead of feeling guilty, racking his brain for all the reasons he wouldn't deserve to even enjoy a nice conversation, he indulges. That's what the sabbatical is for, right?
"And you don't?" You ask.
His face crinkles in a smile, dipping his head down to try and hide the wrinkles around his eyes. Shock paralyzes him when he feels your soft fingers tucking under his jaw and lifting him back up to you.
You're smiling when he meets your gaze, but then you give him a showy pout. It sends a cacophony of butterflies loose in his belly, and he feels like a school boy. He sips on his coffee, the caffeine doing nothing to quell the giddiness erupting within him.
"What's that face for?" He asks, and his soft tone surprises him.
"You're not smiling anymore," you jut your bottom lip out, and it's taking everything to not lean over the table, take them between his own lips, and suck.
"Why do I need to smile?" He asks, and feels ridiculous almost instantly.
You deserve to smile, Michael, you deserve to enjoy things, Dr. Parker would say, and he repeats it in his head like a mantra.
"You have these sweet lines around your eyes when you smile," your hand once again brands his skin, now your open palm cupping his cheek.
He's stunned at your abrasiveness, pathetically intrigued by what you have to offer. His cheek heats under your touch, and he spots the tiny smile creeping on your lips.
"They're nice," you remark, removing your hand from his face.
It's cold instantly without your touch, a shiver unzipping his spine at the loss of contact.
The moment floats between you two, vibrant and sparkly like a crystal ball. He knows exactly what his fortune is. He's looking at it.
"So," you say, effectively popping the magical bubble, "a doctor, huh?"
He nods, apprehensive to the topic. He can't remember the last time he talked about his job with someone who knew nothing about it. He can't remember the last time he's been this removed from Pittsburgh. It's…scary. Nice, but scary.
He powers through anyway, allowing himself the fortune he's so gracelessly stumbled upon.
"Yeah," he gruffs, smoothing his hand over the back of his neck.
He can't yet bring himself to say more, bottom lip sliding between his teeth.
"Can I guess what you do?" You ask, and he quickly nods.
This, somehow, eases him. It allows him the vulnerability of sharing the information, without the pressure of finding the right words, racking his anxious mind for something to mask how horrible it's been the past few years.
You stroke your chin with your forefinger and thumb, brows puzzled in the sweetest way. He fights the urge to kiss away the crease between your brows.
"Emergency medicine," you say, and his blood runs cold.
You perk up at his reaction, knowing immediately you got it right.
"Yay!" You squeal, clapping your hands together. "What a crazy coincidence! I don't know why I even guessed that, you just seem like you've seen some shit."
He chuckles at that, a genuine, cathartic chuckle.
"Ooh, you have no idea," he says, and your smile makes his heart race.
"Where is it? Are you guys typically busy?" You ask, and he almost envies your naivete.
"Uh, 's in Pittsburgh," he says, eyes trained on his lap.
His ears are on fire, heart roaring in his chest but he pushes through, even though his voice is croaky and he feels like he might throw up.
"We're a trauma center, so…" he trails off, gaining the courage to look back up at you. "Yeah, I've seen some shit."
You give him a kind smile, a sweet giggle peeling from your lips, and he positively melts. He can't remember the last time someone looked at him like this, like he was something, anything else than Dr. Robby.
"Well, I'm looking forward to hearing some stories," you propose, tone uneasy.
"Yeah, I'm sure I can make that work," he says, sipping his coffee, nibbling his toast.
"How long are you in town?" You ask, and his heart sinks at the thought of ever leaving this cozy bubble.
"I'm here for three months," he says, and is almost prideful by the way you perk up at this news. "Plenty of time to swap stories."
"I can't wait," you reply, and his stomach cartwheels. "Where are you staying?" You ask, and he raises a brow.
"Why? Y'gonna come murder me?" He asks, resting his back against the cushiony booth.
"Yup, you caught me!" You giggle, playing along. It electrifies him.
He laughs, and can't help but notice how easy this feels. It's exhilarating, addicting, and utterly terrifying.
"No," you roll your eyes once your laughter dies down. "I've lived here my entire life and I probably already know exactly where you're at."
"Well, with your track record of guessing things about me," he starts, pulling out his phone to open up his Airbnb app. "You probably will."
He turns his phone around, and goes still once he sees your face fall. You grab his phone, pinching the screen to zoom in and out, eyes glossing over. His gut twists, and he feels absolutely awful.
Before he can spiral, he decides to take action instead.
"I'm so sorry, did I say something?" He asks, shaky fingers plucking his phone back.
You shake your head, wiping a stray tear from the corner of your eye.
"Gosh no, no not at all," you insist, and it does nothing to sway his guilt. "That's actually uhm-" you swallow, and his heart sinks even deeper. "That's my grandparents' cottage."
"Oh," he blinks, unsure how to take this news.
"They always rent it out over the summer. They're in the Hamptons," you roll your eyes, and he can tell there's more to this story. "My whole family is, actually."
For the first time this entire conversation, you seem…small. You're avoiding his gaze, fiddling with your apron, pouting your lips.
"And you're here?" He asks, and you just shrug.
"I just moved back from New York, actually," you confess, and he leans forward, giving you his full attention. "I got fired from the marketing firm my grandfather owns."
His mouth twists downward, once again heeding your earlier understanding.
"One of the jackass accountants tried feeling me up," you say, and the confession rocks him. Not only does your brazen confidence scare the shit out of him, he's also overcome with a severe need to beat this preppy New York accountant's ass.
"I reacted maybe a bit…harsher than I should have," you continue. "I turned around and just slapped him. I honestly wasn't thinking, it was an instinctive reaction. So, I got fired for disorderly conduct."
"I'm sorry…" Robby trails off, genuinely confused. "They fired you for disorderly conduct? Not the guy putting his hands where he wasn't fucking supposed to in the first place?"
You nod, to his everlasting fury.
"On top of that, my boyfriend dumped me," you mutter. "Said he couldn't be with a 'snitch', like we're in third grade."
Anger flares white hot within him, furrowing his brows and burning his stomach until there's nothing left but ash.
"I had to come home," you say. "My family is not happy with me. I also have some stories."
"Well, I'm really looking forward to hearing them," he says, only able to offer kindness in wake of this news.
"Likewise," you murmur.
The sun shines between you once again, illuminating Robby's now empty plate. Your eyes find it, and he sees you immediately jump back into waitress mode.
"Let me take care of this!" You chirp, swiping his plate away and whisking it to the kitchen.
He feels cold at the loss of you, eyes trained on your frame the entire time. He watches you ring up the order, bringing his check back to the table.
He opens his mouth to speak, but is forcefully interrupted by the door swinging open.
"Oh. My. God. GIRL!" Another young woman bursts through the door, looking a bit worse for wear.
Her hair is mussy, makeup smeared and clothes wrinkled.
"Is my uniform here?" She asks, skittering through the diner.
"Yeah, in the back!" You shout, and she responds with a comical, "THANK GOD!"
"Aaaand that's Cherry, my best friend," you quip, collecting his payment and dispersing the change. "I'll see you tomorrow, Robby?" You ask, and he nods eagerly.
"Go and get some sleep, you'll need it," you tap your notepad on the table to see him out.
He reluctantly finds the door, slinging his bag over his shoulder before looking back at you one last time.
"And a tip?" You add, and he raises his brow. "The guest bed is comfier than the master bed. Trust me."
"Thanks," he chuckles, pushing the door open, back into the real world.
The next few weeks are almost always a mirror of that first morning. Robby coming in at the break of dawn, you two sitting over a coffee together.
He came in that second day, looking much more rested than the day before, raving about the mattress in the guest room.
You'd laughed, giving him a playful 'told you so!' before assuming the exact same booth he'd had the day before.
Cherry's been more than cool, allowing you to sit and talk with him when you're really supposed to be on the clock.
You repay her in gossip, gushing to her about all the ways the hot, mysterious, older doctor has been flirting with you.
At least, you think he's flirting with you. He dances all around it, a teasing twinkle in his eye, a small smirk on his lips. Cherry's convinced he wants you. You're not so sure.
He always makes a point to confirm with you, and Cherry, that your early morning chats are okay. You can tell he feels guilty every time he asks, and in a sick way, it makes your heart swell. It still doesn't stop him from talking with you until the next customer comes in.
He comes in so early, this typically only happens after you've banked a good hour and change of conversation, each one more titillating than the last.
This morning, you'd finished your conversation with an invite. It was bold, unexpected, tumbling from your lips before you could have stopped it.
"Hey!" You chirp, just as he's about to push the door open. "Cherry and I are hosting a little something after closing hours."
"A little something?" He raises his brow, and your stomach somersaults.
Tonight, you and Cherry were debuting Bloom and Petal: After Hours. It's been a passion project of Cherry's, turning the daytime breakfast bar into a lively night scene.
You reference the framed certificate now resting behind the bar, some fancy scribbling displaying your newly acquired liquor license.
Robby's face shifts in understanding, a small smile hiding behind nervous eyes.
"A bar with a bunch of 25 year olds?" He quirks a brow, and your heart sinks.
You've never really addressed the age gap between you two, though it feels glaringly obvious, and even foolish now. Your face burns, and the words that leave your mouth leave you humiliated.
"For me?" You ask, cringing as they fall out of your mouth like rotten teeth.
He doesn't seem to share this sentiment, though, as his brown eyes glimmer in the light, his telltale sign you've gotten to his soft spot. Your heart rate picks up, and you look at him expectantly.
"Maybe," he murmurs, and you'll take it. It's something. "See you," he says, and he's out the door.
"See you," you breathe, into the empty diner.
Bloom and Petal: After Hours is thumping, and you've been on your feet for hours. Sweat drips from your brow as you weave through the crowd of sticky bodies of people you've known since grade school.
You're thankful to have ditched the thick, cartoony outfit for a pink Bloom and Petal t-shirt, paired with denim shorts. You finally escape behind the bar for a brief moment, attending to a few drinks and avoiding the crowd.
Your eyes keep darting towards the door, expecting a familiar face to walk through. Disappointment spreads deep in your stomach like a disease with each ring of the front bell.
"He's still not here?" Cherry yells over the crowd, and you shake a sad head no.
She rolls her eyes, forever on your side.
"Boo! What a dick! I thought he liked you!" She squeals, and her use of past tense, though unintentional, makes your tummy turn.
"I thought he did, too," you mutter, furiously cranking the beer tap.
Foam aggressively overflows the pint, and you crash it down on to the bar a little too harshly. Cherry rears her head back at this, eyes wide, and now it's your turn to roll your eyes.
"I'm so dumb!" You force a smile, your tone terminally delightful. "The stupidest girl in school!"
Cherry chortles at this, and you give her a sardonic smile. Then, you hear it again.
Ding!
Your head whips towards the door, like a pathetic dog waiting for its long gone owner. Cherry sees this too, wincing at the action.
Shame burns deep in your belly, and you turn, pressing your palms flat on the wall, leaning your forehead against them. A long groan strangles your throat, Cherry rubbing a soothing hand down your back.
"Take a minute, babe, it's been a crazy night," she says before darting to the other side of the bar.
You feel ridiculous, of course he wouldn't show up. He's about twice the age of everyone here, he's clearly here running away from something, and most of all, he's not your fucking boyfriend.
That last fact makes you sick, and you dart into the kitchen to get a fresh breath. You barrel your way through the bustling back to get through the door, bursting open like a treasure chest.
The relief of the fresh air folds you in half, hands resting on your knees as you will yourself not to vomit. Nausea spins your head, quelling with each breath of fresh, summer air.
"Woah!" You hear a familiar voice, and your eyes dart up to find the man you've been looking for all night.
He's like an angel in the fading sunset, approaching you gently from the other side of the parking lot.
"Robby!" You breathe, half chuckle half gasp. "Hi!"
He reaches out a tentative hand as if to steady you, approaching slowly, bending slightly at the knee to look you in the eye.
"You okay, sweet girl?" He asks, and the debut of this pet name does nothing to help your desire to hurl.
You nod, anyway, inhaling deep through your nose and out through your mouth.
"Good job," he mutters, and your knees nearly give out on you.
"Yeah," you swallow thickly. "Yeah, I'm good. I think I just need some water."
"Do you have any out here, sweet girl?" He asks.
You stumble, your heart skipping a beat. Again, with that damn nickname.
"N-no, I don't," you mumble, and you can't tell if the haziness is from Robby, or the overstimulation.
"Stay here, I'll be right back," he darts across the parking lot once more, back to his truck.
Your focus stills on his frame, the way it leaned and stretched into the front seat of his car. Your cheeks burn, shame creeping in your belly.
He's not your boyfriend, you remind yourself. Snap out of it.
He comes back, a steel water bottle rattling with ice. You perk up at the sound, a Pavlovian response driven by dehydration.
He holds out the bottle, and you snatch it from his grasp, savoring each slide of the cool liquid down your parched throat.
You let the straw go with a pop!, a groan of relief escaping your lips. Robby shifts on his feet at the noise, and you choose to think nothing of it.
"Is it okay if I walk you in?" He asks, pointing towards the door. "I just wanna make sure you get back okay."
You nod, wordlessly, letting him guide you toward the door, his arm hovering over your waist. You come back to life step by step, the energy of the bar swallowing you back in the second you cross the threshold.
Your lips wrap around the straw again, vision clearing up with each swallow. Robby taps your hip lightly in approval, and you almost stop to squeeze your legs together.
You burst out of the kitchen, immediately thrust back into the hot, sweaty bubble of the night. He rounds the corner of the bar with ease, propping himself on an empty stool.
It really sinks in, then, him being here. Seeing him, his wide, tired eyes, his soft smile, surrounded by purple and blue and pink flashing lights and bustling twenty somethings.
He's here for you. Your heart sings.
"Thank you for coming," you mutter sweetly. "What can I get you, handsome?"
You count this as revenge for his earlier nickname. You're successful, given his deep blush he tries so sweetly to hide.
"Whatever beer you have on tap, babe," he says, and you shudder.
You give him a curt nod, turning on the ball of your foot to fulfill his order. You tap your foot as you anxiously wait for the glass to fill, butterflies swarming your stomach at the thought of turning around to see Robby again.
You're met with a much worse sight, though. One that completely pops the Robby bubble you've inflated for yourself.
Clean cut brown hair, perfectly tailored suit, $200 tie. The same, sorry excuse of a man that left you alone, deserted in New York, after getting fired from your job.
"Brayden, what are you doing here?" You choke.
Beer threatens to spill over the lid of the glass you're shakily holding. Robby anticipates the situation, reaching two hands out to take his drink himself.
You're suddenly thankful, yet self conscious for his help all at the same time. Your eyes dart back to Robby, then back to Brayden. Back and forth, back and forth.
It's not long before Brayden clocks what's going on, the man sitting next to him. He scoffs, readjusting his tie with an arrogance that makes you want to punch him.
"I'm here to talk some sense into you," he responds, and hearing his voice again after all this time is like nails on a chalkboard. "Clearly you need it."
His eyes dart to his left as he says it, and you burn with rage.
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" You size him up. Like always, he takes the bait.
"Your family is fucking furious with you, y'know?" He remarks, and you dip your head in shame. "This little stunt you're pulling?" He circles a finger in the air in reference to the space around him. "It's ridiculous. You know it's ridiculous! I mean- look at you! Are you wearing denim?"
You can't believe the words that are coming out of his mouth, wondering how you could've been so blind to this man's true self.
"I wore denim in New York, you fucking ass," it's the only thing you can think of to say, and you feel like a fucking idiot.
"Not at work," he says, and you roll your eyes. "Any job where you can get away with wearing denim is a job you should never be working at. Can you imagine what your family would say if they saw you right now?"
You cross your hands over your chest, a familiar burn stinging the back of your nose as you will yourself not to cry in front of him.
"I'm sorry," a gruff voice interrupts, and your heart stops.
Robby's holding up a hand in Brayden's direction, who rears his head back in surprise.
"Who the hell do you think you are, talking to someone like that?" he asks, tone poisonous.
It takes you by surprise, eyes anxiously darting back to Brayden
"I'm sorry, who are you?" Brayden scoffs, and your heart pounds in your ears, anxiety thrumming through your veins.
"Does it fucking matter?" Robby responds, and your eyes find the floor.
"Don't think I didn't see you two walking in from the back," he drops, and your body goes white hot with fear. "What do you think your family is going to think when I tell them you're letting a man twice your age fight your battles for you?"
You make the mistake of looking up at him, no longer able to hide the tears pricking your eye. He has an all knowing smirk on his face, and you catch Robby shifting in his peripheral.
"That's not how they raised their strong, nuisance of a girl, hm?" He asks, and Robby slams a hand down on the bar.
"Are you fucking serious?"He asks, wild eyes darting toward you.
You panic, giving him crazy, sad eyes.
"I'm sorry," he gruffs, holding a hand up. "I just can't stand to see him talk to you like this," his voice is quiet, as private as it can be with your ex breathing down his neck.
Your stomach rolls, heart pounding when you see Cherry approach from behind. Anxiety is a pinball within you, hitting each point of your nervous system and sparing no expense.
"Oh. Fuck. NO!" You hear her screech, latching her manicured fingers underneath his shirt collar, yanking him up off the stool.
He squeals, and the sound earns a genuine laugh from you.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing here?" She barks at him, using her large waitress tray as a shield, guiding him out the door with each step she takes.
"Thought I'd come see what you managed to scrounge together," he smirks, walking backward toward the door. "Not bad, classy as ever."
"God, that guy fucking sucks," Robby whispers as Cherry bullies him out the door.
"Tell me about it," you gruff, grabbing a damp towel and wiping down the nearest surface you can find. Anything to distract yourself from the heat of his gaze.
A moment of silence beats between you, his eyes trained on you as you do everything in your power to avoid him. The vulnerability of the moment settles over you like a wet blanket, rubbing you raw and making you ache.
"Robby, I think you should go," you whisper, regret lacing every word.
The look in his eye is that of a kicked puppy, and you once again will yourself not to cry.
"What?" He asks, utter confusion in his tone.
"Thank you for coming," you start, a smile on your lips, bright and fake as ever, "but I think he was right. If my family gets wind of what we've been doing-"
"What have we been doing, exactly?" He cuts you off, and you freeze, not expecting this question.
Because, in all honesty, you really don't know what you've been doing.
You like Robby, that much is for certain. You like spending time with him, talking with him, listening to him, but maybe Brayden was right. He's nearly 30 years your senior, you could never have a relationship with him without stirring the pot with your entire family.
Is it worth it? For someone that will be gone in three months?
"I don't really know, Robby," you throw your hands up. "We're…two adults who talk to each other? We're friends?" You let that last question linger, toeing the line on suggesting more than that. You ultimately don't take the bait, and just raise your brow at him instead, begging him to tell you different.
He doesn't, of course, just slides a $10 over the counter, hops off the stool, and leaves.
Your heart sinks, cheeks on fire, and you bury your face in your forearms, laying flat against the bar.
"Ugh!" You groan, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.
What the hell has this man done to you?
You're worse for wear the next morning, a headache splitting your head in two. You bring a hand to your forehead, groaning at the light seeping in through the window.
Folding a pillow over your head, you thrash to the other side, memories of last night coming to you in flashes.
Robby not showing, Robby finding you in the parking lot, Brayden, Robby leaving, the shots Cherry clunk down on the bar after closing…
You're starting to regret that fifth lemon drop as it rumbles your stomach, acid creeping up your throat. You clamp a hand over your mouth, willing the nausea to ebb.
It eventually does, and you feel strong enough to sit up, swing your legs over the side of the bed, and make a sad attempt to stand. Your legs are wobbly to start, but eventually you find your footing, padding into the bathroom.
You freshen up, a mere face wash reviving as you move to the kitchen, desperately clamoring for some coffee and a piece of toast. A buzz on the counter lights up your screen, and you take in a message from Cherry.
Cherry: girl…did robby respond to you yet
Your heart drops, numb fingers swiping rapidly to get to your messages. Robby had given you his number a few days prior, something he tried to keep low key as he scribbled it on his receipt. You remember feeling flushed, like a love sick high school girl who just got asked to the prom.
Now, you just feel sick, actually sick. Opening the messages, an onslaught of drunken nonsense greets you, to your everlasting horror.
RObb
Robb y
H hey
Is your real name robert??? what's up with that
These were just to name a few, and the more you scroll, the worse you feel. Your view is instantly shot back to the very last text you sent- it's just the Spotify link to Go Go Juice by Sabrina Carpenter- and you drop the phone like it's hot as the three, cursed little bubbles pop up.
You scream, literally scream, as the phone clatters onto the counter, making impact with the marble at the same time your toast pops out of the toaster.
You sit in silence with yourself for a minute, then, feeling absolutely ridiculous about the predicament you've gotten yourself in.
Four months ago you were drinking champagne on the fanciest rooftop bars in Brooklyn. You were also more unhappy than you'd ever been.
Meeting Robby has made you feel like yourself for the first time in a very, very long time. And if that's the case, then it can't be that bad, can it?
Your phone buzzes, drawing your attention back to the devilish brick taking up real estate on your counter top.
Robby: My real name is Michael. Last name Robinavitch. Everyone at work calls me Robby. It's easier.
You stare at the words on your screen, tapping your foot anxiously as they settle in. The simplicity of his message is almost laughable, but there's weight to his select words.
He gave you his first and last name, something that feels ridiculously intimate for absolutely no logical reason at all.
As you ponder on how to respond, you come up empty time and time again. Your mind wanders back to that first day, the conversation about his Airbnb.
Before you can consider the possible ethical and moral violations of your actions, you slip your shoes on, grab your keys, and are out the door with your coffee in hand.
You roll up to the familiar, grand cabin with your heart beating a million miles an hour. The adrenaline has finally worn off as you sit in your car, in a deep stare down with the house that you spent most of your childhood in.
You feel so fucking stupid. Why would you even think this was okay? Tears burn your eyes as you scramble for the gear shift, pulling before realizing you hadn't even turned the car back on yet.
Before you can shakily push the button, the door swings open, and you're caught red handed. You freeze, your hands finding a home on the steering wheel, almost in defense in front of you.
He lifts his hand, making a 'come hither' motion with his fingers, and it's embarrassing how immediately you obey.
You swing the door open, stomping across the gravel dirt road to reach the porch. You're breathing hard as you approach him, in his low hanging sweatpants and thin white t-shirt.
And his glasses, oh God, his fucking glasses. It's perfect. He's perfect, you're afraid.
"Your first name is Michael?" You breathe, and he can't help but rear his head back a little.
"Yeah," he huffs, and that, unfortunately, does it for you.
You press your hands on his scruffy cheeks, pressing your lips firmly into his.
He's shocked, at first, going rigid in your arms as you plant one on him.
It doesn't take him long to melt into it, though, gathering his bearings and wrapping his arms around your waist. He pulls you closer to him, your tits pressing against his chest, the thin fabric of both your pajamas leaving little to the imagination.
He stumbles backward into the house, closing the door behind you and pressing you up against it. You shiver at his initiative, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing him against you deeper.
He runs his tongue over your lips, and you pout, desperately wanting his own on you again. He awards your impatience with one, two, three sweet kisses. You beam.
Your lips brush together as you smile up at him, eyes sparkling in the early morning light. You see his brows crease, a self-pitying smirk on his lips.
"God, I am so fucked," he rasps, smashing his lips into yours once again.
Your teeth clink at his intensity, and your tongues swirl each others as he palms your sides, going lower until he reaches your ass.
"Is this okay?" He husks, pressing sweet kisses and kitten licks to your ear.
You nod feverishly against him, and he pinches the plush skin of your ass. You squeal, and he gives you a light smack.
"Words, doll," he demands, and you're once again at his beck and call.
"Yes, God, yes, please," you mewl, eyes shining desperately.
"Good girl," he grunts, pressing his forehead against yours.
He hikes up your thin pajama shirt, pressing delicate kisses down your neck. You can't help but throw your head back into the wall, nails scraping the back of his neck.
His palms find your tits, squeezing and rolling your nipples, pinching every now and again. Warmth blooms deep in your lower belly, squeezing your thighs together at his expansive grip.
"Feel good?" He murmurs against your neck, and you nod desperately. "Arms up," he instructs, and you throw them up like a rag doll.
He slides your shirt over your head, marveling at the sight before pulling you to him, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carries you to the guest room.
You cup his cheeks as you move, peppering kisses all along his face. He chuckles, and your heart swells with the sound.
"Stop!" He laughs, "I can't see," he flops you down on the bed, his gaze on you so entirely vulnerable.
"Sucks," you shrug, making yourself comfortable on the memory foam mattress.
He quirks a brow, resting one knee on the bed.
"Oh, so you wanna be bratty about this, huh?" He poses, sliding his knee between your legs.
"It's the only thing I really know how to be," you reply, snippily.
Your breath catches in your throat as he hovers above you, ghosting his lips over your neck.
"Such a fucking tease, Michael," you breathe, wrapping your arms around his neck.
He allows himself to be pulled in by you, and you revel in every second of the close contact. His hands fly to your waistband, tugging on the elastic band. He presses a kiss at the exposed skin there, and you draw in a shaky breath.
"Can I taste you?" He murmurs against your skin, eyes closed as he takes you in.
"Yes, please," you reply, and he presses a kiss to your hip bone.
"Oh my God," he groans, peeling your bottoms off to reveal your glistening center. "You're so beautiful, fuck."
Your heart swells at his praise, nails digging into his scalp as he dives in. He laps at your collecting wetness, running his tongue up to your clit.
You jump when he flicks the tip of his tongue, swirling around your clit in a way that has you preening. You arch your back off the bed, grinding your pussy into his face to absorb any of the friction he was so generously giving you.
The scrape of his beard adds a special sting to the overstimulation, the sensitive skin of your thighs rubbing raw within minutes. It's a delicious sting, one that you can't seem to care much about at the moment.
He plays in your wetness, teasingly dipping his tongue into your hole, just a little. You gasp at his cruelty, tugging his hair ever so slightly. He groans against you, bringing a thumb up to rub your clit.
He coos at your soft whimpers, the pit in your stomach burning hot as he looks up at you, eyes big and brown and desperate.
He delves his tongue into you fully, his thumb never slowing its assault. Your release is quite rapid, waves of fire dancing over your skin as you roll your hips into his face.
He lets you use him to ride it out, rubbing his face and beard against your sensitive skin to help you through it. You dissolve into the pressure, ears ringing as you come down from your high.
Robby wastes no time crawling up your body, pressing his lips against yours immediately. You moan against his mouth at the taste, and he dips his tongue into your mouth.
Your hand finds his length, big and hard and still confined in those damn gray sweatpants.
"Why are you still fully clothed?" You ask, and he can't help but laugh.
He rolls his eyes, sitting back on his heels to lift his shirt off. He goes to lean back over you then, but you put a hand up, stopping him from going any further.
You take a moment to relish in the sight before you, the dark hair peppering his torso, the soft curve of his tummy. He's gorgeous, and you tell him so.
He flushes red at the compliment, moving your hand gently as he dips down to kiss you again.
"Can't remember the last time I've been called that," he murmurs against your cheek, pressing a light kiss there as he kicks off his pants.
He wasn't wearing underwear, and you thank whatever deity is above for the way his cock springs free, bouncing against his tummy.
The tip is red, angry, pre cum pooling at the center. You can't help but lean forward, darting your tongue out and collecting the salty liquid.
He grips your jaw and stops you from going further, earning him a cute little pout.
"I know, sweet girl. Next time," he kisses the pout off your face, and those last two words echo in your mind.
Next time, next time, next time.
"If you get your mouth on me right now, I'm going to cum," he explains, lining himself up at your entrance. "And believe it or not, I'm not in my twenties. Can't just bounce back like I used to."
Your cheeks heat at his words, teeth biting down on your lower lip as he teases your entrance with his tip.
"But don't worry," he mutters, thrusting into you, hips flush with your ass in one fell swoop. "I'm gonna fuck you real good, baby."
The air is knocked from your lungs, a gasp strangling out of your throat as he hikes your legs higher around his waist. He pulls out, only to slam back in harder, a whine falling from your pouty lips.
He leans down to kiss you as he starts to move, a repetitive rhythm that has you squealing into his neck.
You dig your fingers into his back, throwing your head back onto the pillow. He mouths at your neck, desperate grunts falling from his ow lips.
"So fucking beautiful," he murmurs against your neck. You shudder. "You have any idea how good this pussy feels?" He asks, sitting up on his knees to pick up his speed.
You wail, his balls slapping your ass with each thrust. He holds both of your legs up by your ankles. now, resting them on one shoulder as he continues to drive into you.
"God, Michael!" You whine, throwing your forearms over your eyes.
He shudders at this, kissing your ankle and asking you to call him that again.
"Feels so good, Michael," you whimper, a sweet smile on your face now that you know the damage you cause him. "Gonna make me cum."
He groans at this, and it's guttural. Your pussy squeezes down on him extra hard, the spring in your stomach beginning to coil. He kisses your ankle again, your shin, running his tongue along every spare inch of skin he can find.
You're dizzy underneath him, the world hazy as you bring your hands up to his belly, pressing and groping all of him you can.
"Fuck," a strangled groan wrestles its way out of his throat. "Your hands feel so fucking good, baby," he insists, thrusts nearly erratic. "You like feelin' me? Like how soft I am for you? Even when I'm fucking you like a slut?"
His words spark inside you, exploding like tiny fireworks. You feel your wetness pooling on the bed below, only growing messier at his words. He coos as he feels you gush around him.
"So perfect for me," he whispers, and you nod, taking a fistful of his tummy in each hand. "Love it when you fucking feel me up."
"I love your body, Michael," you tell him, eyes hazy and glossed over. "You're so gorgeous," you repeat your words from earlier, and he shudders above you.
"Pretty girl," he moans, his thrusts growing sloppy. "Want you to cum for me, make me the luckiest guy in the world, yeah?"
That does it, your Earth no longer spinning on its axis as your second orgasm hits you. It's like a freight train, rough and brutal and perfect. His own is soon to follow, his hips pressing flush against your ass as he empties himself inside you.
"Michael," you whine, teary eyes finding his darkened ones.
They soften at your plea for him, maneuvering your legs into a more comfortable position before pulling out. You whine at the loss of him, and he lightly taps your inner thigh.
"I know, sweet girl," he says, getting up from the bed. "You stay there 'n look pretty, hm?" He runs a large hand over your hair as he settles you into the bed. "I'm gonna get you a towel, m'kay?"
You nod wordlessly as you watch him go, selfishly committing his ass to memory.
You watch him nearly melt when he comes back, his reaction to you just…laying in his bed an immediate ego boost. Your heart swells as he gets his hands on you again, gently patting your core dry.
He then squirts some lotion in his hands, rubbing them gently into your raw inner thighs. You hiss at the sting, and he presses a sweet kiss to your lips, shushing you gently.
Once he's done a thorough clean up, he crawls in next to you, taking you in his arms and pulling you flush against him. You whimper, your lower half still sensitive as it pulses around nothing, the feeling of just being close to him so exciting.
He reaches down to pinch your ass, a light chuckle and a "be good," leaving his lips. He kisses you when you nod, muttering something about the best girl in the world.
Your lids grow heavy, and he jostles you slightly before you can fully give in.
"Hey," he starts, licking his swollen lips. "We're gonna talk about those messages when you wake up again, hm?"
Embarrassment floods you again, and you bury yourself into him. He shushes you sweetly, rubbing his hand along your back and pressing a kiss to your head.
"It's okay, it's okay," he validates, and you snuggle into him. "You're okay. I'm not mad, or weirded out or anything. I like you, and I want to talk about this, just not when you're this sleepy," he murmurs against your skin, and you nod desperately.
He clutches a hand on the back of your head, holding you flush to him as you drift to sleep.
You have no idea what will come when you wake, or what things will look like in three months when Robby goes back to Pittsburgh. But you're already back at your parents' place in your hometown, what do you have to lose?
summary: On the morning after his last shift before his sabbatical, you and Robby have a life-changing conversation.
pairing: Robby Robinavitch x reader
No one knows, and honestly, it’s good that way.
Robby isn’t fond of making a relationship public, because he’s scared of being burned – again. Alright, he has never said it out loud, but it’s quite obvious to those having the chance to be close to him.
Normally, you would prefer to have a proper boyfriend you can tell your family and friends about. But this time you make an exception for him, because you really like him, even if he’s quite troubled.
Quite being the understatement of the year. Because Robby is terribly lonely despite having friends and occasional girlfriends, and he’s stressed out, and burned out, and he’s losing his grip. Slowly but surely, Robby is reaching the deepest pits of hell, and luckily, you’re not the only one trying to offer a helping hand to him.
Even now, as you’re sitting around his kitchen island, eating breakfast together, he’s not talking to you. Well, he’s talking, but that’s only about the trip with additional instructions about how to take care of his apartment while he’s gone. You chime in every now and then, giving little hints that you’d be happier if he stayed, if he gave up his plan to go on this trip.
Because he does sound like he wasn’t planning to return at all, which is more than alarming. Last night he complained. He complained that Dana and Jack – people you only know by name – both tried to talk to him, both tried to break down his walls by cornering him, and that the latter managed to succeed in a way.
It wasn’t enough to talk him out of his plan, but at least he finally dropped hints that he’s finally considering therapy, maybe online, while he’s away. That’s how it worked during Covid, it might work now too if he’s at a place with proper WiFi. You don’t push him to do it, at least he’s thinking about the possibility without his hands being forced.
“I feel bad about baby Jane Doe,” he suddenly notes after a good ten minutes of silence.
You give him a questioning look since you have absolutely no idea what baby he’s talking about. He hasn’t mentioned that before, but you guess this is related to his latest shift. When your eyes finally meet, Robby lets out a sigh.
“Someone left this baby at the hospital, and we need to find someone to take her in, because she deserves a family, she needs people to love her,” he explains, and you can hear something in his voice that you haven’t heard before.
This is personal to him, as if he had some sort of a connection with that baby. After a sigh, you let out a thoughtful hum and lean back a little on the barstool. But you never take your eyes off him, you try to figure out just what he’s not telling you. But then, as if it’s some weird, cosmic thought that strikes you, you clear your throat.
Robby’s brows shoot up, and it takes you a moment to gather that single thought. “Why don’t we bring her home?” you suggest.
It’s a bold suggestion, you know that well, after all you’ve only been together for a few months, and this relationship is a secret, but still, you feel like this would be the right decision. Robby’s surprise passes as fast as it shows, and it’s replaced with a look of confusion.
“You mean, I should go back for her?” You nod, giving him the chance to process the idea. “I’m about to leave, it wouldn’t be– I should stay, that’s what you want to say, right?” Another nod follows his words. “Honestly, I can’t say the thought hasn’t crossed my mind too while I held her before coming home,” he admits with a very, very small smile. “Would you be up for it with my hectic shifts?”
Not really, but who’s ever truly ready for a kid? So, instead, you just bite on your lower lip and nod.
Robby lets out a mixture of a sigh and a hum as he taps his fingers on the table. “I will have to cancel my trip if we do this. And we need to buy a bunch of stuff for the baby, this place isn’t ready to accommodate one,” he points out.
“Let’s just see if they would let us bring her here first, okay?”
“Okay. Get ready, I guess we’re going shopping for a baby,” he tells you half-jokingly as he stands up and picks up your plates..
“Idiot,” you note with a laugh, and he only kisses your head in response.
Something changed in him, as if a switch had been flipped. But this is good. A good change as he decided to stay, he joked, and he’s seemingly happy to bring that little girl home.
summary: You were meant to be on vacation with your boyfriend, but instead you were there alone, where you meet the man across the hall from your hotel room, Michael, drinking alone in the hotel lobby.
Months later, you're admitted to the ER at the Pitt.
warnings/content: angst, fertility issues, Reader has endometriosis, some descriptions of blood, explicit casual-not-so-casual vacation sex, oral (f and m receiving), light praise kink, caretaking, hurt/comfort, accidental pregnancy
a/n: don't even get me startedddddddddddd!!! it's super fitting that March is also Endometriosis Awareness Month. I just have so many feelings. I hope you like this!!!! divider by me; unbeta-d and poorly proofread
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
Although, the location seemed perfect. Pristine beaches, the clearest water you'd ever seen. The friendliest greeters when you arrived at the hotel placing leis around your neck. Everyone seemed to smile and absorb all those good feelings. There was literal laughter in the air.
It was all that you planned it to be, except you weren't alone when you first talked about coming to Hawaii. All that vacation time you saved up together, and then your life went to shit.
That was a month ago. You debated for weeks about cancelling everything, since your partner cancelled your life together - but then over time you felt like it was worse to be sitting around at home feeling sorry for yourself instead of being here anyway.
You could grieve your old life here instead, where everything looked like a scene on a postcard.
You went to your hotel room, opened up your suitcase and fished out your first swimsuit. It was a low cut one-piece that hugged your body. You wrapped a sarong around your middle and swapped your sneakers for flip-flops and walked down to the beach with your towel and a book.
You'd been doing the same thing at home, except instead of the ocean you'd had your messy apartment surrounding you. If this was all you did for the rest of the day, fine.
You fell asleep in one of the sunbeds in the long line covered with umbrellas on the shore, only to be awoken by the shrieks of a young family whose children tore down to the beach with their gear. The father gave you a sheepish look as you stared after them, picking up your book from the spot it fell beside you.
Sand was already in it, great. And you managed to lose your spot. You couldn’t be upset at the kids, though. They were in literal paradise. You probably should have stayed home…
You trudged back to your room to shower. As you got out your key, elevator doors shutting behind you, you spotted a man whose back was to you opening the room opposite yours in the hallway.
You ducked into your room without a word, not before having brief, awkward eye contact with him. He was older than you, but handsome all the more for it. His brows hiked ever so slightly as you disappeared, and you hoped he wasn’t offended.
You weren’t in the mood to talk just yet.
-
Hours later, you couldn’t sleep. You ordered room service instead of attending the lūʻau, hoping that by tomorrow you would have the courage to show your face to random strangers.
Now, with the blankets twisting around you each time you moved, there was no way you were getting to sleep anytime soon.
You took a deep breath and left your bed, throwing your cardigan over your sleep clothes. Heading downstairs, you could hear there were still a few people around, but it was nothing like earlier that evening.
No-one was at the bar, save the guy behind it, and another figure nursing a beer. You recognized him immediately as your neighbor from across the hall, and sat nearby him, an empty stool between you.
As you waited, you scanned the wide dining area behind you. There was one other man at the far wall, staring into his phone with a large whiskey by his elbow.
“What would you like, ma’am?”
The bartender approached with a wide smile, unbothered by the hour.
“Uh… vodka soda, please.”
“Of course,” he said, and departed.
You felt watched and looked at your neighbor.
“I’m not interrupting?” you asked, and he shook his head.
“Stay.”
You told him your name and offered your hand.
“I think we’re on the same floor,” you added, and he shook your hand.
“Yeah. I’m Michael.”
You nodded, taking a short sip of your drink when it arrived a beat later. You remembered your clothes. Michael was wearing shorts and a t-shirt.
“I… can’t sleep.”
“Sorry to hear it,” he said. “You’re here by yourself? Where’re you from?”
You nodded. “Pittsburgh.”
He burst into a real smile and you felt your face flush. He was very, very handsome. Never mind your first impression. He was cute as hell.
“Me, too.”
“Oh, no shit?” you said, and he laughed. “What are the odds?”
You talked a bit about the journey there, and Michael said he’d got there yesterday. He was on a long vacation, nothing fixed.
You snorted. “Jesus. Mine was nothing but planned. So much of it went to shit already-”
It was like you couldn’t help yourself, cringing. You hadn’t meant to already get into it, but it was bound to come up, why you were alone.
“I mean, I had these big plans but the person I was supposed to come with decided not to in the end.”
“Sorry, again,” Michael said, taking a swig of beer.
You shook your head. “Don’t be. Turns out he wasn’t the guy I thought he was.”
Michael went quiet for a second, tilting his head, narrowing his eyes. “Was this… a break-up?”
“Yeah,” you sighed.
There was a pause and you added quickly:
“Not that I’m losing sleep over him! I’m way past that. I just… had these plans…”
You should have already been drinking long ago if you were going to bring this up with a complete stranger, but fuck it. You were on vacation, things were different. This wasn’t like being at your local dive, or telling people you work with.
“I had a laparoscopy,” you said. “It’s when-”
“Do you have endometriosis?” he asked.
“How did you know that?”
“I’m a doctor,” he said.
You looked away, suddenly very aware of him looking straight at you. You wondered what else he knew about you, even if it was just by looking at you.
“I wanted to start IVF, after this trip,” you went on. “This was meant to be our last big one before - hopefully - a baby.”
It wasn’t like you, to disclose so much. You didn’t feel judged, though you could sense the cogs were turning when you looked back at him.
“Must be something about you, for me to get so personal so fast,” you mumbled. “And I guess that happens a lot, when people find out you’re a doctor. But I’m guessing you’re not a psychiatrist?”
He shook his head, with an almost sad kind of smile. “Emergency.”
“So you work in a hospital?” you asked, and he nodded.
“Yeah.”
The silence between you that followed felt less strange, somehow. You didn’t want to avoid him like you had before, at least.
“I really am sorry if I gatecrashed your downtime,” you said, and he shook his head, draining his beer.
“Nah, I couldn’t sleep, either.”
He got up and you considered doing the same, but left your glass instead of finishing it.
“You wanna go for a walk?”
You thought about it, and then wondered why it mattered. It didn’t hurt. You nodded, rising from your seat. You gathered your cardigan around yourself and walked out, down the short footpath to the beach.
Tiki torches still burned, lining the sand well enough to see his face in the halflight. The moonlight did the rest. The tide came and went in a steady rhythm, the night otherwise blissfully quiet.
“It’s so… peaceful out here,” you murmured, and Michael nodded.
It was romantic. It was supposed to be, that’s why you chose to take your ex here. If he hadn’t run away from you, you’d be rolling around in the sand together, trying to make a baby. The regret crested over you again and you sighed, moving on, not waiting.
“Has the treatment been… effective?” he asked, and you glanced his way, for a moment too lost in your thoughts to understand.
Oftentimes, when someone learned you had endometriosis, their response was pitying, or worse, falsely trying to relate to your emotional and physical agonies. No, it wasn’t like ordinary period pain. Yes, it had derailed work and school, it had made life harder in a lot of ways.
Yes, you hoped to have children. Past tense - hoped. You didn’t know anymore. It meant doing it alone, if you were doing it now.
“I thought you were supposed to be on vacation,” you retorted, folding your arms.
He copied you, and you could make out a smirk on his face.
“I’ll send you the bill.”
Your welcomed laughter followed, before you rolled your eyes. “I guess it has been. Symptoms aren’t as bad. For now.”
There wasn’t a cure. You just had to wait it out, hope that each cycle didn’t render you bedridden like usual.
“That’s good to hear,” he said. “Sorry, that’s personal…”
“Hey, I’m the one who told you,” you said, shrugging. You glanced towards the water. “Jesus.”
You sidestepped the tide as it came rushing in, faster than you expected. Michael did the same, but he’d been paying attention, guiding you back with a hand that hovered the small of your back. He wasn’t quite touching, but you felt that spark of sudden proximity.
You kept walking in silence, a little further away from the shore.
“How long were you planning on staying here?” you asked, and he shook his head.
“I’m undecided,” he said.
“Is that why you can’t sleep?” you asked.
You may as well try more honesty with him. He knew what felt like too much already. You looked at one another.
“It’s probably related.”
You smirked back at him, then suppressed a sudden yawn. It was probably time to head back. Michael nodded toward the hotel and you walked back together. The elevator ride was silent, too. You went to your door, and then glanced back his way, shoving the keycard in.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” he echoed softly.
Something about that made you feel warm inside.
-
You approached him the next afternoon, among a group of other tourists waiting on the pier. You couldn’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses but he smiled back at you.
“Hey, I know you,” you said, face shielding your eyes.
You hadn’t seen him all morning, though admittedly you’d hoped to. You slept okay once you got back to bed, and spent the beginning of the day looking for him at breakfast before you went back to your room to laze around.
This afternoon trip was booked well in advance. It was supposed to be a late lunch on the ocean, with a tour guide included. A few families, couples and a bachelorette party gathered to board the yacht.
You and Michael stood together like two kids pairing up on a field trip.
“I can’t get over how clear the water is out here,” he said, and you beamed.
“I know, right?”
You hadn’t expected him here. In fact, neither of you had said anything about what you planned to do while in Hawaii. You packed too much, as you were prone to, so you were glad to have brought at least a couple nice dresses and skirts.
Today’s outfit was brand new, tags popped off that morning. Linen dress that cinched at the waist with a broad sun hat.
Michael’s Birkenstocks looked well-worn, his shorts were the same from yesterday. He wore a navy polo shirt that hid little of his broad frame. His… bulk attracted you. You wanted to stare at his forearms but tried not to. He was fun to look at, but he was a person, too.
Also, you’d just gone through a breakup.
You put on your sunglasses and ascended with the others, Michael behind you. He stayed by your side as the tour guide from the hotel began his introduction, and then everyone took a seat as the yacht began to move away from the dock.
“This is insane,” you murmured.
For the next half an hour, you listened with Michael beside you as the tour went on. Describing the flora and fauna of the islands, you wish you could see it for yourself, not have someone only describe it to you.
There was a loud gurgle and you looked at Michael.
“Was that your stomach?”
“...yes,” he whispered.
You covered your mouth with your hand, pressing your lips together for good measure. As the trip went on, you too felt hunger begin to pull your focus.
When they finally docked on the other side of the island, wait staff approached with heaping trays of fresh fruit and seafood. There were collective sighs of relief all around.
“Get in there,” Michael encouraged, and you laughed openly, tucking in.
-
“Did that feel… weird to you?” you asked, twirling your hat absently.
You walked back up to the hotel with Michael, and he nodded.
“Yeah, it felt… commercial,” he muttered. “Inauthentic.”
“Not a waste of money, though, surely?”
“I’m not your accountant.”
“I’m just saying - I don’t totally regret it,” you retorted. “It wasn’t what I expected, though.”
His sunglasses were tucked into his neckline, his arms bearing a healthy glow from the sun. You looked at his skin when he kept the elevator door open for you, allowing you in beside him.
He pressed the button for your floor.
“It’s not gonna help my Yelp review, I’ll tell you that much...”
You smiled again, looking away. “Obviously.”
It felt so good to be on the same page. It was different to what you were used to. With your ex, it never felt like you were truly in sync. It was your downfall, in the end. All the time you were together it felt like you’d manage to get over that eventually.
“Are you gonna grab some dinner downstairs later?” he asked, and you met his gaze.
He wasn’t saying that just to make conversation. You believed that with how he was looking at you now, although maybe you weren’t the best judge of character when it came to men.
“Yeah, maybe after a nap,” you said.
“Sounds good,” he said.
“Were you… were you hoping to see me?” you asked.
“Sure.”
He made it sound so simple. Why wouldn’t he hope to see you? Your face flushed and you looked away.
“Okay, cool,” you said.
“Okay, I’ll see you after,” he said.
He let you out first, and you felt butterflies in your stomach for the first time in years. You smiled shyly and walked away to your door, letting yourself in before you embarrassed yourself.
-
Something shifted inside you and wanted to enjoy yourself for the sake of it. You showered, after you didn’t nap - your brain kept thinking about Michael and his warm eyes peering at you - and dressed in one of your sundresses.
You found him at the bar and he nodded towards the dining area, where the host led you to a table overlooking the beach outside. Handed a menu, you peruse, unsure of where to begin.
Michael ordered beer, looking your way.
“I’ll get a cocktail,” you beamed. “Sex on the beach.”
If it landed anywhere, you tried not to read it too much on his face as you were left alone. He hadn’t said this was a date - but he hadn’t said it wasn’t either.
Conversation came easily, like you’d never stopped talking earlier.
“What’s it like being an ER doctor?” you asked, as you picked up some bread from the basket between you.
You offered it to him and he took a piece, breaking it in half on his plate.
“Chaotic,” he said. “Sometimes heartbreaking.”
“I can’t imagine how challenging it is,” you said, chewing. “I would never stay calm.”
“It’s not easy.”
You felt like he was skirting around the reality he faced, and your brows furrowed.
“I feel like you’re trying to not sound as impressive as you are.”
He laughed at that, passing a hand over his face wearily.
“I mean…”
“You’d constantly have to be flexible, right? No day is the same, you deal with anything and everyone…”
“Yeah,” he said. “But someone has to.”
You swallowed. The waiter returned with your drinks, and you took yours with a brief smile of acknowledgment. You took a sip, and put the towering glass aside, picking out a piece of pineapple stuck to its rim.
“So why you, then? Why not do something other than emergency healthcare?”
You shoved the fruit in your mouth, watching him. He drank from his glass of beer as you asked this. He sighed.
“I don’t… want to. But I probably should.”
You appreciated his honesty. You sucked the juice from your thumb, nodding. The silence felt taut with more questions, from both sides of the table.
“Why’d you break up with your ex?” he asked.
You smiled bitterly. “He didn’t want to have babies with me.”
The heaviness of your conversation only just hit you. You were both alone here, out of choice, but now you’d decided to create this bond, however fleeting it may be.
“I’m sorry,” he added.
“You didn’t upset me,” you said, because he hadn’t. “It’s the truth. He left me. I thought he wanted to have kids. We talked about it enough.”
You sighed, not unlike him.
“We started dating just before lockdown, and then we moved in together pretty fast. I was already diagnosed with endo then - and whenever we talked about the future it felt like hypotheticals. I mean, the world had fallen apart, and we weren’t going anywhere. We were forced to know one another really well. And we did, I thought. I thought we were close.”
You rolled your eyes at yourself, at how wrong you were.
“I think maybe he thought I’d never be serious about it, because I knew it would be hard to conceive, but then I started cutting back on drinking-”
You glanced at your drink briefly and gave a short laugh.
“I was trying to get my body healthy for trying, and I finally had my surgery…”
“And he flaked,” Michael said, not unkindly.
“Yeah,” you said. “And I feel like an idiot that I spent all this time with him, and I never really knew him. I think he meant more to me than I ever did to him.”
You picked up your drink again to stop talking, to stop yourself from becoming too sad again. You were only repeating the same thoughts you’d had for weeks.
“He’s an idiot,” Michael said, and you met his gaze. “He should have known sooner, anyway. Let you down better.”
You rolled your eyes again, trying not to notice how his eyes bore into you. Your skin began to feel hot.
Mercifully, the night’s entertainment began. Dancers twirling flames drew all attention away from your sad life, and with it your perspective. You were here, and not at home feeling sorry for yourself.
The night was warm, beautiful. The scenery and culture was spectacular, and this man was sitting with you out of choice. Things could be a thousand times worse. You were lucky.
“Hey, if anyone gets hurt, at least I know where to find a doctor,” you said, clapping with the rest of the dinner crowd.
Michael’s eyes were bright with mirth.
Some time later, full of good food, carrying your purse under your arm, your shoes in one hand and a water glass in your other, you and Michael walked along the beach together once more.
“Do you have kids?” you asked, and Michael took a second to reply.
“I had a stepson, sort of,” he said. “I haven’t seen him in a while.”
He didn’t explain, but added:
“Answer’s no.”
“Do you want them?” you asked. “I mean, did you ever?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “Other times…”
Again, he didn’t elaborate, his words hanging there. You decided to fill the silence.
“I guess I always wanted to try, to… y’know, give it a shot. Try to fight my infertility.”
He nodded, wincing. “I guess it would be hard if I was working like I do.”
“People make it work.”
“Sorry, I guess I’m just naturally morbid from time to time,” he said.
The sand was oddly comforting as you strolled, the sounds of life around you mere background noise. You drew in a breath, deciding to be your most direct.
“You weren’t just being nice, about my ex being a moron?” you asked.
His brows hiked. “No.”
“It can be hard for guys to be with-”
“With women with chronic illnesses?” he cut in.
You glanced towards the sea, the darkness beyond.
“Yeah, I guess that makes him sound like an asshole.” You sighed. “I’m going to stop mentioning him. I promise.”
Michael stopped, and you turned back, looking down at his hand he had poised beneath your nose.
“Pinky promise?”
You smirked, indulging him. You clasped his pinky with your own, shaking. For a beat too long, you noticed. He pulled away first, only to step closer to you, watching your face.
The heat between you was undeniable. He lifted his hand once again, thumb and forefinger catching your chin.
“Walk you back?”
“Sure,” you said, heart hammering.
-
It took a little while to fall asleep, since he was a gentleman and did as he said - walked you back to your room and then said goodnight.
No kiss, not even a hug. You simply parted ways and then you throbbed for hours after, feeling like you should have just gone for it. Unless somehow you were misreading it.
Those thoughts were pushed aside the second your landline rang beside you, around eight the next morning. You rolled over, confused, picking up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hey, did I wake you?”
Michael’s voice early in the morning made a thrill stir in your guts, a smile already playing on your lips. He was all soft and friendly, and you felt like you could hear him smiling on the other end of the line, across the hallway.
“No. Who is this?”
“It’s the guy that’s gonna get you to see some real nature today, if you let him,” he replied.
You grinned, rolling onto your back. “What did you have in mind?”
“A hike, if you’re up for it.”
You knew you didn’t look your best when you were huffing and puffing up a hill.
“I’ll take it easy on you,” he added.
“Gee, thanks,” you muttered.
When were you ever going to do this again?
“Alright, fuck it.”
You agreed to meet one another in the lobby in half an hour and you hung up, leaping out of bed and into the shower.
You threw on some shorts and your new hat, tried to figure out a way to look both cute and not totally ridiculous, and then headed downstairs. You grabbed a banana from the breakfast buffet and a coffee and scoffed them down, before making your way to the lobby.
He was waiting for you, backpack over one shoulder.
“Don’t have one of those,” you said, gesturing.
“I can carry everything.”
“Where’re we going?” you asked, following him out the door and into the street.
“It’s a tourist trap, technically,” he said, and you punched the air. “But the biodiversity is up there, compared to yacht tours-”
“Man, that Yelp review just writes itself, huh?”
You suspected he could walk faster if he wanted to, but he was doing the nice thing and making sure you weren’t left behind. He offered you bottled water that you took, uncapping it as you climbed a footpath up a steep hill.
“There’s a cliff view,” he explained.
“That’s the reward?”
“No, the journey is the reward,” he said, and you snorted. “Yeah, I know how I sound.”
He sounded like someone who could call out his own bullshit, which you appreciated. It was refreshing, in a way. In this place with him, there was no room for a facade.
You made sure to walk beside him until the path was too narrow, and then you took the lead, in the hope of seeming up for anything. Also, you knew the shorts you wore did great things for your butt.
Nearly half an hour later, you reached the top, passing another couple that nodded and smiled at you.
“Enjoy.”
“Thanks,” you called after them, as Michael let them pass.
The view took your breath away. Rocks below as waves crashed into them. Lush greenery all around. Birdcalls echoing as Michael rested beside you against a tree.
“You did it,” he murmured, taking out his water.
You tapped his bottle with yours and drank. You felt a little out of breath, but otherwise good. There was a sense of achievement.
When you got back to the hotel, Michael jerked his thumb towards the concierge desk.
“Gimme a sec.”
“What are you up to?”
He had a conspiratorial glint in his eye as he walked over, you hurrying after him. As he approached the desk, a worker smiled at you.
“Afternoon, Dr. Robinavich.”
“I was wondering if anyone was available at short notice, we were out hiking…”
The worker's uniform reminded you to buy a Hawaiian shirt while you were here in the next few days, the thought distracting you momentarily.
“Unfortunately, we only have a couple's massage session available, it's a longer one. Our regular masseuse Amy is away, she does our shorter sessions…”
“Couple's massage?” you blurted, and Michael looked at you.
“Would you mind?”
Uh, fuck no. You shook your head. The worker smiled.
“Alright. We'll see you in twenty minutes.”
-
You quickly realized that you were in over your head. The massage rooms were low lit with the kind of ambient lighting you associated with softcore porn.
The tiny candles that dotted the room, along with the soothing New Age music coming from the small speaker in the corner only added to the highly sensual atmosphere.
“Uh…” you said, as you walked in with Michael.
The masseuses stood by with towels in hand, two smiling young women with matching frangipani in their hairdos, their skin glowing, looking soft to the touch. You envied their calm, feeling your face burn.
“Good afternoon,” one of them said, beaming. “I’m Naomi, and this is Mia…”
Mia gave a little wave.
“Afternoon,” Michael said, nodding.
He was also weirdly at ease. Then again, as a doctor, wouldn’t he deal with embarrassing situations all the time? You pressed your lips together, listening.
“We will give you a few minutes to undress to your liking. Are there any concerns before we continue?”
You cleared your throat. “I - uh, I can have a tender abdomen sometimes, I have endometriosis…”
Naomi nodded, understanding. “Yes, of course. We can avoid certain areas. Anything you want us to focus on?”
“My neck and shoulders,” you said. “I think I probably look down at my phone too much.”
“My back,” Michael added. “I’m on my feet a lot, generally.”
“He’s a doctor,” you said, and he looked at the floor.
“Oh, wonderful,” Mia said. “Thank you.”
They departed, Michael staring after them.
“‘Thank you’? I’m not a veteran.”
“You worked through the height of the pandemic though, right?” you said, and he met your gaze, his face changing.
Dread or something close to it flashed across his face and you immediately regretted your question, realizing far too late how invasive and awful it was.
“I’m sorry, that was crass,” you babbled, and he shook his head.
“It’s fine.”
He moved away, towards one of the massage tables, fingers going to his buttons.
“Right,” you muttered. “Uh. I’ll just…”
You went to the other table, taking your shoes off, hands going to your shirt to remove it as fast as possible.
“Don’t turn around,” you said.
“You good?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” you lied.
“Because we don’t have to do this if you’re uncomfortable.”
You thought about it for longer than a second and then slipped under the towel, the table firm and unyielding under your weight. You tried to ground yourself, your nipples hardening under your towel as you spared a glance at him.
His back was to you, but he was under his own towel, no shirt. He had some scars, a couple moles you found endearing. Freckles and marks of age that only flattered him more. He was broad, too, of course.
You thought of that strength hidden under his clothes.
“Can I roll over?” he asked, and you whispered:
“Yeah.”
He turned, pulling in a breath.
“You with me?” he asked. “Are you in any pain today?”
You shook your head, and you were touched by his concern. You buried yourself further under the towel, barely peeking out.
He murmured your name a couple times and your eyes snapped to his.
“My liver spots and wrinkles are really that hard to look at?”
“Shut the fuck up,” you retorted, laughing uncomfortably. “You’re cute and you know it.”
He began to laugh, rolling onto his back, hand passing over his face. You wanted him so badly then, wishing he was under the towel with you. Now you had ninety minutes of this a few feet away from you.
“This is supposed to be relaxing,” he said. “So try to relax.”
“A man telling me to relax,” you muttered. “My favorite.”
“Yes, and a male healthcare professional, too, no less,” he retorted.
Your eyes met again and you shuffled up a little, until your arms were free, the towel still covering your naked torso.
“After this, we should-”
Whatever bold thing you were about to propose was interrupted by a short knock on the door, Naomi’s voice floating in.
“Are you ready?”
A beat, and Michael closed his eyes.
“Yeah,” he called. “Thank you.”
The massage itself was divine. It felt far shorter than its ninety minutes, and after a while all you could do was melt into a pile of goo. You were surprised you didn’t nod off, and Michael admitted the same in the elevator back up to your floor.
Whatever momentum you had earlier was lost, but you didn’t mind. You weren’t in any hurry to get back there, by how liquid you felt. You were rubbed all over with lavender oil and felt your clothes sticking to your skin. You craved a hot shower and a bed to nap on.
You gave him a dreamy little wave as you went your separate ways.
-
You woke hours later, hearing a knocking at the front door drifting in as you fought off the remainder of your sleep. You lifted your head from your pillow and walked out to answer it.
Michael stood before you.
“I definitely woke you this time,” he said, looking at your bathrobe that matched his.
He looked apologetic but cuddly in the fluffy white robe, his feet bare. He had nice toes, you noted vaguely.
“It’s fine,” you said, not bothering to lie. “It’s better I don’t sleep through dinner.”
“I’m actually wondering if you wanna…”
He gestured behind him, toward the elevator down the hall.
“I was gonna order room service,” you said.
You were too lazy to dress in something nice, to walk all the way down. You were spoiled by the massage. All you wanted was creature comforts.
“You can order it at mine.”
He really, really wanted to see you, that was clear. You softened, rubbing your eye.
“Okay…”
You took your phone and your keys and followed him out. His TV set was on, his window was open with the curtains moving with the soft night breeze, and the moon was out. The sounds of the hotel floated up from below, but you liked it here best, in this little space of his.
His suitcase was open against the wall, its contents far more economical than yours. From your brief glance, you saw a small bottle of cologne resting on his bedside table. On the yacht you’d smelt a fresh, slightly sweet scent on him.
His room itself had his own scent, amplified. You could chase it if you wanted to. It was vaguely earthy, welcoming. You perched on the end of his bed beside him, your knees touching.
He was so close.
“Good day?” you asked, and he nodded.
Then he took your hand like you were his and you stared down at him.
“Your hand is crazy soft,” you whispered, just to break the tension.
“It’s probably from all the hand sanitizer at work,” he murmured, threading your fingers together. “Aloe in it.”
You looked up into his eyes, your stomach full of butterflies.
“Michael…”
You took his free hand and slipped it into your robe, under your bra cup, his fingers finding your nipple. He stared down at your skin, thumb flicking over you as he rolled your breast, the moan tumbling out of you.
He leaned in to kiss you, your noses brushing. Light teasing, lips passing over one another until he pushed into your mouth with his tongue, your breaths already turning to panting. You were molten, wet without being touched anywhere near your pussy, and you knew it.
Your hands went up to his hair and you pulled him towards you, the TV playing in the background as you kissed and kissed, both of his hands on your chest now. You pulled back once your lips began to numb, relishing in how soft his beard was, noting the grey hairs you could make out.
“Can I take this off?” he murmured, nuzzling your skin as you nodded.
He pushed down your robe and then the straps of your bra. Freed of them both, you threw a leg over him and straddled his lap, feeling how hard he was beneath you. You gave a grind of your hips against his and he groaned into your mouth, the sound reverberating through you.
You slotted in together, rocking as you kissed, clumsy but not ever rushed. It was so thorough, and you throbbed for him, scratching his scalp.
“Sex can hurt sometimes,” you warned.
You were telling him what you knew he’d already know.
“I just don’t want to disappoint you,” you whispered.
Michael promptly planted his foot and spun you around so you were pinned underneath him.
“That’s not gonna happen,” he said, and you kissed him hard for that alone, his cock rubbing against your thigh insistantly.
He broke away with a soft smack of your lips, and you gazed up at him with a shy smile.
“Can you get a condom?” you whispered.
He nodded, moving back quick enough to make you laugh at his enthusiasm. You watched as he went to his suitcase, retrieving a box.
“Wow, how many is in there?” you teased, resting on your elbows.
“I’m on sabbatical for three months,” he said, and you smirked again. “And I’m a doctor.”
“I’m not complaining,” you said.
“Good.”
You took hold of your underwear and lifted your hips, pulling them off. You tossed them aside as he watched with a quiet awe.
“I was hoping to do that,” he said, returning to the bed.
The clear outline of his erection made your heart hammer with anticipation. A Pavlovian-like response, your mouth watered as he went to take off his own robe and pants underneath.
When he stood naked by the bed, you crawled over for a closer look, and to touch, of course. You couldn’t help it. You reached for his cock, wrapping your hand around it, his hand finding your shoulder and squeezing.
“Shit,” he whispered, as you jerked him slowly, tenderly.
His eyes closed, distracted. He still held the unopened box, and you took the opportunity to dip down and take him into your mouth without warning.
You went all the way down, until you were hitting your gag reflex, careful to not trigger it too hard, dragging your tongue along the underside. He tasted nice, that musky saltiness that was never quite enough. The precum that rewarded you made you moan around his cock, pulling back, swirling your tongue around the blunt tip.
He was so warm, and so hard. You bobbed your head, pushing yourself further, foregoing breathing to make him lose his own. He panted as you worked him over in hard sucks, his hand moving up to grab your hair. Just hard enough to be known, but not painful.
“Fuck,” he hissed. “Fuck…”
You missed this, feeling wanted. Feeling cherished, even if this was fleeting. You could believe it just enough. You pulled back, eyes watering from the effort.
“You…”
He pushed you back, until he lay on top of you, caging you in with his arms. His wet cock slipped between you, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, your nails digging into his back.
“You’re a menace,” he murmured, peppering your face with kisses.
You made out again, until you were certain you were dripping onto the sheets, your naked chests and stomachs pressed together. You panted, sweat already beading on your forehead and his.
“Condom,” he said, and you nodded.
He broke open the box, took out the sleeve of them and tore one off. You watched as he pulled it on efficiently, expertly.
“When’s the last time you fucked someone?” you panted.
“Feels like too long ago, now,” he said, his eyes blown with lust.
He pulled you under him again and kissed you, lining you up.
“I’ll go slowly,” he whispered, and you nodded. “We can stop if…”
“No, don’t stop,” you whispered back. “Please don’t stop.”
You wrapped your arms around his neck as he sunk into you, your cunt gripping him already, a whimper falling from your lips as he filled every inch of you to the brim.
You gasped, adjusting. You felt all tingly, right down to your toes. He groaned as he shifted, not moving as you accommodated for him.
“You’re a fucking dream,” he breathed, and you moaned.
“Keep… going.”
“I can’t get too worked up or it’ll be over too soon,” he said, and you laughed breathily.
“You’re so sweet,” you whispered.
“I mean it…”
He finally began to move, his nose bumping yours with each thrust. Things quickly dissolved into sweat and moans, each stroke bringing you closer to the edge. He moved in for another swift kiss, teeth clacking, and you gripped him harder, digging into his flesh.
Your bodies slapped together, foreheads pressed to one another’s. He slowed, breathing heavily, kissing you deep as he tried to recalibrate.
You watched him pull back, to preserve himself a little longer. You squeezed him deep inside and he blinked down at you, narrowing his eyes.
He shifted, moving your legs up to rest your ankles on his shoulders. The stretch was exquisite, his cock feeling impossibly deep inside you. His retaliation was rewarded with your shuddering moan.
As he pounded into you, it blurred between too much and just enough, your trembling hand slipping down between you, desperate to reach your clit.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he whispered, and you nodded, suddenly overwhelmed by it all.
Your pleasure crested and you came, crying out right by his ear, his face buried into your neck as he showed you no mercy. Bending you in half like this, your legs in the air, your wailing by his handsome face - it all would usually mortify you but it felt too fucking perfect to diminish.
He kept going for several seconds after you crashed back to earth, huffing and nearing his own end. You clung to him as he spilled inside the condom, going rigid above you. You pressed a kiss to his arm, panting with him.
In the gentle afterglow, he settled against you, a happy kind of hum in your hair. He held you against him, and it didn’t feel like he let go for a long, long time, but things were blurry at best by the end.
It was a good fuck. Legendary, even. He peeled away reluctantly and flopped beside you with a sigh. You rested in the wet patch for all of one minute before you too decided you had to move away.
-
You hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but you woke much later. You drew in a breath, surrounded by Michael’s heat and scent. You shared a pillow, you remembered, as you blinked and took in the surroundings in the early morning light.
The TV was still on, though its volume was too low to make out the majority of the dialogue, you could see it was a black and white Italian movie.
Michael’s arm was across your middle, as if he had flung it across you during the night. You watched the side of his face. His blissed out face filled your stomach with butterflies.
You rolled over, and then he stirred at your movement. You waited until he was waking up to finally move again, slipping out of bed and walking to the bathroom.
“Get back here,” you heard him call, and you smirked, glancing at the mirror.
Once you flushed the toilet and washed your hands, you went back, seeing him waiting for you.
You picked up your robe and threw it on. Michael's brows hiked.
“I really don't want you doing that.”
“I'm gonna go,” you said. You sat on the end of the bed. “Sorry to burst your bubble.”
You moved to grab your slides but he stopped you, suddenly behind you and pulling you back into his arms.
“You want me to stay?”
“Don’t be so surprised,” he murmured, lips already ghosting your neck.
You hadn’t slept with someone new in literally years, so you were rusty, you figured. But he seemed serious about how much he wanted to repeat this. After all the buildup, he wanted more? You weren’t about to argue with him when his hand opened your robe again, exposing your skin once more.
And you certainly weren’t going to stop him when he lay you down, your head half off the bed, diving between your spread thighs with all eager lips and tongue.
He had a confidence with a woman’s body that you knew didn’t just come with age, though you suspected it helped immensely for some men. He had a greater understanding of experience, plus his regular ‘touching strangers’ thing. You could never. Michael seemed born for this.
Your hands found the back of his head as he ruined you, spearing his tongue inside you, fucking you relentlessly with it once you started to whine and shiver with pleasure. Your thighs quivered, fighting to keep themselves open as he stroked deep inside your cunt.
“Oh, fuck…”
You back bowed as you came, and he didn’t let up, working your clit with his thumb at a steady rhythm. He only stopped when you tried to pull away, his kisses landing on your inner thigh, wet and sticky. He kept kissing you, cherishing you.
It was so intimate and intense you had to look away, your hand over your face.
“You okay?” he panted, and you nodded.
He pulled you up and rolled you over so your face was in his pillow, the spare under your hips a second later. In no time at all, he lined himself up, the blunt tip of him teasing your folds.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, and you believed him. The reverence was undeniable.
When he pushed inside, bottoming out with a grunt, you gripped him in earnest. He bent down, kissing your neck, your shoulders. You were still recovering from before, still in that floaty stage, when he began to move.
“Fuck, look at you,” he whispered, never missing a stroke.
He didn’t last long, and you didn’t mind. You honestly didn’t notice, with how full and wanted you felt. He was rougher than last night, taking from you, all the while whispering encouragement as you gave him all.
He came with a groan, fingers biting into your ass as he went still. You sighed, content as he pulled away.
Once you showered in your room and returned, he ate you out again after breakfast. It was a lot. But it felt like the closest thing to perfect. Too bad it wasn’t going to last longer than a few more days of your vacation.
“What are you doing after this?” you murmured, popping a grape into your mouth.
“Well…”
He glanced down at you beside him, lifting the sheet, as if to examine your naked body.
“I meant after vacation,” you said.
He was engrossed in your lower half. You moved your free hand across your lower stomach where your scars were. As if detecting your self-consciousness, he switched back.
“I’m still not sure.”
“Haven’t given it more thought?” you said. “You’ve got a passport, right?”
He nodded.
“You could always, y’know - disappear…”
He swallowed, looking away. The immediate shift in him had you wanting to take it back, like usual.
“I don’t have to know,” you added. “I’d just hope you enjoy it. You deserve it.”
He rubbed his eyes. “I dunno about that.”
He went quiet then and you finished eating, moving closer. He let you under his arm, pulling you into his side. Your legs tangled.
“What have you ever done that was so awful, Michael?” you whispered.
He gave a pained smile. You were starting to know it well.
“The stepson I had,” he began. “Jake.”
“What happened?”
He closed his eyes. “Pittfest.”
Of course. The entire event had slipped your mind as something he’d be part of. You remember donating blood in the days that followed, and you were lucky to not know anyone who’d been there. The whole city had been affected though, for months after.
“He was there, I gave him my ticket for his girlfriend,” he mumbled. He bit his lip. “Leah. She… she was shot, and I… I… couldn’t save her.”
You pulled him into a tight hug before he could resist it, kissing his head, clinging to him. Your chest squeezed when he hugged you back, and you heard him sniffle.
“I’m so sorry,” you whispered.
“Yeah, me too,” he mumbled.
You stayed like that for a while, and he began to relax against you, your lips still brushing his brow when you spoke.
“It’s not your fault.”
“Don’t,” he said.
“Michael, it’s not- it’s not your fault. Don’t do that to yourself. I know we’ve only known each other a few days but…”
You pulled back to look him in the eye.
“I feel like I… fucking skipped time or something. I know you well enough that you tried everything you could to save her, and… I’m sorry. I’m just so fucking sorry you have to live with that-”
He broke you off with a crushing kiss. In seconds you were tussling again, rearranging yourselves for him to push inside you. It was rushed and desperate, like you hadn’t been fucking for hours.
“We fucking skipped time,” he whispered, pounding into you like it was his mission to do so. “C’mon, I’ve got you…”
When he played with your clit, everything shrunk to a pinpoint and you tensed up, clenching around him.
“Attagirl,” he whispered, watching you fall apart.
He didn’t relent until he had his fill, your mind going blank.
-
Robby’s back and shoulders were beginning to ache, as they always did this late into the shift. He hadn’t sat down in over eight hours, except to tell a patient’s relative some bad news in the family room.
That didn’t count.
He hung his neck, tugging on his stethoscope with both hands, taking a deep breath through his nose. It wasn’t chaotic, but a steady hum of constant beeps, voices and movement around him. He was waiting for several beds to be available upstairs.
“Six still waiting on labs?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Dana said without looking up. “And trauma two’s CT just came back.”
“Great,” Robby muttered.
Everything was normal, the tunnel-vision type of end to his day. Dana answered the phone, taking off her glasses as she stood up from her chair.
“Robby. Incoming severe vaginal bleeding.”
He nodded, looking around. Whittaker went into eight with a brave look set on his face. He watched as Mel walked with Mohan, deep in conversation. He knew Santos was trying to chart nearby.
McKay came out to grab another computer, logging in.
“Severe bleeding incoming,” he murmured. “Look alive.”
Not three minutes later, the paramedics burst in with the stretcher, a sheet thrown over the lower half of the woman whose eyes were closed, her face twisted in pain.
“Severe vaginal bleeding,” one of the paramedics rattled off. “History of endometriosis per patient. Syncope at home.”
Robby’s mind clicked into gear.
“How long?”
“Couple hours of heavy bleeding.”
“Any pregnancy—”
He stopped. The patient’s head rolled slightly to the side on the stretcher, just enough for the overhead light to fall across her face.
Robby’s brain registered it before the rest of him caught up.
The ER disappeared. The smell of the antiseptic, the fluorescent lights. All of it was replaced with sun, the ocean - Hawaii.
You.
He stopped walking, McKay bumping into him.
“Robby?”
“Trauma One,” he said, coming back to life. Years of practice kept his voice steady.
He stepped forward, grabbing the gurney to help steer it.
“BP is eighty over fifty.”
“Jesus,” he hissed.
“Heartrate is 130.”
Of all the places to see you again, his ER.
Of all the hospitals in all of Pittsburgh, she rolls into mine.
Like something out of fucking Casablanca.
You were transferred to the hospital bed, Robby slipping gloves on as he approached your side, his voice calm:
“Let’s get two large-bore IVs. CBC, type and cross, CMP.”
Your head lolled to the side, your eyelids fluttering.
“...Michael?”
He ignored McKay’s eyes burning into the side of his face. He began to check your pupils. Your skin was cold.
“You’re in the ER at PTMC. You’ve lost some blood, but we’re taking care of you.”
You blinked, still hazy. But you managed to focus on his face, his gentle tone. You nodded, closing your eyes again.
Monitors clipped into place with soft, rapid clicks. The familiar choreography of a patient circling instability.
“Fluids and a transfuse,” he said to the room. He glanced back at you, grabbing your hand.
“Pressure’s dropping,” Princess at your left said. “Seventy-eight systolic.”
He adjusted your arm for the IV, the sting of it nothing compared to the pain you felt elsewhere. Someone hung a bag of fluids behind him.
“Blood’s on the way, we’ll start a transfusion the second it gets here.”
“Excellent,” he said.
You struggled, eyes fluttering shut. He leaned in closer to you.
“Hey - stay with me.”
“Robby, should we page OB now or wait for labs?” McKay asked, and he shook his head.
“Given the history, I don’t want to wait.”
“The… history?” she asked, sharing a look with Princess.
Robby tried to not visibly react to the highly likely scenario that this incident would be circling in the days to come.
Robby ignored them, giving your wrist a small squeeze.
“You’re going to be okay.”
“BP’s responding,” someone called. “Up to ninety-two systolic.”
“Good,” Robby said immediately. “Keep it going.”
Your breathing had steadied slightly, though your eyelids still fluttered with the effort of staying conscious. The first unit of blood arrived moments later.
“Type O negative.”
“Perfect,” Robby replied. “Let’s start it.”
The bag was spiked, the line flushed, the transfusion beginning in practiced, efficient movements.
Robby didn’t step away, nor did he hand you over or delegate. He lingered by your side, hand resting beside yours as he watched your vitals.
-
On the last day of your vacation, you woke up in his arms. You could hear the crashing of the waves below the open windows, the sea breeze on your bare skin.
You rolled over, facing him, your noses brushing.
“I wish I could go with you,” you whispered for the first time.
You meant it, but knew neither of you would actually follow through with it.
“I should kidnap you,” he whispered back, and then he kissed you.
-
“Robby.”
It was Santos, rushed but remaining calm. Practically fearless, but looking for help. Robby glanced over his shoulder, then back at you in the bed.
“Yeah,” he sighed. He took off his gloves, stood up and tossed them in the trash.
He went by Dana at her desk and nodded over at your room.
“Come and find me when she wakes up.”
“Will do, Chief.”
Dana stared him down but he refused to engage. He wasn’t in the right headspace. Seeing you like that, so vulnerable, had too great of an impact.
He pushed off the desk and left to follow Santos.
-
You rest for an hour before you manage to open your eyes again. You glance around, seeing a nurse wearing a hijab checking your vitals.
Among the sea of pain is a shame so sudden you gasp, remembering Michael all over again. What were the chances you ended up here?
“I’ll go get Dr. Robby,” the nurse said.
You sat up on your elbows, nodding. You hadn’t prepared yourself for this. You only had to wait another ten minutes before the resident with a ponytail from before came in with Michael in tow.
“How are you feeling?” the resident asked, and you glanced over at Michael, feeling scrutinised.
“Okay, uh-”
“I’m Dr. McKay, and this is- well, you seemed to know each other,” McKay said.
Michael crossed his arms. “Yes, uh…”
“We’re friends,” you said, though that didn’t feel right.
You hadn’t spoken in months. On that last day, no promises were made. You exchanged numbers, but you hadn’t wanted to ruin his time off, and you left him in Hawaii.
Sure, you’d thought about him constantly since, but not all for good reasons.
Michael didn’t say anything about that, looking at your monitors.
“You’re definitely improving,” he murmured. “And the glow is back in your skin.”
“It might be sweat,” you muttered.
“How’s your pain?” McKay asked. “If you can give it a number-”
You always thought this was one of the more frustrating ways of dealing with endometriosis. Having to self report.
“Like a seven to eight,” you interjected. “I wouldn’t say it’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt. I can kind of sleep with it. Or pass out.”
That wasn’t funny, not even remotely, but you saw Michael smirk in the corner of your eye.
“You called the ambulance?” McKay asked, and you nodded.
“After I came to,” you said. “The bleeding was getting worse, and then I realized it wasn’t slowing down, and my towel was soaked through.”
“How was your last menstrual cycle?”
“Fine,” you said. “Not like this. Not exactly easy, but not like this…”
You pulled in a breath. You knew where this was going.
“Any surgeries?”
“I had a laparoscopy six months ago,” you murmured. You looked at your hands.
“Any other complications?”
Your eyes stung. You picked at a cuticle.
“I had an ectopic pregnancy a few months ago.”
-
Robby rubbed his eyes under his glasses, staring at his screen. He had left you and McKay, dragged away by another patient.
Santos came up to the charge desk, glancing up at the list of patients.
“Ectopic?”
He heard McKay beside her.
“Left tube,” she said. “Treated with methotrexate. When detected early, we can avoid rupture and surgery.”
It was a teaching moment, but only then did it hit Robby squarely in the chest. He’d been distracted.
Ectopic, a few months ago.
Hawaii?
He looked at McKay, whose conversation with Santos changed to something about the weekend.
“Hey, Santos?” he called. “Are you any closer to sending your guy home?”
“Sure,” she said, hands in her scrubs pockets. “Once I get back a clear drug test.”
McKay met his gaze.
“I ordered an ultrasound for your friend,” she said.
He nodded. He looked at his watch.
“You think you’re leaving any time soon?” Dana snapped.
He put away his glasses with a sigh. He felt several pairs of female eyes on him as he made his way back to your room.
He slipped inside, shutting the door behind him. You swallowed hard, a lump already there.
“Hey, so… you lied to me,” you said.
“About what?”
He came over to your bed and sat on the chair beside it, scooting closer. It was too close for a doctor-patient relationship, you felt. You didn’t mind.
You lifted your hand and reached over, tapping his name tag.
“It was easier to be Michael.”
“‘Robby’ does suit you,” you murmured. “It’s cute.”
“Cute?” he repeated, leaning on one elbow.
You stared at one another for what felt like an age, a story unravelling between the two of you.
“Don’t be sorry you came here,” he whispered.
“I’m not, it’s just - I didn’t want this to be the way I saw you for a second time,” you mumbled. “I mean, if I ever saw you a second time. I didn’t… I didn’t call.”
“Neither did I,” he said. He sighed. “I could’ve.”
“But I didn’t, like you’d hoped.”
“No,” he said. “You did not.”
Everything felt heavy. You sniffled.
“Jesus, sorry,” you said, with a roll of your eyes. You wiped your nose with your hand. “To be fair, I am on my period.”
“It’s okay.”
“It doesn’t feel like it’s okay,” you whispered, your voice so small you could barely hear it yourself.
He was the one to take your hand, your fingers twining. He squeezed.
“I didn’t get back with my ex,” you said, and he nodded.
“Good.”
You snorted, but then instantly sobered by the look on his face. He stared intently at your fingers before looking back at you.
“Was it mine?”
You nodded. You knew what he meant. The moment passed between you and you let out a shuddering breath.
“It wasn’t even a real pregnancy,” you said. “No possibility of it… happening. But I just had this feeling before - and I tested positive, so…”
You rolled your eyes again.
“For two days it was like…”
You couldn’t get the words out. He squeezed your hand again.
“For two days it was like it was ours.”
-
Robby had been taking a lot of deep breaths in the last half an hour. On the rooftop, the air was fresh, the nighttime sharpness coming in.
“So,” he heard someone say, and he turned, seeing Jack.
“So,” he echoed.
“Who’s the girl?”
He smirked, shaking his head. Unbelievable. He hadn’t even seen him yet and he knew about you. He could accuse Dana, but if he was honest, most everyone at the Pitt was a gossip.
“She’s the one I met in Hawaii,” he murmured.
Jack’s mouth fell open. “Holy shit.”
“Mm.”
“You’re up here because you’re trying to figure out a way to get out of this?” he teased.
He joined Robby, glancing down.
“Not exactly,” Robby replied. He grit his jaw for a beat. “She was pregnant. Ectopic. Then today she came in after she couldn’t stop bleeding.”
“Endometriosis? What stage?”
“One.”
Jack shook his head. “Y’know, there are women whose biopsies confirm it, because surgeons can’t find it. They can be microscopic.”
“It’s brutal,” Robby muttered. “I can’t stand it, Jack. Seeing her like that. She might’ve…”
He didn’t dare say it.
“What’re you doing up here, brother?” Jack murmured.
“Thinking,” Robby muttered. “Thinking too much.”
As they began their walk back, he said:
“She’s waiting to be transferred to OB.”
He wasn’t going to let it go until he said it out loud, so he did it, feeling heavy.
“I got her pregnant. It was me.”
Jack didn’t seem surprised, giving him an understanding, soft sort of look.
“It’s okay, it happens. Is she okay?”
“I guess. No?”
He needed to focus back to work, to finally finish his shift. He started to make the rounds.
-
He came back to your room. You put down your magazine Dana got you.
“Hey,” you said. “You’re gonna leave?”
He nodded, going to the computer, swiping his card. He typed, glasses on. You remembered the first time you saw him use them, when he read the menu on your first not-date on vacation.
“I can feel you watching me,” he said, not looking up.
“What’re you doing, then?” you asked.
He typed, then scratched his head. Typed some more.
“Recommending you have an iron transfusion after your follow-up blood test. Your gynecologist will get a letter from the hospital. And then… it’s on me.”
“Robby,” you said, a little alarmed. You knew the cost of those. “That’s too much. What the fuck?”
He smirked, giving a definitive tap.
“Because, baby, you are anemic.”
You felt a burst of something - a warm affection that made your eyes water. You watched as he came over, sitting on the edge of your bed. He held your hands.
“A girl walks into a hotel bar, and she happens to be from Pittsburgh, and I pass that up? What a fucking…”
He pressed a kiss to your knuckles.
“...moron.”
You gave a tearful little laugh, and leaned toward him, kissing him. It was rushed and clumsy, but the mixture of trust and danger - it was everything to you.
He was everything. You pressed your foreheads together.
summary: You were meant to be on vacation with your boyfriend, but instead you were there alone, where you meet the man across the hall from your hotel room, Michael, drinking alone in the hotel lobby.
Months later, you're admitted to the ER at the Pitt.
warnings/content: angst, fertility issues, Reader has endometriosis, some descriptions of blood, explicit casual-not-so-casual vacation sex, oral (f and m receiving), light praise kink, caretaking, hurt/comfort, accidental pregnancy
a/n: don't even get me startedddddddddddd!!! it's super fitting that March is also Endometriosis Awareness Month. I just have so many feelings. I hope you like this!!!! divider by me; unbeta-d and poorly proofread
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
Although, the location seemed perfect. Pristine beaches, the clearest water you'd ever seen. The friendliest greeters when you arrived at the hotel placing leis around your neck. Everyone seemed to smile and absorb all those good feelings. There was literal laughter in the air.
It was all that you planned it to be, except you weren't alone when you first talked about coming to Hawaii. All that vacation time you saved up together, and then your life went to shit.
That was a month ago. You debated for weeks about cancelling everything, since your partner cancelled your life together - but then over time you felt like it was worse to be sitting around at home feeling sorry for yourself instead of being here anyway.
You could grieve your old life here instead, where everything looked like a scene on a postcard.
You went to your hotel room, opened up your suitcase and fished out your first swimsuit. It was a low cut one-piece that hugged your body. You wrapped a sarong around your middle and swapped your sneakers for flip-flops and walked down to the beach with your towel and a book.
You'd been doing the same thing at home, except instead of the ocean you'd had your messy apartment surrounding you. If this was all you did for the rest of the day, fine.
You fell asleep in one of the sunbeds in the long line covered with umbrellas on the shore, only to be awoken by the shrieks of a young family whose children tore down to the beach with their gear. The father gave you a sheepish look as you stared after them, picking up your book from the spot it fell beside you.
Sand was already in it, great. And you managed to lose your spot. You couldn’t be upset at the kids, though. They were in literal paradise. You probably should have stayed home…
You trudged back to your room to shower. As you got out your key, elevator doors shutting behind you, you spotted a man whose back was to you opening the room opposite yours in the hallway.
You ducked into your room without a word, not before having brief, awkward eye contact with him. He was older than you, but handsome all the more for it. His brows hiked ever so slightly as you disappeared, and you hoped he wasn’t offended.
You weren’t in the mood to talk just yet.
-
Hours later, you couldn’t sleep. You ordered room service instead of attending the lūʻau, hoping that by tomorrow you would have the courage to show your face to random strangers.
Now, with the blankets twisting around you each time you moved, there was no way you were getting to sleep anytime soon.
You took a deep breath and left your bed, throwing your cardigan over your sleep clothes. Heading downstairs, you could hear there were still a few people around, but it was nothing like earlier that evening.
No-one was at the bar, save the guy behind it, and another figure nursing a beer. You recognized him immediately as your neighbor from across the hall, and sat nearby him, an empty stool between you.
As you waited, you scanned the wide dining area behind you. There was one other man at the far wall, staring into his phone with a large whiskey by his elbow.
“What would you like, ma’am?”
The bartender approached with a wide smile, unbothered by the hour.
“Uh… vodka soda, please.”
“Of course,” he said, and departed.
You felt watched and looked at your neighbor.
“I’m not interrupting?” you asked, and he shook his head.
“Stay.”
You told him your name and offered your hand.
“I think we’re on the same floor,” you added, and he shook your hand.
“Yeah. I’m Michael.”
You nodded, taking a short sip of your drink when it arrived a beat later. You remembered your clothes. Michael was wearing shorts and a t-shirt.
“I… can’t sleep.”
“Sorry to hear it,” he said. “You’re here by yourself? Where’re you from?”
You nodded. “Pittsburgh.”
He burst into a real smile and you felt your face flush. He was very, very handsome. Never mind your first impression. He was cute as hell.
“Me, too.”
“Oh, no shit?” you said, and he laughed. “What are the odds?”
You talked a bit about the journey there, and Michael said he’d got there yesterday. He was on a long vacation, nothing fixed.
You snorted. “Jesus. Mine was nothing but planned. So much of it went to shit already-”
It was like you couldn’t help yourself, cringing. You hadn’t meant to already get into it, but it was bound to come up, why you were alone.
“I mean, I had these big plans but the person I was supposed to come with decided not to in the end.”
“Sorry, again,” Michael said, taking a swig of beer.
You shook your head. “Don’t be. Turns out he wasn’t the guy I thought he was.”
Michael went quiet for a second, tilting his head, narrowing his eyes. “Was this… a break-up?”
“Yeah,” you sighed.
There was a pause and you added quickly:
“Not that I’m losing sleep over him! I’m way past that. I just… had these plans…”
You should have already been drinking long ago if you were going to bring this up with a complete stranger, but fuck it. You were on vacation, things were different. This wasn’t like being at your local dive, or telling people you work with.
“I had a laparoscopy,” you said. “It’s when-”
“Do you have endometriosis?” he asked.
“How did you know that?”
“I’m a doctor,” he said.
You looked away, suddenly very aware of him looking straight at you. You wondered what else he knew about you, even if it was just by looking at you.
“I wanted to start IVF, after this trip,” you went on. “This was meant to be our last big one before - hopefully - a baby.”
It wasn’t like you, to disclose so much. You didn’t feel judged, though you could sense the cogs were turning when you looked back at him.
“Must be something about you, for me to get so personal so fast,” you mumbled. “And I guess that happens a lot, when people find out you’re a doctor. But I’m guessing you’re not a psychiatrist?”
He shook his head, with an almost sad kind of smile. “Emergency.”
“So you work in a hospital?” you asked, and he nodded.
“Yeah.”
The silence between you that followed felt less strange, somehow. You didn’t want to avoid him like you had before, at least.
“I really am sorry if I gatecrashed your downtime,” you said, and he shook his head, draining his beer.
“Nah, I couldn’t sleep, either.”
He got up and you considered doing the same, but left your glass instead of finishing it.
“You wanna go for a walk?”
You thought about it, and then wondered why it mattered. It didn’t hurt. You nodded, rising from your seat. You gathered your cardigan around yourself and walked out, down the short footpath to the beach.
Tiki torches still burned, lining the sand well enough to see his face in the halflight. The moonlight did the rest. The tide came and went in a steady rhythm, the night otherwise blissfully quiet.
“It’s so… peaceful out here,” you murmured, and Michael nodded.
It was romantic. It was supposed to be, that’s why you chose to take your ex here. If he hadn’t run away from you, you’d be rolling around in the sand together, trying to make a baby. The regret crested over you again and you sighed, moving on, not waiting.
“Has the treatment been… effective?” he asked, and you glanced his way, for a moment too lost in your thoughts to understand.
Oftentimes, when someone learned you had endometriosis, their response was pitying, or worse, falsely trying to relate to your emotional and physical agonies. No, it wasn’t like ordinary period pain. Yes, it had derailed work and school, it had made life harder in a lot of ways.
Yes, you hoped to have children. Past tense - hoped. You didn’t know anymore. It meant doing it alone, if you were doing it now.
“I thought you were supposed to be on vacation,” you retorted, folding your arms.
He copied you, and you could make out a smirk on his face.
“I’ll send you the bill.”
Your welcomed laughter followed, before you rolled your eyes. “I guess it has been. Symptoms aren’t as bad. For now.”
There wasn’t a cure. You just had to wait it out, hope that each cycle didn’t render you bedridden like usual.
“That’s good to hear,” he said. “Sorry, that’s personal…”
“Hey, I’m the one who told you,” you said, shrugging. You glanced towards the water. “Jesus.”
You sidestepped the tide as it came rushing in, faster than you expected. Michael did the same, but he’d been paying attention, guiding you back with a hand that hovered the small of your back. He wasn’t quite touching, but you felt that spark of sudden proximity.
You kept walking in silence, a little further away from the shore.
“How long were you planning on staying here?” you asked, and he shook his head.
“I’m undecided,” he said.
“Is that why you can’t sleep?” you asked.
You may as well try more honesty with him. He knew what felt like too much already. You looked at one another.
“It’s probably related.”
You smirked back at him, then suppressed a sudden yawn. It was probably time to head back. Michael nodded toward the hotel and you walked back together. The elevator ride was silent, too. You went to your door, and then glanced back his way, shoving the keycard in.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” he echoed softly.
Something about that made you feel warm inside.
-
You approached him the next afternoon, among a group of other tourists waiting on the pier. You couldn’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses but he smiled back at you.
“Hey, I know you,” you said, face shielding your eyes.
You hadn’t seen him all morning, though admittedly you’d hoped to. You slept okay once you got back to bed, and spent the beginning of the day looking for him at breakfast before you went back to your room to laze around.
This afternoon trip was booked well in advance. It was supposed to be a late lunch on the ocean, with a tour guide included. A few families, couples and a bachelorette party gathered to board the yacht.
You and Michael stood together like two kids pairing up on a field trip.
“I can’t get over how clear the water is out here,” he said, and you beamed.
“I know, right?”
You hadn’t expected him here. In fact, neither of you had said anything about what you planned to do while in Hawaii. You packed too much, as you were prone to, so you were glad to have brought at least a couple nice dresses and skirts.
Today’s outfit was brand new, tags popped off that morning. Linen dress that cinched at the waist with a broad sun hat.
Michael’s Birkenstocks looked well-worn, his shorts were the same from yesterday. He wore a navy polo shirt that hid little of his broad frame. His… bulk attracted you. You wanted to stare at his forearms but tried not to. He was fun to look at, but he was a person, too.
Also, you’d just gone through a breakup.
You put on your sunglasses and ascended with the others, Michael behind you. He stayed by your side as the tour guide from the hotel began his introduction, and then everyone took a seat as the yacht began to move away from the dock.
“This is insane,” you murmured.
For the next half an hour, you listened with Michael beside you as the tour went on. Describing the flora and fauna of the islands, you wish you could see it for yourself, not have someone only describe it to you.
There was a loud gurgle and you looked at Michael.
“Was that your stomach?”
“...yes,” he whispered.
You covered your mouth with your hand, pressing your lips together for good measure. As the trip went on, you too felt hunger begin to pull your focus.
When they finally docked on the other side of the island, wait staff approached with heaping trays of fresh fruit and seafood. There were collective sighs of relief all around.
“Get in there,” Michael encouraged, and you laughed openly, tucking in.
-
“Did that feel… weird to you?” you asked, twirling your hat absently.
You walked back up to the hotel with Michael, and he nodded.
“Yeah, it felt… commercial,” he muttered. “Inauthentic.”
“Not a waste of money, though, surely?”
“I’m not your accountant.”
“I’m just saying - I don’t totally regret it,” you retorted. “It wasn’t what I expected, though.”
His sunglasses were tucked into his neckline, his arms bearing a healthy glow from the sun. You looked at his skin when he kept the elevator door open for you, allowing you in beside him.
He pressed the button for your floor.
“It’s not gonna help my Yelp review, I’ll tell you that much...”
You smiled again, looking away. “Obviously.”
It felt so good to be on the same page. It was different to what you were used to. With your ex, it never felt like you were truly in sync. It was your downfall, in the end. All the time you were together it felt like you’d manage to get over that eventually.
“Are you gonna grab some dinner downstairs later?” he asked, and you met his gaze.
He wasn’t saying that just to make conversation. You believed that with how he was looking at you now, although maybe you weren’t the best judge of character when it came to men.
“Yeah, maybe after a nap,” you said.
“Sounds good,” he said.
“Were you… were you hoping to see me?” you asked.
“Sure.”
He made it sound so simple. Why wouldn’t he hope to see you? Your face flushed and you looked away.
“Okay, cool,” you said.
“Okay, I’ll see you after,” he said.
He let you out first, and you felt butterflies in your stomach for the first time in years. You smiled shyly and walked away to your door, letting yourself in before you embarrassed yourself.
-
Something shifted inside you and wanted to enjoy yourself for the sake of it. You showered, after you didn’t nap - your brain kept thinking about Michael and his warm eyes peering at you - and dressed in one of your sundresses.
You found him at the bar and he nodded towards the dining area, where the host led you to a table overlooking the beach outside. Handed a menu, you peruse, unsure of where to begin.
Michael ordered beer, looking your way.
“I’ll get a cocktail,” you beamed. “Sex on the beach.”
If it landed anywhere, you tried not to read it too much on his face as you were left alone. He hadn’t said this was a date - but he hadn’t said it wasn’t either.
Conversation came easily, like you’d never stopped talking earlier.
“What’s it like being an ER doctor?” you asked, as you picked up some bread from the basket between you.
You offered it to him and he took a piece, breaking it in half on his plate.
“Chaotic,” he said. “Sometimes heartbreaking.”
“I can’t imagine how challenging it is,” you said, chewing. “I would never stay calm.”
“It’s not easy.”
You felt like he was skirting around the reality he faced, and your brows furrowed.
“I feel like you’re trying to not sound as impressive as you are.”
He laughed at that, passing a hand over his face wearily.
“I mean…”
“You’d constantly have to be flexible, right? No day is the same, you deal with anything and everyone…”
“Yeah,” he said. “But someone has to.”
You swallowed. The waiter returned with your drinks, and you took yours with a brief smile of acknowledgment. You took a sip, and put the towering glass aside, picking out a piece of pineapple stuck to its rim.
“So why you, then? Why not do something other than emergency healthcare?”
You shoved the fruit in your mouth, watching him. He drank from his glass of beer as you asked this. He sighed.
“I don’t… want to. But I probably should.”
You appreciated his honesty. You sucked the juice from your thumb, nodding. The silence felt taut with more questions, from both sides of the table.
“Why’d you break up with your ex?” he asked.
You smiled bitterly. “He didn’t want to have babies with me.”
The heaviness of your conversation only just hit you. You were both alone here, out of choice, but now you’d decided to create this bond, however fleeting it may be.
“I’m sorry,” he added.
“You didn’t upset me,” you said, because he hadn’t. “It’s the truth. He left me. I thought he wanted to have kids. We talked about it enough.”
You sighed, not unlike him.
“We started dating just before lockdown, and then we moved in together pretty fast. I was already diagnosed with endo then - and whenever we talked about the future it felt like hypotheticals. I mean, the world had fallen apart, and we weren’t going anywhere. We were forced to know one another really well. And we did, I thought. I thought we were close.”
You rolled your eyes at yourself, at how wrong you were.
“I think maybe he thought I’d never be serious about it, because I knew it would be hard to conceive, but then I started cutting back on drinking-”
You glanced at your drink briefly and gave a short laugh.
“I was trying to get my body healthy for trying, and I finally had my surgery…”
“And he flaked,” Michael said, not unkindly.
“Yeah,” you said. “And I feel like an idiot that I spent all this time with him, and I never really knew him. I think he meant more to me than I ever did to him.”
You picked up your drink again to stop talking, to stop yourself from becoming too sad again. You were only repeating the same thoughts you’d had for weeks.
“He’s an idiot,” Michael said, and you met his gaze. “He should have known sooner, anyway. Let you down better.”
You rolled your eyes again, trying not to notice how his eyes bore into you. Your skin began to feel hot.
Mercifully, the night’s entertainment began. Dancers twirling flames drew all attention away from your sad life, and with it your perspective. You were here, and not at home feeling sorry for yourself.
The night was warm, beautiful. The scenery and culture was spectacular, and this man was sitting with you out of choice. Things could be a thousand times worse. You were lucky.
“Hey, if anyone gets hurt, at least I know where to find a doctor,” you said, clapping with the rest of the dinner crowd.
Michael’s eyes were bright with mirth.
Some time later, full of good food, carrying your purse under your arm, your shoes in one hand and a water glass in your other, you and Michael walked along the beach together once more.
“Do you have kids?” you asked, and Michael took a second to reply.
“I had a stepson, sort of,” he said. “I haven’t seen him in a while.”
He didn’t explain, but added:
“Answer’s no.”
“Do you want them?” you asked. “I mean, did you ever?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “Other times…”
Again, he didn’t elaborate, his words hanging there. You decided to fill the silence.
“I guess I always wanted to try, to… y’know, give it a shot. Try to fight my infertility.”
He nodded, wincing. “I guess it would be hard if I was working like I do.”
“People make it work.”
“Sorry, I guess I’m just naturally morbid from time to time,” he said.
The sand was oddly comforting as you strolled, the sounds of life around you mere background noise. You drew in a breath, deciding to be your most direct.
“You weren’t just being nice, about my ex being a moron?” you asked.
His brows hiked. “No.”
“It can be hard for guys to be with-”
“With women with chronic illnesses?” he cut in.
You glanced towards the sea, the darkness beyond.
“Yeah, I guess that makes him sound like an asshole.” You sighed. “I’m going to stop mentioning him. I promise.”
Michael stopped, and you turned back, looking down at his hand he had poised beneath your nose.
“Pinky promise?”
You smirked, indulging him. You clasped his pinky with your own, shaking. For a beat too long, you noticed. He pulled away first, only to step closer to you, watching your face.
The heat between you was undeniable. He lifted his hand once again, thumb and forefinger catching your chin.
“Walk you back?”
“Sure,” you said, heart hammering.
-
It took a little while to fall asleep, since he was a gentleman and did as he said - walked you back to your room and then said goodnight.
No kiss, not even a hug. You simply parted ways and then you throbbed for hours after, feeling like you should have just gone for it. Unless somehow you were misreading it.
Those thoughts were pushed aside the second your landline rang beside you, around eight the next morning. You rolled over, confused, picking up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hey, did I wake you?”
Michael’s voice early in the morning made a thrill stir in your guts, a smile already playing on your lips. He was all soft and friendly, and you felt like you could hear him smiling on the other end of the line, across the hallway.
“No. Who is this?”
“It’s the guy that’s gonna get you to see some real nature today, if you let him,” he replied.
You grinned, rolling onto your back. “What did you have in mind?”
“A hike, if you’re up for it.”
You knew you didn’t look your best when you were huffing and puffing up a hill.
“I’ll take it easy on you,” he added.
“Gee, thanks,” you muttered.
When were you ever going to do this again?
“Alright, fuck it.”
You agreed to meet one another in the lobby in half an hour and you hung up, leaping out of bed and into the shower.
You threw on some shorts and your new hat, tried to figure out a way to look both cute and not totally ridiculous, and then headed downstairs. You grabbed a banana from the breakfast buffet and a coffee and scoffed them down, before making your way to the lobby.
He was waiting for you, backpack over one shoulder.
“Don’t have one of those,” you said, gesturing.
“I can carry everything.”
“Where’re we going?” you asked, following him out the door and into the street.
“It’s a tourist trap, technically,” he said, and you punched the air. “But the biodiversity is up there, compared to yacht tours-”
“Man, that Yelp review just writes itself, huh?”
You suspected he could walk faster if he wanted to, but he was doing the nice thing and making sure you weren’t left behind. He offered you bottled water that you took, uncapping it as you climbed a footpath up a steep hill.
“There’s a cliff view,” he explained.
“That’s the reward?”
“No, the journey is the reward,” he said, and you snorted. “Yeah, I know how I sound.”
He sounded like someone who could call out his own bullshit, which you appreciated. It was refreshing, in a way. In this place with him, there was no room for a facade.
You made sure to walk beside him until the path was too narrow, and then you took the lead, in the hope of seeming up for anything. Also, you knew the shorts you wore did great things for your butt.
Nearly half an hour later, you reached the top, passing another couple that nodded and smiled at you.
“Enjoy.”
“Thanks,” you called after them, as Michael let them pass.
The view took your breath away. Rocks below as waves crashed into them. Lush greenery all around. Birdcalls echoing as Michael rested beside you against a tree.
“You did it,” he murmured, taking out his water.
You tapped his bottle with yours and drank. You felt a little out of breath, but otherwise good. There was a sense of achievement.
When you got back to the hotel, Michael jerked his thumb towards the concierge desk.
“Gimme a sec.”
“What are you up to?”
He had a conspiratorial glint in his eye as he walked over, you hurrying after him. As he approached the desk, a worker smiled at you.
“Afternoon, Dr. Robinavich.”
“I was wondering if anyone was available at short notice, we were out hiking…”
The worker's uniform reminded you to buy a Hawaiian shirt while you were here in the next few days, the thought distracting you momentarily.
“Unfortunately, we only have a couple's massage session available, it's a longer one. Our regular masseuse Amy is away, she does our shorter sessions…”
“Couple's massage?” you blurted, and Michael looked at you.
“Would you mind?”
Uh, fuck no. You shook your head. The worker smiled.
“Alright. We'll see you in twenty minutes.”
-
You quickly realized that you were in over your head. The massage rooms were low lit with the kind of ambient lighting you associated with softcore porn.
The tiny candles that dotted the room, along with the soothing New Age music coming from the small speaker in the corner only added to the highly sensual atmosphere.
“Uh…” you said, as you walked in with Michael.
The masseuses stood by with towels in hand, two smiling young women with matching frangipani in their hairdos, their skin glowing, looking soft to the touch. You envied their calm, feeling your face burn.
“Good afternoon,” one of them said, beaming. “I’m Naomi, and this is Mia…”
Mia gave a little wave.
“Afternoon,” Michael said, nodding.
He was also weirdly at ease. Then again, as a doctor, wouldn’t he deal with embarrassing situations all the time? You pressed your lips together, listening.
“We will give you a few minutes to undress to your liking. Are there any concerns before we continue?”
You cleared your throat. “I - uh, I can have a tender abdomen sometimes, I have endometriosis…”
Naomi nodded, understanding. “Yes, of course. We can avoid certain areas. Anything you want us to focus on?”
“My neck and shoulders,” you said. “I think I probably look down at my phone too much.”
“My back,” Michael added. “I’m on my feet a lot, generally.”
“He’s a doctor,” you said, and he looked at the floor.
“Oh, wonderful,” Mia said. “Thank you.”
They departed, Michael staring after them.
“‘Thank you’? I’m not a veteran.”
“You worked through the height of the pandemic though, right?” you said, and he met your gaze, his face changing.
Dread or something close to it flashed across his face and you immediately regretted your question, realizing far too late how invasive and awful it was.
“I’m sorry, that was crass,” you babbled, and he shook his head.
“It’s fine.”
He moved away, towards one of the massage tables, fingers going to his buttons.
“Right,” you muttered. “Uh. I’ll just…”
You went to the other table, taking your shoes off, hands going to your shirt to remove it as fast as possible.
“Don’t turn around,” you said.
“You good?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” you lied.
“Because we don’t have to do this if you’re uncomfortable.”
You thought about it for longer than a second and then slipped under the towel, the table firm and unyielding under your weight. You tried to ground yourself, your nipples hardening under your towel as you spared a glance at him.
His back was to you, but he was under his own towel, no shirt. He had some scars, a couple moles you found endearing. Freckles and marks of age that only flattered him more. He was broad, too, of course.
You thought of that strength hidden under his clothes.
“Can I roll over?” he asked, and you whispered:
“Yeah.”
He turned, pulling in a breath.
“You with me?” he asked. “Are you in any pain today?”
You shook your head, and you were touched by his concern. You buried yourself further under the towel, barely peeking out.
He murmured your name a couple times and your eyes snapped to his.
“My liver spots and wrinkles are really that hard to look at?”
“Shut the fuck up,” you retorted, laughing uncomfortably. “You’re cute and you know it.”
He began to laugh, rolling onto his back, hand passing over his face. You wanted him so badly then, wishing he was under the towel with you. Now you had ninety minutes of this a few feet away from you.
“This is supposed to be relaxing,” he said. “So try to relax.”
“A man telling me to relax,” you muttered. “My favorite.”
“Yes, and a male healthcare professional, too, no less,” he retorted.
Your eyes met again and you shuffled up a little, until your arms were free, the towel still covering your naked torso.
“After this, we should-”
Whatever bold thing you were about to propose was interrupted by a short knock on the door, Naomi’s voice floating in.
“Are you ready?”
A beat, and Michael closed his eyes.
“Yeah,” he called. “Thank you.”
The massage itself was divine. It felt far shorter than its ninety minutes, and after a while all you could do was melt into a pile of goo. You were surprised you didn’t nod off, and Michael admitted the same in the elevator back up to your floor.
Whatever momentum you had earlier was lost, but you didn’t mind. You weren’t in any hurry to get back there, by how liquid you felt. You were rubbed all over with lavender oil and felt your clothes sticking to your skin. You craved a hot shower and a bed to nap on.
You gave him a dreamy little wave as you went your separate ways.
-
You woke hours later, hearing a knocking at the front door drifting in as you fought off the remainder of your sleep. You lifted your head from your pillow and walked out to answer it.
Michael stood before you.
“I definitely woke you this time,” he said, looking at your bathrobe that matched his.
He looked apologetic but cuddly in the fluffy white robe, his feet bare. He had nice toes, you noted vaguely.
“It’s fine,” you said, not bothering to lie. “It’s better I don’t sleep through dinner.”
“I’m actually wondering if you wanna…”
He gestured behind him, toward the elevator down the hall.
“I was gonna order room service,” you said.
You were too lazy to dress in something nice, to walk all the way down. You were spoiled by the massage. All you wanted was creature comforts.
“You can order it at mine.”
He really, really wanted to see you, that was clear. You softened, rubbing your eye.
“Okay…”
You took your phone and your keys and followed him out. His TV set was on, his window was open with the curtains moving with the soft night breeze, and the moon was out. The sounds of the hotel floated up from below, but you liked it here best, in this little space of his.
His suitcase was open against the wall, its contents far more economical than yours. From your brief glance, you saw a small bottle of cologne resting on his bedside table. On the yacht you’d smelt a fresh, slightly sweet scent on him.
His room itself had his own scent, amplified. You could chase it if you wanted to. It was vaguely earthy, welcoming. You perched on the end of his bed beside him, your knees touching.
He was so close.
“Good day?” you asked, and he nodded.
Then he took your hand like you were his and you stared down at him.
“Your hand is crazy soft,” you whispered, just to break the tension.
“It’s probably from all the hand sanitizer at work,” he murmured, threading your fingers together. “Aloe in it.”
You looked up into his eyes, your stomach full of butterflies.
“Michael…”
You took his free hand and slipped it into your robe, under your bra cup, his fingers finding your nipple. He stared down at your skin, thumb flicking over you as he rolled your breast, the moan tumbling out of you.
He leaned in to kiss you, your noses brushing. Light teasing, lips passing over one another until he pushed into your mouth with his tongue, your breaths already turning to panting. You were molten, wet without being touched anywhere near your pussy, and you knew it.
Your hands went up to his hair and you pulled him towards you, the TV playing in the background as you kissed and kissed, both of his hands on your chest now. You pulled back once your lips began to numb, relishing in how soft his beard was, noting the grey hairs you could make out.
“Can I take this off?” he murmured, nuzzling your skin as you nodded.
He pushed down your robe and then the straps of your bra. Freed of them both, you threw a leg over him and straddled his lap, feeling how hard he was beneath you. You gave a grind of your hips against his and he groaned into your mouth, the sound reverberating through you.
You slotted in together, rocking as you kissed, clumsy but not ever rushed. It was so thorough, and you throbbed for him, scratching his scalp.
“Sex can hurt sometimes,” you warned.
You were telling him what you knew he’d already know.
“I just don’t want to disappoint you,” you whispered.
Michael promptly planted his foot and spun you around so you were pinned underneath him.
“That’s not gonna happen,” he said, and you kissed him hard for that alone, his cock rubbing against your thigh insistantly.
He broke away with a soft smack of your lips, and you gazed up at him with a shy smile.
“Can you get a condom?” you whispered.
He nodded, moving back quick enough to make you laugh at his enthusiasm. You watched as he went to his suitcase, retrieving a box.
“Wow, how many is in there?” you teased, resting on your elbows.
“I’m on sabbatical for three months,” he said, and you smirked again. “And I’m a doctor.”
“I’m not complaining,” you said.
“Good.”
You took hold of your underwear and lifted your hips, pulling them off. You tossed them aside as he watched with a quiet awe.
“I was hoping to do that,” he said, returning to the bed.
The clear outline of his erection made your heart hammer with anticipation. A Pavlovian-like response, your mouth watered as he went to take off his own robe and pants underneath.
When he stood naked by the bed, you crawled over for a closer look, and to touch, of course. You couldn’t help it. You reached for his cock, wrapping your hand around it, his hand finding your shoulder and squeezing.
“Shit,” he whispered, as you jerked him slowly, tenderly.
His eyes closed, distracted. He still held the unopened box, and you took the opportunity to dip down and take him into your mouth without warning.
You went all the way down, until you were hitting your gag reflex, careful to not trigger it too hard, dragging your tongue along the underside. He tasted nice, that musky saltiness that was never quite enough. The precum that rewarded you made you moan around his cock, pulling back, swirling your tongue around the blunt tip.
He was so warm, and so hard. You bobbed your head, pushing yourself further, foregoing breathing to make him lose his own. He panted as you worked him over in hard sucks, his hand moving up to grab your hair. Just hard enough to be known, but not painful.
“Fuck,” he hissed. “Fuck…”
You missed this, feeling wanted. Feeling cherished, even if this was fleeting. You could believe it just enough. You pulled back, eyes watering from the effort.
“You…”
He pushed you back, until he lay on top of you, caging you in with his arms. His wet cock slipped between you, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, your nails digging into his back.
“You’re a menace,” he murmured, peppering your face with kisses.
You made out again, until you were certain you were dripping onto the sheets, your naked chests and stomachs pressed together. You panted, sweat already beading on your forehead and his.
“Condom,” he said, and you nodded.
He broke open the box, took out the sleeve of them and tore one off. You watched as he pulled it on efficiently, expertly.
“When’s the last time you fucked someone?” you panted.
“Feels like too long ago, now,” he said, his eyes blown with lust.
He pulled you under him again and kissed you, lining you up.
“I’ll go slowly,” he whispered, and you nodded. “We can stop if…”
“No, don’t stop,” you whispered back. “Please don’t stop.”
You wrapped your arms around his neck as he sunk into you, your cunt gripping him already, a whimper falling from your lips as he filled every inch of you to the brim.
You gasped, adjusting. You felt all tingly, right down to your toes. He groaned as he shifted, not moving as you accommodated for him.
“You’re a fucking dream,” he breathed, and you moaned.
“Keep… going.”
“I can’t get too worked up or it’ll be over too soon,” he said, and you laughed breathily.
“You’re so sweet,” you whispered.
“I mean it…”
He finally began to move, his nose bumping yours with each thrust. Things quickly dissolved into sweat and moans, each stroke bringing you closer to the edge. He moved in for another swift kiss, teeth clacking, and you gripped him harder, digging into his flesh.
Your bodies slapped together, foreheads pressed to one another’s. He slowed, breathing heavily, kissing you deep as he tried to recalibrate.
You watched him pull back, to preserve himself a little longer. You squeezed him deep inside and he blinked down at you, narrowing his eyes.
He shifted, moving your legs up to rest your ankles on his shoulders. The stretch was exquisite, his cock feeling impossibly deep inside you. His retaliation was rewarded with your shuddering moan.
As he pounded into you, it blurred between too much and just enough, your trembling hand slipping down between you, desperate to reach your clit.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he whispered, and you nodded, suddenly overwhelmed by it all.
Your pleasure crested and you came, crying out right by his ear, his face buried into your neck as he showed you no mercy. Bending you in half like this, your legs in the air, your wailing by his handsome face - it all would usually mortify you but it felt too fucking perfect to diminish.
He kept going for several seconds after you crashed back to earth, huffing and nearing his own end. You clung to him as he spilled inside the condom, going rigid above you. You pressed a kiss to his arm, panting with him.
In the gentle afterglow, he settled against you, a happy kind of hum in your hair. He held you against him, and it didn’t feel like he let go for a long, long time, but things were blurry at best by the end.
It was a good fuck. Legendary, even. He peeled away reluctantly and flopped beside you with a sigh. You rested in the wet patch for all of one minute before you too decided you had to move away.
-
You hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but you woke much later. You drew in a breath, surrounded by Michael’s heat and scent. You shared a pillow, you remembered, as you blinked and took in the surroundings in the early morning light.
The TV was still on, though its volume was too low to make out the majority of the dialogue, you could see it was a black and white Italian movie.
Michael’s arm was across your middle, as if he had flung it across you during the night. You watched the side of his face. His blissed out face filled your stomach with butterflies.
You rolled over, and then he stirred at your movement. You waited until he was waking up to finally move again, slipping out of bed and walking to the bathroom.
“Get back here,” you heard him call, and you smirked, glancing at the mirror.
Once you flushed the toilet and washed your hands, you went back, seeing him waiting for you.
You picked up your robe and threw it on. Michael's brows hiked.
“I really don't want you doing that.”
“I'm gonna go,” you said. You sat on the end of the bed. “Sorry to burst your bubble.”
You moved to grab your slides but he stopped you, suddenly behind you and pulling you back into his arms.
“You want me to stay?”
“Don’t be so surprised,” he murmured, lips already ghosting your neck.
You hadn’t slept with someone new in literally years, so you were rusty, you figured. But he seemed serious about how much he wanted to repeat this. After all the buildup, he wanted more? You weren’t about to argue with him when his hand opened your robe again, exposing your skin once more.
And you certainly weren’t going to stop him when he lay you down, your head half off the bed, diving between your spread thighs with all eager lips and tongue.
He had a confidence with a woman’s body that you knew didn’t just come with age, though you suspected it helped immensely for some men. He had a greater understanding of experience, plus his regular ‘touching strangers’ thing. You could never. Michael seemed born for this.
Your hands found the back of his head as he ruined you, spearing his tongue inside you, fucking you relentlessly with it once you started to whine and shiver with pleasure. Your thighs quivered, fighting to keep themselves open as he stroked deep inside your cunt.
“Oh, fuck…”
You back bowed as you came, and he didn’t let up, working your clit with his thumb at a steady rhythm. He only stopped when you tried to pull away, his kisses landing on your inner thigh, wet and sticky. He kept kissing you, cherishing you.
It was so intimate and intense you had to look away, your hand over your face.
“You okay?” he panted, and you nodded.
He pulled you up and rolled you over so your face was in his pillow, the spare under your hips a second later. In no time at all, he lined himself up, the blunt tip of him teasing your folds.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, and you believed him. The reverence was undeniable.
When he pushed inside, bottoming out with a grunt, you gripped him in earnest. He bent down, kissing your neck, your shoulders. You were still recovering from before, still in that floaty stage, when he began to move.
“Fuck, look at you,” he whispered, never missing a stroke.
He didn’t last long, and you didn’t mind. You honestly didn’t notice, with how full and wanted you felt. He was rougher than last night, taking from you, all the while whispering encouragement as you gave him all.
He came with a groan, fingers biting into your ass as he went still. You sighed, content as he pulled away.
Once you showered in your room and returned, he ate you out again after breakfast. It was a lot. But it felt like the closest thing to perfect. Too bad it wasn’t going to last longer than a few more days of your vacation.
“What are you doing after this?” you murmured, popping a grape into your mouth.
“Well…”
He glanced down at you beside him, lifting the sheet, as if to examine your naked body.
“I meant after vacation,” you said.
He was engrossed in your lower half. You moved your free hand across your lower stomach where your scars were. As if detecting your self-consciousness, he switched back.
“I’m still not sure.”
“Haven’t given it more thought?” you said. “You’ve got a passport, right?”
He nodded.
“You could always, y’know - disappear…”
He swallowed, looking away. The immediate shift in him had you wanting to take it back, like usual.
“I don’t have to know,” you added. “I’d just hope you enjoy it. You deserve it.”
He rubbed his eyes. “I dunno about that.”
He went quiet then and you finished eating, moving closer. He let you under his arm, pulling you into his side. Your legs tangled.
“What have you ever done that was so awful, Michael?” you whispered.
He gave a pained smile. You were starting to know it well.
“The stepson I had,” he began. “Jake.”
“What happened?”
He closed his eyes. “Pittfest.”
Of course. The entire event had slipped your mind as something he’d be part of. You remember donating blood in the days that followed, and you were lucky to not know anyone who’d been there. The whole city had been affected though, for months after.
“He was there, I gave him my ticket for his girlfriend,” he mumbled. He bit his lip. “Leah. She… she was shot, and I… I… couldn’t save her.”
You pulled him into a tight hug before he could resist it, kissing his head, clinging to him. Your chest squeezed when he hugged you back, and you heard him sniffle.
“I’m so sorry,” you whispered.
“Yeah, me too,” he mumbled.
You stayed like that for a while, and he began to relax against you, your lips still brushing his brow when you spoke.
“It’s not your fault.”
“Don’t,” he said.
“Michael, it’s not- it’s not your fault. Don’t do that to yourself. I know we’ve only known each other a few days but…”
You pulled back to look him in the eye.
“I feel like I… fucking skipped time or something. I know you well enough that you tried everything you could to save her, and… I’m sorry. I’m just so fucking sorry you have to live with that-”
He broke you off with a crushing kiss. In seconds you were tussling again, rearranging yourselves for him to push inside you. It was rushed and desperate, like you hadn’t been fucking for hours.
“We fucking skipped time,” he whispered, pounding into you like it was his mission to do so. “C’mon, I’ve got you…”
When he played with your clit, everything shrunk to a pinpoint and you tensed up, clenching around him.
“Attagirl,” he whispered, watching you fall apart.
He didn’t relent until he had his fill, your mind going blank.
-
Robby’s back and shoulders were beginning to ache, as they always did this late into the shift. He hadn’t sat down in over eight hours, except to tell a patient’s relative some bad news in the family room.
That didn’t count.
He hung his neck, tugging on his stethoscope with both hands, taking a deep breath through his nose. It wasn’t chaotic, but a steady hum of constant beeps, voices and movement around him. He was waiting for several beds to be available upstairs.
“Six still waiting on labs?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Dana said without looking up. “And trauma two’s CT just came back.”
“Great,” Robby muttered.
Everything was normal, the tunnel-vision type of end to his day. Dana answered the phone, taking off her glasses as she stood up from her chair.
“Robby. Incoming severe vaginal bleeding.”
He nodded, looking around. Whittaker went into eight with a brave look set on his face. He watched as Mel walked with Mohan, deep in conversation. He knew Santos was trying to chart nearby.
McKay came out to grab another computer, logging in.
“Severe bleeding incoming,” he murmured. “Look alive.”
Not three minutes later, the paramedics burst in with the stretcher, a sheet thrown over the lower half of the woman whose eyes were closed, her face twisted in pain.
“Severe vaginal bleeding,” one of the paramedics rattled off. “History of endometriosis per patient. Syncope at home.”
Robby’s mind clicked into gear.
“How long?”
“Couple hours of heavy bleeding.”
“Any pregnancy—”
He stopped. The patient’s head rolled slightly to the side on the stretcher, just enough for the overhead light to fall across her face.
Robby’s brain registered it before the rest of him caught up.
The ER disappeared. The smell of the antiseptic, the fluorescent lights. All of it was replaced with sun, the ocean - Hawaii.
You.
He stopped walking, McKay bumping into him.
“Robby?”
“Trauma One,” he said, coming back to life. Years of practice kept his voice steady.
He stepped forward, grabbing the gurney to help steer it.
“BP is eighty over fifty.”
“Jesus,” he hissed.
“Heartrate is 130.”
Of all the places to see you again, his ER.
Of all the hospitals in all of Pittsburgh, she rolls into mine.
Like something out of fucking Casablanca.
You were transferred to the hospital bed, Robby slipping gloves on as he approached your side, his voice calm:
“Let’s get two large-bore IVs. CBC, type and cross, CMP.”
Your head lolled to the side, your eyelids fluttering.
“...Michael?”
He ignored McKay’s eyes burning into the side of his face. He began to check your pupils. Your skin was cold.
“You’re in the ER at PTMC. You’ve lost some blood, but we’re taking care of you.”
You blinked, still hazy. But you managed to focus on his face, his gentle tone. You nodded, closing your eyes again.
Monitors clipped into place with soft, rapid clicks. The familiar choreography of a patient circling instability.
“Fluids and a transfuse,” he said to the room. He glanced back at you, grabbing your hand.
“Pressure’s dropping,” Princess at your left said. “Seventy-eight systolic.”
He adjusted your arm for the IV, the sting of it nothing compared to the pain you felt elsewhere. Someone hung a bag of fluids behind him.
“Blood’s on the way, we’ll start a transfusion the second it gets here.”
“Excellent,” he said.
You struggled, eyes fluttering shut. He leaned in closer to you.
“Hey - stay with me.”
“Robby, should we page OB now or wait for labs?” McKay asked, and he shook his head.
“Given the history, I don’t want to wait.”
“The… history?” she asked, sharing a look with Princess.
Robby tried to not visibly react to the highly likely scenario that this incident would be circling in the days to come.
Robby ignored them, giving your wrist a small squeeze.
“You’re going to be okay.”
“BP’s responding,” someone called. “Up to ninety-two systolic.”
“Good,” Robby said immediately. “Keep it going.”
Your breathing had steadied slightly, though your eyelids still fluttered with the effort of staying conscious. The first unit of blood arrived moments later.
“Type O negative.”
“Perfect,” Robby replied. “Let’s start it.”
The bag was spiked, the line flushed, the transfusion beginning in practiced, efficient movements.
Robby didn’t step away, nor did he hand you over or delegate. He lingered by your side, hand resting beside yours as he watched your vitals.
-
On the last day of your vacation, you woke up in his arms. You could hear the crashing of the waves below the open windows, the sea breeze on your bare skin.
You rolled over, facing him, your noses brushing.
“I wish I could go with you,” you whispered for the first time.
You meant it, but knew neither of you would actually follow through with it.
“I should kidnap you,” he whispered back, and then he kissed you.
-
“Robby.”
It was Santos, rushed but remaining calm. Practically fearless, but looking for help. Robby glanced over his shoulder, then back at you in the bed.
“Yeah,” he sighed. He took off his gloves, stood up and tossed them in the trash.
He went by Dana at her desk and nodded over at your room.
“Come and find me when she wakes up.”
“Will do, Chief.”
Dana stared him down but he refused to engage. He wasn’t in the right headspace. Seeing you like that, so vulnerable, had too great of an impact.
He pushed off the desk and left to follow Santos.
-
You rest for an hour before you manage to open your eyes again. You glance around, seeing a nurse wearing a hijab checking your vitals.
Among the sea of pain is a shame so sudden you gasp, remembering Michael all over again. What were the chances you ended up here?
“I’ll go get Dr. Robby,” the nurse said.
You sat up on your elbows, nodding. You hadn’t prepared yourself for this. You only had to wait another ten minutes before the resident with a ponytail from before came in with Michael in tow.
“How are you feeling?” the resident asked, and you glanced over at Michael, feeling scrutinised.
“Okay, uh-”
“I’m Dr. McKay, and this is- well, you seemed to know each other,” McKay said.
Michael crossed his arms. “Yes, uh…”
“We’re friends,” you said, though that didn’t feel right.
You hadn’t spoken in months. On that last day, no promises were made. You exchanged numbers, but you hadn’t wanted to ruin his time off, and you left him in Hawaii.
Sure, you’d thought about him constantly since, but not all for good reasons.
Michael didn’t say anything about that, looking at your monitors.
“You’re definitely improving,” he murmured. “And the glow is back in your skin.”
“It might be sweat,” you muttered.
“How’s your pain?” McKay asked. “If you can give it a number-”
You always thought this was one of the more frustrating ways of dealing with endometriosis. Having to self report.
“Like a seven to eight,” you interjected. “I wouldn’t say it’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt. I can kind of sleep with it. Or pass out.”
That wasn’t funny, not even remotely, but you saw Michael smirk in the corner of your eye.
“You called the ambulance?” McKay asked, and you nodded.
“After I came to,” you said. “The bleeding was getting worse, and then I realized it wasn’t slowing down, and my towel was soaked through.”
“How was your last menstrual cycle?”
“Fine,” you said. “Not like this. Not exactly easy, but not like this…”
You pulled in a breath. You knew where this was going.
“Any surgeries?”
“I had a laparoscopy six months ago,” you murmured. You looked at your hands.
“Any other complications?”
Your eyes stung. You picked at a cuticle.
“I had an ectopic pregnancy a few months ago.”
-
Robby rubbed his eyes under his glasses, staring at his screen. He had left you and McKay, dragged away by another patient.
Santos came up to the charge desk, glancing up at the list of patients.
“Ectopic?”
He heard McKay beside her.
“Left tube,” she said. “Treated with methotrexate. When detected early, we can avoid rupture and surgery.”
It was a teaching moment, but only then did it hit Robby squarely in the chest. He’d been distracted.
Ectopic, a few months ago.
Hawaii?
He looked at McKay, whose conversation with Santos changed to something about the weekend.
“Hey, Santos?” he called. “Are you any closer to sending your guy home?”
“Sure,” she said, hands in her scrubs pockets. “Once I get back a clear drug test.”
McKay met his gaze.
“I ordered an ultrasound for your friend,” she said.
He nodded. He looked at his watch.
“You think you’re leaving any time soon?” Dana snapped.
He put away his glasses with a sigh. He felt several pairs of female eyes on him as he made his way back to your room.
He slipped inside, shutting the door behind him. You swallowed hard, a lump already there.
“Hey, so… you lied to me,” you said.
“About what?”
He came over to your bed and sat on the chair beside it, scooting closer. It was too close for a doctor-patient relationship, you felt. You didn’t mind.
You lifted your hand and reached over, tapping his name tag.
“It was easier to be Michael.”
“‘Robby’ does suit you,” you murmured. “It’s cute.”
“Cute?” he repeated, leaning on one elbow.
You stared at one another for what felt like an age, a story unravelling between the two of you.
“Don’t be sorry you came here,” he whispered.
“I’m not, it’s just - I didn’t want this to be the way I saw you for a second time,” you mumbled. “I mean, if I ever saw you a second time. I didn’t… I didn’t call.”
“Neither did I,” he said. He sighed. “I could’ve.”
“But I didn’t, like you’d hoped.”
“No,” he said. “You did not.”
Everything felt heavy. You sniffled.
“Jesus, sorry,” you said, with a roll of your eyes. You wiped your nose with your hand. “To be fair, I am on my period.”
“It’s okay.”
“It doesn’t feel like it’s okay,” you whispered, your voice so small you could barely hear it yourself.
He was the one to take your hand, your fingers twining. He squeezed.
“I didn’t get back with my ex,” you said, and he nodded.
“Good.”
You snorted, but then instantly sobered by the look on his face. He stared intently at your fingers before looking back at you.
“Was it mine?”
You nodded. You knew what he meant. The moment passed between you and you let out a shuddering breath.
“It wasn’t even a real pregnancy,” you said. “No possibility of it… happening. But I just had this feeling before - and I tested positive, so…”
You rolled your eyes again.
“For two days it was like…”
You couldn’t get the words out. He squeezed your hand again.
“For two days it was like it was ours.”
-
Robby had been taking a lot of deep breaths in the last half an hour. On the rooftop, the air was fresh, the nighttime sharpness coming in.
“So,” he heard someone say, and he turned, seeing Jack.
“So,” he echoed.
“Who’s the girl?”
He smirked, shaking his head. Unbelievable. He hadn’t even seen him yet and he knew about you. He could accuse Dana, but if he was honest, most everyone at the Pitt was a gossip.
“She’s the one I met in Hawaii,” he murmured.
Jack’s mouth fell open. “Holy shit.”
“Mm.”
“You’re up here because you’re trying to figure out a way to get out of this?” he teased.
He joined Robby, glancing down.
“Not exactly,” Robby replied. He grit his jaw for a beat. “She was pregnant. Ectopic. Then today she came in after she couldn’t stop bleeding.”
“Endometriosis? What stage?”
“One.”
Jack shook his head. “Y’know, there are women whose biopsies confirm it, because surgeons can’t find it. They can be microscopic.”
“It’s brutal,” Robby muttered. “I can’t stand it, Jack. Seeing her like that. She might’ve…”
He didn’t dare say it.
“What’re you doing up here, brother?” Jack murmured.
“Thinking,” Robby muttered. “Thinking too much.”
As they began their walk back, he said:
“She’s waiting to be transferred to OB.”
He wasn’t going to let it go until he said it out loud, so he did it, feeling heavy.
“I got her pregnant. It was me.”
Jack didn’t seem surprised, giving him an understanding, soft sort of look.
“It’s okay, it happens. Is she okay?”
“I guess. No?”
He needed to focus back to work, to finally finish his shift. He started to make the rounds.
-
He came back to your room. You put down your magazine Dana got you.
“Hey,” you said. “You’re gonna leave?”
He nodded, going to the computer, swiping his card. He typed, glasses on. You remembered the first time you saw him use them, when he read the menu on your first not-date on vacation.
“I can feel you watching me,” he said, not looking up.
“What’re you doing, then?” you asked.
He typed, then scratched his head. Typed some more.
“Recommending you have an iron transfusion after your follow-up blood test. Your gynecologist will get a letter from the hospital. And then… it’s on me.”
“Robby,” you said, a little alarmed. You knew the cost of those. “That’s too much. What the fuck?”
He smirked, giving a definitive tap.
“Because, baby, you are anemic.”
You felt a burst of something - a warm affection that made your eyes water. You watched as he came over, sitting on the edge of your bed. He held your hands.
“A girl walks into a hotel bar, and she happens to be from Pittsburgh, and I pass that up? What a fucking…”
He pressed a kiss to your knuckles.
“...moron.”
You gave a tearful little laugh, and leaned toward him, kissing him. It was rushed and clumsy, but the mixture of trust and danger - it was everything to you.
He was everything. You pressed your foreheads together.
Summary: You were driving alone after getting into a huge fight with your now ex-boyfriend. You had spotted a guy standing on the side of the road in the rain, hitching a ride, so you gave him a lift. That guy happened to be Dean Winchester and you had an unforgettable one night stand with him.
Pairing: Dean x Female!Reader
Word Count: 3.1K
Warnings: Slight angst, description of injury, possible spoiler for Season 1 of SPN, little bit of fluff.
Song Inspiration- Heart - All I Wanna Do Is Make Love To You.
A/N: This series is not really based in any season of Supernatural. The basic story line is reminiscent of season 1, but please imagine that Dean and Sam are living in the bunker. Also, I am SO SORRY it has taken me an absolute age to update this series! I hope you enjoy.
A/N 2: As always thank you to my beta @winchest09. You are my cheerleader, my bestie and my constant support. I love you.
My Masterlist
Part Five
Series Masterlist
You barely hear Dean’s footsteps as he moves to check the doors and windows, making sure nothing—or no one—has followed. Your mind races as you rush to pack a small bag for yourself and another for Grace. Clothes, diapers, wipes, a few toys. Bare necessities. Every sound outside makes your heart jump; every shadow seems sinister.
Dean watches silently from the living room, arms crossed, jaw tight, his gaze never leaving you. When he finally speaks, it’s quiet but firm.
“Y/N, listen. I know this is a lot. Hell, it’s everything but we don’t have time to think about it. He’ll come back if we hesitate. You trust me, right?”
You swallow hard, gripping the handle of Grace’s car seat. “I… I trust you,” you say, though your voice trembles.
Dean nods, relief flashing across his face for just a moment before he steels himself again. “Good. Let’s move.”
Grace, still half-asleep, whimpers when you pick her up. You stroke her hair, whispering soft reassurances as Dean grabs your bags and leads the way to his car. The night is eerily quiet outside, but you can’t shake the sense that eyes are watching you, waiting.
Once you’re in the Impala, Dean slides behind the wheel. He doesn’t turn on the radio, doesn’t speak—his focus is all on the road ahead. You buckle Grace into her car seat in the back and glance at her sleeping face, your heart squeezing painfully.
“Will… will we be safe?” you ask quietly, almost afraid of the answer.
Dean glances at you in the rearview mirror, his jaw tight but eyes soft. “We will be. I promise you, Y/N. You and Grace are coming somewhere no demon can touch. Somewhere Azazel won’t ever know exists.”
You nod, trying to hold back the panic bubbling up inside you. The world you thought you knew, normal, mundane, has just been ripped away. And yet, sitting here in the car with Dean, you feel a strange flicker of hope.
Dean’s voice cuts through your thoughts, low and tense. “We should get a move on. This guy doesn’t play fair. He’ll be coming for us as soon as he realizes we’re gone.”
Your stomach knots. You glance at Grace again, asleep and unaware of the danger that stalks her, and then back at Dean. Somehow, you feel an unspoken bond forming, one forged in fear, desperation, and the faint glimmer of trust.
The Impala’s engine hums steadily as Dean floors it. The night stretches out before you, dark and uncertain, but for the first time in weeks, you feel like you’re not running alone.
And somewhere deep in your chest, a small, optimism begins to grow: maybe, just maybe, you and your little family will survive this.
The drive to the bunker is long, and the highway stretches endlessly before you. The Impala’s headlights cut through the night, the only sound in the car is the steady hum of the engine and Dean’s occasional muttered curses at the stretch of road. You sit in the passenger seat, Grace behind you, her soft snores barely audible over your own racing thoughts.
Every mile you cover, you feel the weight of the world pressing down on your shoulders. The normal life you had imagined for your daughter—the safe days of daycare, playgrounds, and bedtime stories is gone. Replaced by this: Dean, a demon who wants her dead, and a legacy you never asked for but can’t ignore.
You glance back at Grace, asleep and trusting, and feel a surge of both love and terror. You shift in your seat, feeling the tight knot in your stomach loosen just a fraction. You aren’t alone in this. Dean is here. He may not have all the answers, but he knows how to fight, and right now, that is everything.
Dean clears his throat. “Y/N… I should probably explain a little more before we get there. Just so you know what you’re walking into.”
You tense, gripping the edge of your seat. “I’m listening.”
Dean takes a deep breath. “The bunker… it’s not just a place to hide. It’s a base of operations. Sam and I have everything there. Research, weapons, the Colt, books on every kind of demon you can imagine. We’ve been hunting Azazel for years, and this is the safest place we’ve got. Wardings, hexes, the works. When we’re inside, nothing gets in.”
You nod, absorbing the information. “And the Colt… you said it can kill him?”
Dean’s jaw tightens. “The Colt can kill any supernatural being. But there’s a catch: it only works if you know how to use it, and Azazel… he’s smart. He’ll expect you to use it wrong. That’s why Sam and I are bringing it with us, and why you’re staying out of the fight for now.”
You lean back, trying to process it all. Your head is spinning with information, with fear, with the weight of what could happen if you make a single wrong move. But then, the reassuring press of Dean’s hand on your knee grounds you. He’s here. He’s real. He’s not leaving.
For the next two hours, the drive is mostly quiet. Dean occasionally hums under his breath or mutters a joke to keep his own nerves at bay, and you find yourself chuckling despite the tension. Grace stirs once, whining softly, and you lean back to rub her knee until she settles again.
Finally, Dean pulls off the highway and into a gravel driveway that disappears into the darkness. A large metal door, reinforced and unassuming, is set into the side of a small hill. The Impala rolls to a stop, and Dean kills the engine.
“Welcome to home base,” he says quietly, though there’s a hint of pride in his voice.
You stare at the door. It looks like nothing more than a storage shed. The bunker? Hardly what you imagined, but if it keeps Grace safe, you’re not complaining. Dean climbs out first, moving around to your side to open your door. You unbuckle Grace and pass her into his arms, following him to the entrance.
Dean reaches up and presses a series of buttons above the door. A low hum fills the air, and the metal door slides open, revealing a stairwell that descends into the earth. The air is cool and smells faintly of metal and oil. The walls are lined with pipes and lights, and the hum of hidden machinery echoes faintly.
“Wow…” you murmur, following Dean down the stairs.
“Yeah, it’s not much to look at, but it’s safe,” he replies, leading the way down a long corridor. “Come on, I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.”
The bunker is larger than you expected. The main corridor leads to a wide, open room with a kitchen, living space, and many other doors which keep their secrets. It also leads to a seating area in which Dean settles Grace down on a couch and lets her curl up under a blanket. She looks around, eyes wide, before nestling back into the cushions.
“This is… nice,” you admit, letting your shoulders relax slightly. “I mean, it’s safe.”
Dean grins faintly. “Safe is what matters. Now, you’ll be in the room down the hall. Closest to Grace, easiest for me to keep an eye on her. Sam’s room is the other side, and mine… well, mine’s where I sleep, and where we keep the weapons.”
You nod, still trying to wrap your head around everything. “Weapons? Like what?”
Dean’s eyes flick to the far wall, and he gestures. “Knives, guns, holy water, salt rounds, blades coated in demon blood—whatever you can imagine. We’ve got it.”
You swallow. “And… Azazel knows where this place is?”
Dean shakes his head. “No. That’s the point. Wards, sigils, hexes—he won’t get in unless he knows the combination. And even if he did… he’d have to fight us to get to Grace.”
You feel a flicker of relief. “So… we’re safe here.”
Dean leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you. “Safe, yes. But don’t get too comfortable. Demons are patient. And Azazel… he’s clever. He’ll try again. Tonight was just a taste.”
Your stomach tightens. “A taste? You mean… he could come back?”
Dean nods. “Yes. That’s why you need to stay here. No more going out. No more taking chances. I’ll handle the hunting. You handle Grace.”
You nod, swallowing your fear. “Okay. I can do that.”
Dean’s expression softens. “I know you can. And I’ll help. We’ll do this together.”
The first night in the bunker is tense. You stay in your room, Grace sleeping in a crib beside your bed. Every creak, every hum of the bunker’s ventilation system makes you jump. You lie awake for hours, thinking about Azazel, thinking about the danger he poses, thinking about Dean and Sam.
Eventually, exhaustion takes over. In the next room, Dean paces, listening for any sign of danger, his hand never straying far from his gun.
At three in the morning, a distant sound wakes you—a faint whisper, almost too soft to hear. Your heart races, and you instinctively reach for Grace. The sound grows, a low, guttural voice chanting something in a language you don’t understand.
Dean bursts into the room, Colt in hand, eyes blazing. “Stay behind me!”
The lights flicker, and suddenly, the shadows in the corner of the room coalesce. Azazel stands there, taller and more menacing than ever. Yellow eyes blazing, grin sharp, claws glinting in the dim light.
“You brought me a gift,” he hisses, voice echoing through the bunker. “And you think you can hide her from me?”
Dean steps in front of you, gun raised. “Back off, Azazel. Not tonight.”
Azazel laughs, a sound that chills your blood. “You think your little toys can stop me? I will have her, Winchester. Your little girl is mine, and you… you cannot save her.”
Dean fires his gun, a single shot that echoes through the bunker. Azazel screams, the bullet striking him directly, and he vanishes in a swirl of black smoke.
You clutch Grace, shaking. Dean drops to the floor, breathing heavily, his hand still on the gun.
“Is… is he gone?” you whisper.
Dean looks up at you, green eyes intense. “For now. But this isn’t over. He’ll be back. And we’ll be ready.”
You nod, heart still racing, and hold Grace close. For the first time since the attack, you feel a flicker of hope. You are in the bunker, with Dean and Sam, protected.
Morning comes slower than usual in the bunker.
The hum of the ventilation system and the faint metallic scent of the underground compound are now familiar enough to be comforting, almost. But sleep didn’t bring peace. You wake several times in the night, checking Grace, listening for any hint of Azazel’s return. By the time the first rays of artificial sunlight creep through the bunker’s small windows, you’re exhausted, body tense, and heart still racing.
Dean is already up. The smell of coffee drifts from the kitchen as you quietly dress and move into the main living area. Grace, still half-asleep, clings to a stuffed rabbit, rubbing her eyes. Dean spots you and offers a faint smile. “Morning,” he says. His voice is rough from sleep but steady, grounding.
“Sleep okay?”
“Not really,” you admit, sitting on the couch with Grace in your lap. “Every little noise… I kept thinking he was here.”
Dean sits down beside you, placing a hand on your knee. “It’s okay. That’s normal. For now, you’ve got to adjust to the idea that danger could be lurking just outside these walls. The first few nights are always the hardest.”
You nod, swallowing hard, stroking Grace’s hair. “And Sam? Where is he?”
Dean glances toward the stairwell leading to the lower levels. “Downstairs. He’s working on some research—tracing Azazel’s movements, trying to figure out where he might strike next. We’ve got a database of sightings, patterns, and possible weaknesses. It’s not much, but it’s all we’ve got.”
Grace squirms in your lap, finally standing and toddling toward Dean, who catches her easily. Her tiny hands grab at his flannel shirt as she leans forward, and Dean laughs softly. “Good morning, Gracie.”
You watch them, heart clenching. This is what family looks like, in its own strange, chaotic, dangerous way. And for a moment, you allow yourself to hope that this could be permanent, that Grace could grow up safe, even with the shadow of the Winchester life looming over her.
After breakfast—cereal for Grace, black coffee for you, and whatever energy drink Dean manages to find—you move to the small kitchen table. Dean pulls out a chair and sits across from you, Colt in hand.
“Alright,” he says, serious now. “Before we get comfortable, I need to show you a few things. You need to understand the basics. Grace may be safe in the bunker, but if we have to leave or fight, you’ll need to know a little about protecting her.”
Your stomach tightens, but you nod. “Okay. I’m listening.”
Dean starts with the Colt. He lays it on the table, handling it like a sacred object. “This,” he begins, “is the Colt. One shot, any supernatural being, dead. But it’s not just about pointing and shooting. You need to know your target, the type of demon, and the circumstances. Otherwise…” His jaw tightens. “It could go wrong.”
You study the gun, metal gleaming in the bunker’s harsh lighting. “And… you think I could ever use it?”
Dean shrugs. “Maybe. Not yet, though. First, I need you to know how to handle yourself, Grace, and the basics. That’s what we’ll start with today.”
The morning passes with a series of practical lessons. Dean teaches you how to check doors and windows for signs of tampering, how to use salt rounds to create barriers, and how to recognize the subtle signs of a demon’s presence—sounds, smells, changes in the air.
Every new skill fills you with both dread and determination.
“Y/N,” Dean says after showing you how to mark doors with wards, “this isn’t a game. Demons lie, they deceive, and they kill. You can’t let your guard down for a second. Not with Grace.”
You nod solemnly, understanding the gravity of his words. “I won’t. I promise.”
By midday, you’re exhausted, both physically and mentally. The bunker’s security gives you a false sense of comfort, but Dean’s teachings remind you constantly of the world outside. Every shadow in the hall feels like a threat, every flicker of light suspicious. Grace, oblivious to danger, giggles as Dean shows her how to hide under blankets.
“You can’t just let her play in the open,” Dean tells you, though his smile softens the words. “If a demon got in, I’d want her somewhere safe, away from it. She needs to learn that too. We’ll start small—hiding games. Makes it fun and safe.”
Grace laughs and hides behind a cushion, peeking out at you. Your chest swells with a mix of love and fear. This is what you’re fighting for. Her laughter, her safety, her life.
In the afternoon, Dean disappears for a while, leaving you to settle Grace for a nap. You sit on the couch, staring at the walls lined with books, weapons, and tools, trying to process everything. The bunker feels like a strange blend of home and prison; safe, yet full of reminders of the world you can’t escape.
A faint sound makes you freeze. The hum of the ventilation, maybe? A creak in the pipes? You glance at Grace, sleeping peacefully. No, it wasn’t her. Your heart hammers in your chest.
Dean appears in the doorway, eyes scanning the room. “What is it?”
“I… I thought I heard something,” you whisper, voice tight.
He steps closer, resting a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “It’s probably nothing. But stay alert, alright? That’s the key here. Don’t panic.”
You nod, trying to calm yourself, but a prickle runs down your spine. Your instincts scream at you.
Something isn’t right.
Hours later, Sam returns, eyes bloodshot from research and late-night surveillance. He carries a laptop, feeding information to Dean. “We’ve picked up unusual activity,” Sam says, voice low. “Nothing direct, but scouts—lesser demons. Azazel’s testing our defenses.”
Your stomach drops. “What do you mean, scouts?”
“Minions,” Sam explains. “He’s not coming himself yet. Too risky. But he’s sending others. They might try tonight. Or tomorrow. Could be anyone, anything. You need to stay alert.”
Dean’s jaw tightens. “No leaving the bunker. No exceptions. You and Grace stay in here. Sam and I handle the rest.”
Fear claws at you, but you nod, swallowing hard. “Okay.”
Night comes again, heavier than before. You and Grace settle in your room, every noise amplified, every shadow a potential threat. Dean checks on you one last time before nightfall, Colt strapped at his hip. “We’ve reinforced the wards. They won’t get in without being noticed. Sleep, if you can. We’ll be right outside.”
Grace clings to you as you lie down, exhaustion overtaking your vigilance. You close your eyes, heart still racing, wishing desperately for the normal life that was ripped away.
Suddenly, a faint whisper drifts through the room, soft, almost imperceptible. Your chest tightens, and you clutch Grace closer.
“Stay here,” Dean’s voice is a hiss in the darkness. You hear his boots on the floor as he moves toward the door, Colt in hand.
The whisper becomes clearer. Words in a language you don’t understand, chilling and guttural, echoing faintly. You can feel it crawling along your skin, the temperature in the room dropping. Grace stirs, tiny hands clutching your shirt, sensing the unease.
Dean returns moments later, Colt raised. “It’s a scout,” he mutters. “He tried to get in. Didn’t make it past the wards. You’re safe..”
You breathe out, relief flooding through you, but fear remains.
This is only the beginning.
Azazel is clever, patient, and relentless. And now, you understand: the bunker isn’t just a home. It’s a fortress. And you’re its guardian.
Dean kneels beside you, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’re doing good. I know it’s overwhelming, but you’re doing so good. Both you and Grace.”
You nod, tears threatening again, and hold your daughter close. The warmth of Dean’s hand on your shoulder, the sound of his steady breathing, the faint hum of the bunker. All of it forms a fragile bubble of safety.
Outside, somewhere in the dark, Azazel’s scouts prowl, testing, probing. Inside, you are learning to fight, to protect, to survive.
And deep in your heart, you know one thing for certain: you will do whatever it takes to keep your daughter alive.
Because the war has only just begun and this time, you’re not alone.
To be continued…
Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed please like, comment and reblog as FEEDBACK IS GOLD and is the fuel that keeps me writing. My tag list is open, so if you wish to be added, send me an ask.
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I MAY have some series updates - just want to read them over and make a few edits before I post as it’s been an absolute AGE since I have written anything!
Characters: Ryan Hart, Don Hart, Pregnant!reader, Roxie Alba
Warnings: Angst, fluff, things get saucy, drama ensues, this probably wouldn't happen to Ryan but I couldn’t get the idea out of my head, mentions of a one night stand, Ryan is not married, don and blythe are nice to the reader despite not knowing her, set pre show, just before blue comes into the picture, Ryan is an idiot
You walked into the fire station, nervous as all hell. You took a deep breath, believing this was going to be your fresh start. If you fake it eventually you’ll believe it or so your mama told you.
You knew this was going to be a rough one, starting a new job, pregnant by someone you haven’t seen since, well six months ago.
You take slow steps towards the truck, starting at it. Wondering how long it takes them to make it sparkle. You swear you can see the creases in your makeup.
You jerk back at the sound of someone talking.
“I bet you’re wondering how it gets so clean.”
You take a deep breath and offer a small, nervous smile. “A little bit.” You glance over his name tag, wondering who you’re talking to. “Captain.”
You perk up and offer your hand, “I believe I’m the one you’ve been emailing about the secretary position.”
His smile widens. “Right you are. I’m Don.” He gestures for you to follow him.
“I’m sorry for wandering, I got lost trying to find your office and then a bathroom and then got distracted by the firetruck.”
“Not a problem. Believe me, I was the same way when I first came to our station.”
-
You two make small talk and Don shows you to your desk where you’re going to be working.
He slides over a container and a gift bag.
You raise a brow. “My wife and I send our congratulations. She was the one who actually picked you to be our secretary despite your soon to be bundle coming.”
“Oh,” you cheeks flush. “Um, th- thank you.”
“Go on, open it.” He gestures to the bag.
“Oh, oh. Right.” You reach in and pull out a yellow baby blanket… with little fire engines. “Oh,” you tear up. “Please thank your wife for me and of course, thank you from you too.” You dab the corner of your eyes. “Can I- would it be inappropriate for me to hug you?”
He shakes his head, “it’s a thank you hug.”
You sniffle and gently hug him as he pulls you into the kind of hug you get from family. “Oh.”
He pulls back, keeping a hand on you to keep you steady. “Are you okay?”
You nod with a smile. “She kicked.”
“Well isn’t that a good way to start your first shift.”
You giggle and nod. A knock on the doorway startles you. “Dad, Roxie and the others are bringing in their dishes for the potluck.”
“Alright, son.” He turns back to you. “Hey Ryan, while you’re here, why don’t you be the first to introduce yourself to our new secretary.”
He steps into the room and your stomach drops. “Ryan this is,” Don introduces you to him.
You put on a fake smile and reach out to shake his hand. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he whispers, shaking your hand.
You take a step back and gesture to the desk. “I’m just- I’m going to settle in for a bit. You two go enjoy.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to join us? I’m sure the little one is hungry.”
“Lit- little one?” Ryan echoes with a stutter.
“Yes,” his dad answers, the smile stretching across his lips. “Our new secretary is going to be with us for a few months before she has to take a few months off.”
“I thought mom hired a temp?”
Don shakes his head. “I hired her and no.”
“I- do you know who the father is.”
“Woah, son.” The captain turns to you. “You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”
You lift your gaze at his question. “I do.”
“Where is he?”
“Ryan!”
“What I just- I asked a question.” He glances from his dad to you.
“You did, you got an answer, now you can go.”
The two leave with Don leaving a string of apologies.
You take deep breaths to calm down before refolding the blanket and tucking it back into the gift bag.
-
You take a deep breath after sitting down after coming back from the bathroom as a knock on the door.
You glance up and find him standing there with a plate. “I come with a peace offering.”
You huff. “Do you- I didn’t invite you in,” you add as you watch him sit down.
“You didn’t, I did.”
“For what exactly?”
“I know.”
“Know?”
“Oh, come on.” He turns his head away before turning back to you. “Are you really going to pretend that you aren't pregnant with my baby?"
“My baby and I are perfectly fine on our own.”
“You don't have to do it alone though,” he tells you softly.
You take a deep breath. “I know that but you and I don't know each other much less enough to raise a child together.”
“Exactly, if we're going to do this, we'll need to, you know, get to know each other to raise this baby.”
You narrow your eyes and lean in slightly, gesturing between you two. “We are not doing this together.”
“And why not? I'm just as much a part of this as you.”
“I don't want you to be.”
He huffs, “look. I am all for your body, your choice but I am not going to leave you to do this alone. Had I known sooner, I would have been with you the entire time, helping with the cravings and- and taking you to your appointments.”
You sigh, “that's very sweet of you but-” You eye the food being slid closer to you. “I'm not hungry.”
“You've been snacking on granola bars the last three hours.”
“You've been watching me?”
“I call it checking on the mother of my child.”
“Do you?”
He smirks, “see this,” he gestures to the both of you. “Shows we can do this.”
“You're not going to give this up are you?”
He shakes his head. “Not a chance.”
“Okay well, to be fair, the first time I met you. You told me you were freshly divorced so call me crazy for not wanting to put all my eggs into your basket.”
“That's a bit ironic, isn't it?”
You roll your eyes. “Look, buddy-”
“Ryan.”
“Look, Ryan. I'm willing to talk to you but building a relationship with you is a bit iffy.”
He purses his lips. “Okay, we start talking and go from there.” He raises his hand to shake yours.
You glance between his hand and face.
“What? You're looking at me like I'm not clean.”
“I haven't seen you in months, I don't know where that hand has been.”
He stares at you with a deadpan expression until you start giggling. “Oh, you're making a joke. I see. Is this what I'm going to be experiencing with you?”
You nod. “Yep.”
He sighs. “You're going to be a handful.”
“For two.”
“Yeah, for two.”
You start nibbling more at the food, listening as he goes on, informing you a bit about him as a start.
-
Extra
You slid the sonogram across the table, letting him see the latest picture (hoping he'll shut up after).
"What's the- is it-" He glances at you with wide eyes. "Are we having a girl?"
A sheepish smile stretches across your lips as you nod. "Yeah."
A breathless chuckle escapes him as he comes around the desk to hug you.
You stiffen, unsure of what to do before you hug him back, finally happy to have support.
"Oh, um," he pulls back, keeping his arms around your waist. "I should have asked before," his voice comes out raspy.
You blink at him, gulping as your mind messes with you. You think back to him undressing back in your apartment. "It's- it's okay," you whisper. "Oh."
"What?"
You glance down, pulling his hand close to feel the little girl in your belly kicking. "I think someone's happy to hear you."
✧・゚: * pairing: Michael Robinavitch x Female!Public Defender!Reader
✧・゚: * summary: a chance meeting at a coffee shop turns your world upside down as you fight to save your client’s future.
✧・゚: * content: 18+ (MDNI) due to eventual smut (facesitting, p in v, idiots falling in love). angst, pining, fluff, canon typical medical scenarios, age gap, lawyering, minor original characters, panic attack, too much caffeine. robby is an endearing train wreck. acab. fund public defense. you might say i got carried away.
There is coffee all over your new suit.
The two of you collide so hard that your face presses against his throat. You gasp from the mild burning on your chest and the shock, but when you look up and see the regret in those brown eyes, your mouth clamps shut.
“Oh, fuck—I’m sorry,” stammers the guy, who has just dumped nearly twenty ounces of black coffee on your chest. It’s hard to tell whose fault it is, really; you both walked through the door of the Allegheny Coffee & Tea Exchange at the same time from opposite directions, you both have earphones in, both of your minds are elsewhere. But it’s still hot coffee. On your new navy pantsuit, which you had bought more out of necessity than vanity. The rest of your suits are beginning to show their age, and not in a cute antique way.
“Fuck,” he says again, as if he’s starting to chant it. He’s watching the brown stain spreading across your button down and you have to resist the urge to put your hands there to cover yourself up. “Did I burn you?” The stranger nearly looks like he’s going to pull your collar forward and look at your skin himself, and you take a half-step back.
“N-no. All good. Well, except…” You gesture vaguely at your torso.
“Hold on.” Since his cup is now basically empty, he drops it on the sidewalk and runs inside, while you stand dumbly among the passersby.
There are tears coming into your eyes against your will. Why is being the victim in a bad situation always so humiliating? Surely there’s some sort of psychological explanation—
“Here we go.” He thrusts about a hundred coffee shop napkins into your sprawled hands. “I’m so sorry.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket, too gentlemanlike to help clean up the giant stain that has started to cool over your breasts. Through the tears stinging the back of your eyes, you can read in yellow letters over his heart: Beers of the Burgh.
“Um,” is all you can say as you helplessly dab at your button down and blazer with the coarse, mostly useless squares he’s given you. He’s running his hands through his hair and looking up the street like someone might swoop in to make everything better.
“Please let me pay to get those dry cleaned,” he says finally, taking the sodden napkins from you and stuffing them in his empty coffee container.
“I’m sorry about your coffee,” you say weakly, deciding you’re going to be late for arraignments, capitulating to the hand you’ve been dealt this morning. It’s overcast and chilly and the magistrate judge is going to be livid.
He did spill his drink all over you like a drunk freshman at a dive bar, but he has a puppydog look about him that makes you reluctant to stop talking to him. You almost don’t want to walk away and put this shitty morning with the little coffee shop disaster behind you. Because he’d still be standing there, hands in his pockets with his jacket sleeves pushed up, those dark brows slanted with concern and embarrassment. He looks to be middle-aged, but his voice is smooth and kind.
“I’m much more sorry about your clothes,” he nearly laughs. He pulls his cell phone out of his pants pocket—you notice they’re slouchy Carhartts. He taps a few times on his screen and flips it around to show you a QR code. “Add me and request the total of the dry cleaning cost—and add whatever your next cup of coffee costs ya. Again, I’m so sorry. Please let me make it right.”
You scan it and add him, @robbyrobin1, feeling like a robot that was never programmed to speak.
“You’re forgiven, I promise,” you say at last, knowing you also need to take a rideshare home to change before you go to court, though you don’t enlighten him of that. You don’t know why. You don’t even know his name, and he ruined a perfectly normal morning. But you just can’t make him feel worse.
“Thanks. I hope you have a better day than what I’ve started you off with,” he smirks self-deprecatingly, tugging on the strap of his satchel. He nods and heads off down the slope of the sidewalk. For some reason, you watch him until he rounds the corner of a building and is gone.
You text your coworker Adam that you’ll be late for court while you let one frustrated tear fall. It’s swiped away before anyone else can see it. Your ride comes and you head home, thinking of those incredible brown eyes. Which you would never see again.
Gone, melted into the hundreds of thousands of people in Pittsburgh. Just like you.
“Good morning, counsel. I see you’ve decided to grace us with your presence,” Judge Moran snips.
You sigh. This gray suit from Kohl’s, which has to be at least six years old now, will have to do for this morning’s Magisterial District Court docket. For which you are thirty-five minutes late.
“Thank you for your patience, your honor,” you say with more confidence than you feel. Sorry, Judge, I was busy racing home to change out of my newest suit because an older man who, I am realizing in retrospect, I found quite attractive, covered me with an entire day’s worth of caffeine. Who gets black coffee from a coffee shop anyway? Really, shouldn’t you just—
“I tried to drag my arraignments out for you, but she’s in a mood this morning,” Adam, another public defender who also covers felonies, whispers in your ear. His steady voice breaks through your incoming internal meltdown. “Hang in there.” He stuffs his files in his bag and gestures for a bailiff to take one of his clients back to the holding cells so they can talk.
You dump your files on the podium and take a deep breath. You scan the jury box, which is currently filled with red-jumpsuit-clad and shackled incarcerated people. You’re trying to match names to the faces you looked up last night on the jail website.
Two thefts by unlawful taking. Seven drug possessions involving fentanyl, two of them with assault charges as well, and you realize from reading the short citations that they might be co-defendants. Your office paralegal should have caught that. This day is shaping up to be a real shitshow after all.
The incarcerated defendants begin muttering amongst themselves as your silence stretches. “I can’t believe I’ve got a fuckin’ public pretender,” one of Adam’s clients says loud enough to get escorted back to the holding cells by the bailiff.
Some of his neighbors snicker, but most of them are looking at their feet, defeated.
You get to the bottom of your stack and realize there’s a file with a name you don’t recognize: Quade Jameson. You flip through it, wondering if Adam accidentally left it, but sure enough, your name is on the upper left-hand corner of the file’s inside. It must have been a late assignment within your office and shoved into your stack before you went home for the day yesterday. Not surprising but still maddening.
There are only three sheets of paper on the inside: the short police citation, a criminal history printout from pretrial services, and the application for a public defender. Mr. Jameson makes less than forty grand per year, so you go ahead and write on the lined sheet stapled inside both the date and “preliminary arraignment.”
You quickly flip to the citation, sensing Judge Moran burning holes into the side of your head with her gaze as she waits for you to begin calling cases, and squint at the text.
COUNT 1: MURDER (1ST DEG.) (F)
COUNT 2: TAMPERING WITH PHYSICAL EVIDENCE (M)
“Damn, are you kidding?” you whisper, tilting your chin away from the hot microphone. A late assignment on a murder? You take a cursory look at the prosecutor, Nathaniel, who is obviously looking at fantasy football stats on his phone. You then scan the jury box, and through the process of elimination, set your eyes on who you think might be the one. “Mr. Quade Jameson?” you call.
He’s maybe a year or two younger than you and has mid-length dreads not yet bedraggled by a stay at the jail. His eyes are round and frightened, with just a touch of anger, which you have come to recognize very well. He lifts one hand as well as he can in the cuffs, and you step over to squat beside him, telling him your name. “I’m a public defender. Today you’re being informed of your rights and bail will be set, as well as a preliminary hearing, probably later this week.”
“Ma’am, I didn’t do nothing, I swear. Please get me out of here. Please!” he whispers a little too loudly. You place your hand on his upper arm and nod as the bailiff glares at you both.
“I understand you’re frustrated. I’ll meet with you after court today, okay?” You hand him a business card. “How long have you lived in Pittsburgh?”
“My whole life. Live with my momma and my baby girl. She’s four. Momma was gonna come to court but she can’t find anyone to watch Isabelle.”
“Can your mom post any sort of bail? Pay for an ankle monitor?”
He shakes his head and chews the inside of his cheek.
“I’m going to do my best, Mr. Jameson, but your charge is very serious. Step up to the podium with me, please.”
He nods as he stuffs your card in the one pocket on his jumpsuit.
“Your honor, may we begin by calling the case of Commonwealth versus Quade Jameson?”
“You may,” Judge Moran says through gritted teeth, as you walk forward, and your client shuffles in his leg shackles. “Mr. Jameson, did you hear the rights I read to everyone earlier?”
“Yes ma’am—” You elbow him softly, hidden behind the podium. “Yes, your honor.”
“After reviewing the economic information from pretrial services, I am appointing the Allegheny County Public Defender’s Office. Counsel, will you be representing Mr. Jameson?”
“I will.” You flip back to the criminal history report. Low pretrial risk scores for failing to appear and criminal activity: a small beam of hope. Not that it matters much to Judge Moran. “Your honor, if I may be heard on the matter of bail?”
“You may,” she responds, not looking up from playing sudoku on her phone.
You swallow your frustration and try not to roll your eyes. “Mr. Jameson is a lifelong resident of Pittsburgh. He lives with his mom and his young daughter.” You lean over to Quade and whisper, Are you employed? He nods vigorously. “He has a job as well, but like many people in our community, he cannot possibly post any significant cash bail. He understands that this case is serious and that he must reappear in court. I would ask that he be considered for the electronic monitoring grant from the county.”
Nathaniel scratches the inside of ear and replies around a yawn, “A very high cash bond would be appropriate considering he is alleged to have killed someone. Unprovoked. With a firearm.”
Quade takes in a sharp breath and you shush him gently. “Don’t let him rile you up.”
“I’m inclined to agree with the Commonwealth. One hundred thousand dollars, full cash. The Court sets this matter for a preliminary hearing this Friday. I order that the Pittsburgh Police Department be notified.”
You take in a breath, hold it for three seconds, and then turn to face Quade, who is grinding his teeth. “I will come see you as soon as I can to talk about all this. Promise.”
He shrugs and shuffles back to his seat, his head dropped low between his shoulder blades.
At the end of the long docket, you text your boss. Late assignment on a murder case? Really?
He responds brutally: Super late add to the docket. All yours from here on out.
You stagger down the steps of the courthouse to head to the office. The bailiffs taking a smoke break look at you with barely concealed pity. The wind hits you and you can somehow still smell the coffee on your skin.
When you went home earlier to change, you should have just crawled under the covers and never come out.
Michael cannot stop thinking about it, even thirteen hours later.
The blood all over the gurney, the blank look in the patient’s eyes, the coldness of the young man’s forearms. The way the gold chain around his neck turned a sickly orange with bloodstains.
It had happened toward the end of an otherwise bearable shift. Damion Yates, twenty-six-year-old male, gunshot wound to left chest, brought in by the EMTs who said he was in and out of consciousness. Robby stepped up to the gurney, McKay close to his side, since they both happened to be standing by the ambulance bay when the patient was wheeled in.
“Trauma Two,” Michael said authoritatively, pulling on a pair of gloves. “Mohan! Over here, please.”
As the nurses were opening the doors to Two, Damion’s eyes suddenly shot open, and Michael leaned in close. Damion coughed up some blood and growled, “Th-that bastard. Thinks he’s bad. But I seen him in that red shirt from a mile away. Following…” And his eyes closed.
“Stay with us, Damion,” Michael yelled, pointlessly.
An hour and a half of coding. Compressions, transfusions, frantic brainstorming from the doctors, all at a loss against the destruction of a single bullet. The fluorescent lights glared so fiercely on the face of Michael’s watch that he had to tilt his wrist to see the hands. “Time of death: 6:58 PM.”
They each stared at one another: Mohan, McKay, Mateo, Princess, each one eventually looking toward their leader, Dr. Robby, who stood like a beacon at the foot of the bed.
“A moment of silence for Damion,” he murmured, folding his hands, which were shaking slightly. “A human being gone too soon.”
They all looked down at the bed, where the still form of a young man did not breathe, did not move, did not feel. A life that was snuffed out like a candle.
You would be forgiven for thinking that in an urban center, Michael would get used to gunshot deaths. But he never did. How a single piece of metal could easily take away someone’s sibling, someone’s parent, someone’s child, someone’s spouse. It was completely absurd, and yet they faced it every single week. Usually every day.
And then they all left the room. But Damion, even if only in spirit, went with them.
After debriefing Jack, who would have to deal with the morgue staff and the family when they arrived, Michael went home and slept fitfully on his couch—his bed seemed too good for him—all the while seeing that young man burned behind his eyelids. He tried to cry and couldn’t.
The next morning, he decided that it was a new day, and that he would support the coffee shop down the street from the hospital and get a muffin and the largest black coffee they would give him.
And then he poured it all over a woman, who looked up at him with so much shock and confusion that the first words out of his mouth were Oh, fuck. Of course. Smooth, Dr. Robby.
She looked really nice, with her faux leather tote and red lipstick. And he had ruined it all—probably her entire day, if not her entire week.
She had been embarrassed, but not particularly angry, and he could not have been more grateful. He couldn’t handle a fistfight with a stranger before a twelve-hour day shift, even if he deserved it. Not after yesterday. Damion Yates, twenty-six. He remembered being that age; he had a nostalgia Damion would never have.
He heads back to the Pitt with no coffee and a head swimming with the image of that dead young man, now joined by the timbre of your voice. I’m sorry about your coffee. You sounded so soft and sincere. Who the hell sounded like that after they got a chest full of someone else’s order?
Before he knows it, he’s stepping into the Pitt, which is buzzing with activity at shift change. “Good morning, hon,” Dana calls to him, staring at him quizzically over her metal-rimmed glasses. “No coffee today?”
“Long story,” Michael groans, already looking at the board. Dana is silent for a long while, so he looks down at her again. “What is it?”
“Tilt your chin back up,” she says seriously, one side of her mouth pulling into a half-smile. Michael complies with some confusion before his charge nurse steps toward him and wipes at the bottom of his throat. “Michael Robinavitch!”
“What?” he snaps, jerking his head away.
Dana’s voice drops a dangerous octave, but with a trace of delighted mischief, she whispers, “Why did you come into the hospital with lipstick all over you?”
Heat creeps up Michael’s neck and over his ears against his will. “Excuse me?” Dana holds up her thumb, smeared with a cool red shade, and Michael stares, completely dumbfounded. “The hell is that?”
“Lipstick! Don’t act stupid!” Dana starts laughing maniacally. “The good doctor is getting some before work, hm?”
“I am not,” Michael snaps, rubbing his own jaw vigorously. “I don’t know—oh.” His expression falters with realization. “It’s not what you think.”
“I’m sure it’s not.” Dana looks ready to continue, but she’s cut off by Jack, who is heading toward them from the locker room with a brooding look on his face.
“Morning, Robby,” he says around a yawn. “Bad night. Damion Yates’ mom came in. I gave her your note. They took him over to the morgue not long after. I think the cops would like to get a statement from you, too. Detective What’s-His-Face said he’d be back around noon. He’s picking up where patrol left off.”
“Great,” Michael sighs, not wanting to relive a single moment of that experience. “How’s the mom?”
“Devastated.” Jack frowns. “She told me to pass on her thanks, though. I told her I was sure Damion had been in the best hands.”
I hope so. Michael worries his bottom lip with his teeth to keep his emotions under control. “Thanks, Jack. See you later.”
“You did your best, Robby,” Dana says, quietly, seriously. Michael only passes his hand over his short beard and sighs.
“And yet a young man is still in a drawer in the morgue,” he replies so softly that Dana almost doesn’t hear. But she does, and it breaks her heart.
The Allegheny County Jail is by design a dehumanizing place, and by neglect a disgusting one. But you spend so much time there that even its heavy booking room door with the peeling paint feels comfortingly familiar. You sign in under the not-so-watchful eyes of three bored jailers, two of whom are arguing about politics, and one who is clearly on the verge of a nap.
You bang on the door to the central surveillance room and the deputy lets you in. “Got any law boxes open for me, Ritchie?”
The man, who is pushing seventy and slowly finishing a bag of gummy bears, hums. “I’ll get ya one, hon. Go to number four.”
Thirty minutes later, you’re finally in the same room with Quade Jameson. His face brightens somewhat as one of the jailers opens the door and he recognizes you.
“You want me to uncuff him?” The jailer asks.
“Please. Mr. Jameson and I are cool. Aren’t we?”
Quade nods enthusiastically, while the bored deputy languidly unlocks the cuffs and disappears down the hall. All that remains is you, your client, and a fully metal picnic table.
“Good to see you again,” you continue. “Would you prefer that I call you Quade or Mr. Jameson?”
“Mr. Jameson was my old man.”
“Quade it is,” you smile slightly. “Quade, can you tell me how you’re feeling?”
His expression sours. “How I’m feeling? Dead tired. You can’t sleep in here with the lights and the screaming. Everything echoes. And I shouldn’t be in here.”
You nod slowly. “I know it’s a terrible situation. Could you please tell me what happened on Monday night that got you in this mess?”
Quade grips his head between his hands and laughs bitterly. “I had a gun at the wrong place at the wrong time. And now I’m in here.”
“Can you tell me more, please? And if it looks like I’m not listening, I’m just taking notes.”
“I’m a janitor at the tire factory way down at the other end of East North Street. I clocked out, said hi to the night janitor, took my stuff from my locker, and was walking home. Because of the time of year, you know, the sun was trying to go down already, and the sunset was pretty. I remember that so well for some reason.” He stares at the wall for a few moments. “I’m walking up that hill—you know the one, it’s a damn killer—sorry for cussing—and I hear this loud bang behind me, and this super loud whizz, going right past my head. You can’t grow up in the Burgh without learning to recognize that sound. I was right next to that huge parking garage they’re gonna demolish, the side with nothing but solid wall. I figure someone’s trying to kill me, so I reach into my pocket and grab my Ruger. I don’t walk anywhere without a gun around here.”
You scribble notes furiously. “What did you do after you grabbed your gun?”
“I crouched down. I figured they would fire again, and there was nowhere for me to hide. When they didn’t fire again and I finally raised my head up, I looked behind me, and some guy was running back down the hill.”
“What’d he look like?”
Quade huffs. “Didn’t get a good look. He was running fast. White guy. Red shirt, white shoes: might’ve been Jordans. Dunno.”
“Did you go after him?”
“I was going to, but it’s like my legs wouldn’t work.” He hangs his head, reminiscent of his arraignment. “I should have hauled ass and caught him. Too late now.”
“What did you do next?”
“I looked up the hill and there was this guy laid out in the middle of the sidewalk. His shirt was white so I could see that there was blood, even from that far away. It was rough,” he trails off, running a hand over his face.
“Was there anyone else on the street?”
“Way up at the top of the hill, some older white man called 911. I dunno how much he actually saw of the shooting—I just saw him dial on his phone. When he saw me looking at him, he went and jumped in his car, parked on the street.”
You swallow, fearing what you believe to be the next piece of the puzzle. “What happened then?”
“I went over to the guy on the ground to see if I could maybe help him, but his eyes were closed. And my legs still weren’t really working right. Or my head.” Quade’s chin trembles. “Then I hear those police cars shrieking, and the ambulance. My hand’s still on the gun in my pocket. I don’t know why, but I yanked it outta my pocket and threw it in this line of bushes next to the garage. I was just scared for them to find one on me, I guess.”
“But you’re not a convicted felon, are you?” You try to recall his criminal history report.
“Nope,” he says flatly. “Just Black.”
That cuts you to the quick. “I hear you, Quade.” You clear your throat. “You’re standing over the man and you hear sirens. What then?”
“Police cars pull up. Cops start screaming at me to get on the ground. Guy up the street gets out of his car and points at me, starts yelling, ‘That’s him. That’s the shooter. And I just saw him throw his gun over there.’”
Detective What’s-His-Face, as Abbot so ably described him, is in fact Detective Asher from the Pittsburgh Police Department, and Michael instantly dislikes him. Working in the emergency department gave him a lot of exposure to law enforcement and other emergency responders, and Asher was a prime example of the dregs. Despite being a detective and therefore not on-duty in the traditional sense, Asher wore a bulletproof vest and apparently always stood with his thumbs hooked into it at his pecs.
He writes halfhearted notes on a mini notepad while he asks Michael, who is trying to get back to his patients, surface-level questions. And making stupid small talk.
“Doctor…”
“Robby,” Michael reminds him for the third time.
“Dr. Robby, is it your medical opinion that the victim died from a gunshot wound?”
“The forensic pathologist will give you a full conclusion, but from my observations during treatment, that was the chief trauma.”
“Could it have been self-inflicted?”
“I’m not qualified to answer that.”
Detective Asher sniffs. “Did he say anything to you?”
“He was mostly nonresponsive throughout his treatment. He did say at one point that someone had been following him.”
Detective Asher smirks. “Those are all my questions, Doc.”
Thank Christ, Michael thinks. “I’m sure anything else can be answered by the forensic pathologist, later on. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Michael does a round of his patients, and is finally able to discharge two of them. He keeps checking his phone, which he almost never does during a shift, and Dana notices.
“Waiting on a text?”
“Hm? No,” he mutters, sliding it back into his pocket.
Michael realizes later what it was that kept him checking his lockscreen like a fifteen-year-old waiting on a text back. He was anticipating a notification from his coffee shop victim. He felt so guilty that you could have requested any amount of money and he probably would have given it. But it was five hours later and you hadn’t asked for anything.
He hides in the breakroom and clicks on the profile picture from where you added him. It’s a picture of you in sunglasses, skin glowing, a big smile on your face. She’s pretty, he thinks, though he knows that already from this morning. And you’re wearing red lipstick in the picture, too. He smiles to himself.
He thinks about sending you fifty bucks unprompted, but knows that would be weird, so he goes back to central and tries to forget it. Unsuccessfully.
“All rise,” the bailiff bellows. “Court is now in session.”
Per usual on preliminary hearing days, you feel frantic, trying to read police narratives given to you by the prosecutor just this morning (of course) and trying to talk to the clients who aren’t in custody and don’t have phones for you to call beforehand (classic).
Detective Asher sits smugly in a chair against the wall, just behind the prosecutors’ table, watching you run around and whisper to clients. Most of it, at this stage, is honestly futile. A defense attorney is lucky to get a case dismissed at the preliminary hearing stage a couple times in an entire year. But it’s always worth the effort. Or at least you tell yourself so.
You’ve cross-examined Detective Asher before. He mainly investigates homicides, hence why he’s here today, digging dirt out from under his fingernails with a pocketknife. He’s maybe fifty with graying hair and a sleazy smile. And he despises you.
Asher was the lead detective on your first murder trial, which ended with a verdict of voluntary manslaughter and a minimum sentence. Your client still went to prison, and yet Asher hated you from that day on, taking it personally that you put on a zealous defense—an occupational hazard.
The preliminary hearing is about what you expect. Asher is the sole witness and takes the stand to testify about the scene, the caller, the firearm, and makes a big deal about Mr. Jameson asserting his right to remain silent after his arrest. He also testifies to the bullet and its casing matching a nine millimeter, which is the caliber of Quade’s Ruger. Asher cuts his eyes at you every few seconds just to make sure you remember he hates you.
“Detective,” you begin your questioning in that confident voice that you know will drive him up the wall. “Were there any eyewitnesses to this shooting?”
“The gentleman I was describing earlier.”
“He called the police, yes, and claims he saw my client throw a firearm. I asked if there were any eyewitnesses to the shooting itself.”
Asher cracks his knuckles and stares at the space over your head. “I’m not aware of any at this time.”
“Have you requested any security footage from any nearby buildings or city traffic cameras?”
“Not at this time.”
You could throw the podium at him if you really tried, you think, even though it is solid wood. “Don’t you think that might be important?”
“Your honor, this is a preliminary hearing, not a trial,” Nathaniel interrupts, knowing just what to say to make your blood boil.
“I agree with the Commonwealth. Wrap it up, counsel.”
You look around the room for a moment and are struck by how little everyone cares. Nathaniel resumes playing Candy Crush after interrupting you, and Detective Asher is staring down at his hands. Judge Moran is checking her email on the huge monitor up on the bench. Quade looks at you like you’re a life raft in the middle of a vast sea. You finish your questions and argue that there isn’t probable cause to refer this case to the Court of Common Pleas for the filing of a criminal information, but you know at this point, there definitely is enough evidence for that low bar. You press Quade’s hand, promising you’ll call his mom, and leave the courthouse. On the sidewalk, you dial the number of your office’s lead investigator.
“Would you mind meeting with me on Monday afternoon to get the ball rolling on the Jameson case? There’s more to this than meets the eye.” You pause. “I trust my guy.”
It’s Sunday and you’re headed toward Allegheny Coffee & Tea Exchange, which just so happens to be the site of The Incident That You Can’t Stop Thinking About. As a regular, you know that it’ll be unbelievably busy, so you ordered your caramel macchiato ahead. You also have a third of a novel left, which you have big plans to finish reading on a blanket in the park, enjoying the late autumn sunshine.
“Here she comes! Our very favorite customer!” It’s the cheerful tone of your favorite barista, who always works on Sundays.
“Certainly your most loyal one,” you laugh. “Thanks so much.”
You’re taking your drink from her hand when you see him.
You don’t know how you recognize him so quickly; it’s been six days, after all, and the shop is full. But the line of people parts a bit and you spot him, sitting at a round table by himself, a laptop open in front of him.
When you finally find his eyes, he’s already looking at you. Before you realize what you’re doing, you’re walking toward him, and he’s standing up from his chair. His zip-up jacket and Carhartts have been replaced by a pair of dark-wash jeans and a moss green sweater, but you notice his sleeves are still pushed up his forearms, revealing dark dustings of hair and a simple watch. He’s wearing glasses—though he wasn’t when you ran into him on Monday, or you would definitely remember—but he takes them off as he stands. A pity.
“Hello there,” you grin easily. Your heart gives a distinct thump that you decide not to examine too closely. You introduce yourself, because if you’re going to keep running into each other at the Exchange—hopefully not literally, from now on—you really ought to know each other’s names.
His smile mirrors yours. “I’m Michael. The guy who never got the pleasure of picking up your dry cleaning tab.” He tilts his chin down so he can look up at you through his lashes. His arms are crossed, and you have to intentionally not look at his forearms. “Why is that?”
“Still haven’t been by the cleaners,” you say with a sigh. “I’ve been a little busy.”
He cocks his head at that before gesturing casually at the other chair at his table. You sink into it, and he sits, closing his laptop and leaning forward to listen among the din of the shop.
“I’m a public defender. My time is not my own, unfortunately. Hopefully I’ll drop it off tomorrow, but the stain might be a lost cause. I kind of forgot about it after the week I’ve had.” You run a finger around the lid of your cup.
“You have to get the jump on stains or you’re screwed,” he says confidently. When you raise your brows, he adds, “I work in a hospital.”
“Ah.” You look down and see that his in-house mug has black coffee in it.
He chuckles self-deprecatingly, knowing what you’re thinking just from the look on your face. “It’s just easier. I got used to drinking it during school and never looked back. How about you?”
“Caramel macchiato. I’m a softie. Like it hot and sweet,” you wink wickedly.
He leans back in his chair and laughs, which you’re grateful for, because his attentive gaze is putting you on the verge of stuttering. “So, public defender, huh? When are you going to go to law school to become a real lawyer?”
Your smile drops and you prepare to enter a tirade, but just as the words are about to whip off your tongue, you watch his expression change. His eyes are crinkling at the corners, and he’s trying to suppress a smile.
“You jerk!” You huff, hitting him gently on the arm. “I was about to give you a whole lecture.”
“I could tell.” He chuckles warmly. “Your look just then is in the dictionary under ‘thunderous.’ I bet you hear crap like that every day.”
Your barista friend cuts through your banter. “Dr. Robby, here’s an orange bar, on the house. I know you like them and this batch will be a bust after today.” She hands him a wrapped square and then gives you one, too. “And one for Lady Justice.”
He thanks her with that devastating small smile, and you notice he won’t look you in the eye. “Doctor?”
“Michael Robinavitch, physician, at your service,” he says quietly, watching his own hands unwrap the tiny cake. He bites off half and chews it before he continues. “I work in an emergency department.”
An emergency department? It isn’t often that you meet people with crazier jobs than you. You sit back and try to imagine him in a lab coat. It occurs to you that the black shirt he was wearing underneath his jacket when you first met him might have been scrubs. Wow. “That’s amazing. And you even have a hip name. Dr. Robby,” you giggle, and he cracks a smile.
“It’s easier for people to say,” he muses. You love his name—Michael Robinavitch, Michael Robinavitch, Michael Robinavitch, you repeat in your own head—but since you work with the public, you get it. The path of least resistance.
“Well, Dr. Robby, please accept my orange bar,” you say reverently, sliding it across the table. “I’m trying to cut back on sugar. Partial success thus far. We’re not counting the macchiato.”
“Don’t start calling me that,” he groans, half-serious, but accepts your offering. “Are you trying to keep the doctor away?” His eyes twinkle.
“Nope,” you respond. “Trying to keep him around.”
Michael goes quiet, and your stomach drops with the thought that that was too forward. He’s swiping his laptop into his satchel and is downing the last of his coffee. Dammit. Why did I have to make it weird? I was just making a new friend who’s not a lawyer and I had to go and—
“Would you like to go for a walk?” he asks, delicately placing your orange bar in his bag.
You’re nodding before you even stop to think about it.
The two of you stroll by the river, since it’s nearby and it’s a gorgeous afternoon, with the sunlight shimmering on the water. Your book sits forgotten in your bag, while Michael has put on sunglasses that suit him very well.
“So, you work in the emergency department?” you say dumbly, trying not to stare at him.
“Yeah, I’m an attending physician.”
“Can you break that down for a mere lawyer?”
Michael’s laugh is rich and short. You can’t get enough of it. He bends over to pick up two pebbles, one for each of you to skip across the water, and he scores six skips before he answers. “It means the buck stops with me. I assume you can supervise law students when you have a bar license?” You nod, hoping your mere three skips isn’t too embarrassing. “I’m not the only attending in the department, but I’m on day shift. Day shift tends to get the worst of it. Anyway, attendings are fully board certified, and we’re ultimately responsible for the actions of the residents and interns.”
You whistle. “No pressure.”
He tilts his head with a modest smile. “No kidding.”
“Do people look down on you for specializing in emergency medicine?” you ask before you realize that might be too personal.
Michael raises his eyebrows, but with more appreciation than surprise. “Yes, actually. A lot of the other specialties think we’re lazy, stupid, or both.”
You try to imagine how anyone could describe the man before you as either of those things, but then you give up. “Been there.”
“I’m sure. Because we’re the jack-of-all-trades of medicine, other doctors assume we’re shallow and live to pawn work off to the other departments. Most hospitals have an unspoken pecking order with surgeons on the top. Emergency medicine is always overlooked and underfunded.”
“Why did you choose the ER—sorry, the ED—then?”
“Why did you choose public defense?”
“I asked you first, Dr. Robby.” You stick your tongue out.
He lets you win. “I didn’t, sweetheart. It chose me.”
The way he so easily calls you that makes you blush, but he either doesn’t notice or pretends not to. And you feel the sentiment so profoundly—the sense of a calling, a destiny you can’t get away from, no matter how hard it is.
“You seem very well suited to it,” you say, not able to look directly at him while you do so.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should. I mean it.”
He smiles, and the way it lights up his eyes makes your stomach flip. “Thank you. I mean it.”
Before you can think of what to say, his phone rings. He apologizes and answers. “Dana.” You throw another rock and get five skips in, hoping that Dana is his maiden aunt or something. He’s quiet for about a minute. “Yeah, I guess I’ll head over. Don’t wake up Jack. It’s all good.”
He shoves his phone back in his pocket and lets out a deep sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m on call this weekend. One of the other attendings is either genuinely sick or wants to go home to watch football.” He smirks wryly. “I’ve gotta go.”
You try to look cheerful, even though the thought of retreating to the park by yourself with your book now sounds boring, and say, “Don’t worry. I totally understand.”
He nods once and fidgets with the strap of his bag. “Thanks. This has been really nice.”
It’s been wonderful. “Yeah, it has. It was lovely meeting you. Without disaster this time.”
Michael looks down, the tips of his ears pink, and rubs the back of his neck. “Don’t forget about the dry cleaning. Or whatever else it takes. Please.”
“I won’t.” Although he doesn’t move, he also doesn’t say anything else, and you turn in the direction of the park. “I guess I’ll be seeing you.”
You take two slow steps before you hear his voice. “Could—I mean, would you be okay with giving me your number?”
When you look back, he looks sheepish and so sweet that you nearly laugh at him, but you catch yourself. “I would really like that.”
Your office investigator is struggling to keep up with the list you rattle off: measurements of the street and the sidewalk, nearby businesses and the status of their CCTVs, whether their employees saw anyone suspicious walking around that evening, the parking garage and its CCTV, Flock traffic cameras, going door-to-door at nearby apartments. Even though he’s not saying so, you know just from his look that he thinks it’s excessive for this early on in a case.
“He won’t even be arraigned in Common Pleas for a month or two,” he grumbles at last, though he knows better than to cross you, so he keeps writing notes. “You sure you wanna put this much effort in? He might change his mind and plea out as soon as he gets upstairs. You’ve got a lot going on.”
You stretch your arms behind your head and let out a breath. “True. But I’m trying to get Nathaniel not to file an information, so we need to work fast. If we let this get to Common Pleas, it’ll take forever, and there’s no way that judge is going to lower his bond once we get there.” You rub your forehead. “I saw a line about it in the paper this morning. PPD is requesting information from the public. Crappy area if I’m recalling correctly, though. More an alleyway than a road.”
“Yeah,” he groans. “Alright. I’ll look into the CCTV stuff. You should start getting discovery from the DA this week, right? I’ll find out who the vic interacted with at Pittsburgh Trauma and see if you can depose ‘em. I’ll bring you the subpoenas to sign as soon as I do.”
“Thanks. Knew I could count on you.” He stands to leave, glancing around your desk, covered in piles and piles of paper. “Don’t worry about me. We’ve got this.”
He nods at you with understanding and heads out. As he does, your phone buzzes.
You drop off that suit this morning?
It’s Michael. Your heart jumps. You type: Yes. You gave me the motivation to go over there before work. Well done.
Good deal. What do I owe you?
You drum your fingers on one of the few cleared-off spots on your desk and chew on the inside of your cheek. You slowly write, How about you take me out to dinner instead? You hit send before you can chicken out.
His typing bubble appears and disappears over and over again. Your breath catches as you pretend not to care whether or not he’ll say yes. You pull up the court docket on your computer and pretend to be able to read the names until you hear your phone buzz again.
Let’s do it. Friday? I can pick you up at work if you like. I get off at 7, but trust me, you want me to go home beforehand.
You jump out of your chair and dance badly around the room to the song playing on shuffle on your computer. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
“Something exciting, I take it?”
Adam has stuck his head through your office door. You let out a short scream and nearly drop your phone. “Adam, you scared the shit out of me!”
He laughs and arches one brow. “You’re never this happy on a Monday morning. What’s up?” He conspiratorially closes your office door.
You collapse into your rolling chair and slide your phone over to him. He sits in the spot your investigator vacated and puts on his reading glasses, humming with interest after scanning the short texts. “Who’s Michael?”
“Guy who dumped coffee all over me last week before Moran’s arraignments. Saw him again at the Exchange yesterday and we went for a walk by the river.”
“A date?” Adam, who lives for romance and intrigue despite being at forty and happily married himself, clicks his tongue.
“Not sure. That’s when he asked for my number.”
Adam pumps his fist and slides your phone back toward you. “And he’s offering to pick you up at work so you can stay late if you need and you don’t have to give him your apartment address. I like this guy already. We can forgive the clumsiness if he’s attractive.”
You blush and throw a stack of sticky notes at him. He catches them easily. “He is. Older than me but he’s got that earnest look about him that you know is my ultimate weakness.”
“Woof. You’re a goner.” You both laugh and then Adam looks down at your desk and says, “Working on the Jameson stuff?”
“You can call me naive if you like, but I went to talk to our guy last week, and something’s up. I think he really was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Adam, ever the good mentor, nods slowly. “Alright. Trust your gut. But don’t forget you’re covering that suppression hearing for me on Friday morning.” Adam and his husband are going on vacation, and he of course tricked you into taking some of his hearings.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Can’t wait to get the email with the order denying your motion.”
“That’s the spirit, counsel.”
With Adam’s approval, you write to Michael, Sounds perfect. 8?
He responds almost immediately: Black BMW. I’ll be there.
The week practically dissolves in a flurry of pretrial conferences, changes of plea, arguing with felony prosecutors (at different voice levels, depending on how ridiculous they’re being), and emails. Your investigator spends three days just talking to business owners near the alleyway, interviewing cashiers and cleaners, all of whom say they don’t remember seeing anything relevant before they heard the gunshot.
He also talks to the city’s interior department on Thursday. One of their clerks informs you that the parking garage hasn’t been equipped with CCTV for months, since it’s now vacant and slated for destruction. You’re not surprised, but you still sigh when your investigator forwards you the email.
You finally get something of a breakthrough on Friday morning. One of the gas stations has low-quality security footage, but it’s around the corner from the parking garage, and they keep their footage for up to sixty days per company policy. They’re even nice enough not to insist on a subpoena and promise to send you the footage once they contact their headquarters, which holds all of the files. You text Adam with the good news, and his text congratulating you is filled with typos; you’re sure he’s drunk on the beach.
It’s seven-thirty on Friday evening and you’re still frantically typing away at your computer, trying to finish a motion to compel so you can file it first thing Monday morning. You steal glances at your phone every few minutes, convinced Michael is going to beg off at the last minute, but as the time ticks by, he doesn’t.
Your office hallway is empty: usually only Adam works late with you, and he’s elsewhere, no doubt drinking out of a coconut, while you nervously pace to the bathroom. You look at yourself in the mirror and smooth your hair with the tiny brush you keep in your purse before swiping on red lipstick. You don’t always wear it, but you’ve had it on both times you’ve seen him, so it’s becoming a good luck charm. Your knee-length black dress is professional but form-fitting, and you hope it’s good enough for wherever Michael is taking you.
I’m out front.
You close your office door, trying not to think about all the files still sitting there, and square your shoulders like you’re walking into court. While you try not to race out the front door, you see Michael’s bimmer parked on the street, and he’s leaning against the hood on the passenger side, hands in pockets. He’s wearing a white button down and black slacks, with his sleeves rolled up, of course.
“Hey,” he says smoothly, opening your door for you. “Good to see you.”
“You too,” you beam, and he takes your hand so he can help you lower yourself into the passenger seat. “Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.” He shuts your door and walks around to the driver’s side, getting in, and it gives you a whiff of his woodsy cologne.
“Hospital cafeteria?”
He pulls onto the street and barks a laugh. “I said a surprise, not a punishment.” Robert Bradley’s Blackwater Surprise is playing low through his speakers. “How was your week?”
“Not as wild as yours, I’m sure.”
He looks over at you while you wait at a stoplight. “Try me.”
“Let’s see. I had—twenty-six?—changes of plea lined up this week, and only two fell through, thank God. One of the ones who changed his mind tried to choke me out with his handcuffs, and when the bailiffs tackled him, they broke his wrist. So now he hates me even more than previously. Wants my boss to give him a different public pretender.” You watch Michael’s jaw clench. “I’ve been working with my investigator to hopefully get a murder case dismissed before it actually gets to felony court. This morning, I covered a suppression hearing in front of a judge who I don’t think has granted a motion like that in the fifteen years he’s been on the bench.”
Michael taps his thumbs on the wheel and whistles. “You might have me beat.”
You shake your head. “Let’s hear it, Dr. Robby.”
He shrugs, and that little piece of humility endears you to him. “Three twelves this week: Monday, Wednesday, and today. I’ve had four gunshot wounds—all survivors, amazingly—and a handful of heart attacks. A bad overdose on Monday afternoon—forty years old and dead. Two kids came in this morning with beans stuck way up in their noses. Two lineman electrocutions on Wednesday.” He tilts his head. “I’m forgetting some stuff. Sorry, that was dark.”
You touch his hand lightly where it rests on the gear shift and you’re surprised by how warm his skin is. “I asked. You’ve definitely won out.”
He chuckles. “Okay, maybe we’re tied. But I like hearing about what you do. It’s not so different.”
You give him a small smile, which you hope he can see under the passing streetlights, and duck your head. “I agree.”
“Ah, here we are,” Michael sings. You recognize the facade: Sienna Mercato, a three-story Italian restaurant, its peaked glass dome twinkling with the downtown city lights. He flawlessly parallel parks on the street, and you hate how attractive you find it to be. “Hope you like Italian.” He reaches over and unbuckles your seatbelt for you. His hands are still so warm.
“Who doesn’t?” You grin and let him jog around to help you out of the car.
You sit on the second floor, with its firestone pizza and charcuterie options, despite the fact that you offered the rooftop beer garden, remembering his Beers of the Burgh jacket. He shakes his head at the hostess and looks at your dress. “You’d get cold.” His attention makes you shiver all on its own.
At the table, he lets you have the side with the booth, and he takes the wood chair. He insists you try the thin crust, and agrees to share when the waiter comes back over. He orders a beer but promises just one.
“But I do know a good attorney, just in case,” he quips. When they bring him his glass, he lets you take the foam. The way he stares at your imprint of lipstick on the glass makes you tingle. “Good, right?”
“Mhm.” For a moment you think he might put his mouth where yours just was, but he spins the glass ninety degrees and takes a sip. You watch his long fingers smear the condensation on the glass. You ask, “Are you a connoisseur?”
“Jack and I fancy ourselves as such.”
“Jack?”
“Another attending, usually does night shift. He’s a grouch but you get used to him. Smart as a whip, too. I think we’ve drunk our way down every street in the Hill District.”
You laugh, and the way Michael mirrors your smile makes you lean toward him. “Good camaraderie at the hospital, I take it?”
“I’d like to think so. You?”
“I’m good friends with my coworker Adam, but the turnover around us is hard. We both came in during the height of the pandemic, with telephonic court and all its delays and frustration.” Something in Michael’s gaze shutters, but only for a second. “We pretty much only do felonies now, so it’s a special kind of bond. Adam is on vacation in the Bahamas right now. Bastard.”
Michael laughs and runs his tongue over his bottom lip, sliding his glass back to you. “You like the beach?”
“Not especially. It’s the principle of the matter,” you huff and take another pull before passing it back. Your hand brushes his. It feels electric. “How long have you been a doctor?”
“Too damn long,” he drawls, leaning his chin on his upturned hand. Your eyes trace the small paths of gray in his beard. There’s a gold chain resting under his collar that you haven’t noticed before. “Don’t get me wrong. I love it. Saving lives, training new doctors and med students, helping people during their worst days. But it’s hard.” He’s looking down at the wood grain of the table.
“Were you working during COVID?”
It takes him a few beats to look back up at you. “Yeah. Yeah, I was.”
Wanting to comfort him and not knowing how, you gently close your fingers around his left hand, just above his watch. “I can’t imagine how hard that must have been.”
He looks down at your hand, his eyes glazing over a bit. “Thanks. I lost someone important to me. But so many people did.” He puts on a small smile and looks up at you, his brown eyes shiny. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” You slide your arm back to yourself and swear you see his fingers splay, like he doesn’t want you to let go. “I interned in a defense clinic during law school. It bothered me that I was so affected by the cases; as a woman, I wanted to look tough, even though it didn’t feel natural. My supervising professor took me to the side after court once and demanded that I cry.” You smile sadly at the memory. “I sobbed into her shoulder in the hall. I was so tired. She told me that tears are always worth the time, and I decided to believe her.”
Michael smiles, his crow’s feet curving, and nods. “Good advice.”
The two of you are interrupted by your pizza, and you laugh at the groan Michael emits as he looks at it. He lets you take the first slice and watches with interest as you bite. “What’s the verdict?”
“Amazing.”
He winks. “Just what I wanted to hear.”
Michael keeps his promise to stick to one beer—and, in fairness, he had probably let you drink a good third of it, on top of the glass of wine you had—and offers to drive you home after the two of you demolish the pizza. You think of Adam, who would say, He’s giving you an out in case you want to Uber home. Another mark in the gentleman column.
He notices you’re cold and gives you a cardigan from the back seat of his car. You drape it over yourself and pretend you’re not taking in the traces of his smell from the fabric as he drives you to your walk-up. Luckily, there’s a spot open on the street right in front of your stoop; a neighbor must be gone to enjoy the Friday night in the Burgh.
Of course, Michael opens your door again, but when he helps you out, he doesn’t let go of your palm. You can see the intensity of his gaze under the yellow streetlamp as he closes the car door with his other hand. Both of you climb the stairs, pausing in front of the large wooden doors, where the intercom waits for you to buzz in.
“Thanks so much for dinner and the ride,” you say. You squeeze his hand before you let it drop. “I really enjoyed it.”
“You’re more than welcome. Glad you liked it.” He seems so large in the alcove, with your back to the door, and your heart thrums.
“Goodnight,” you murmur, even though you haven’t even pressed the intercom button.
“Goodnight.” Neither of you move. You look at the intercom box out of the corner of your eye, worried about the stretch of silence, but also not wanting this night to be over.
“Michael?” you say, catching his dark eyes, and your voice sounds so loud in the still night. He hums, one of his brows arching. “Can I kiss you?”
He puts one hand on your left cheek, and you can feel calluses on his fingers, rough over your own soft skin. His gentle laugh fans over your cheeks. “Not if I kiss you first.”
Never one to be beaten so easily, you lean up with a hand to his chest, and press your mouth to his. It’s tentative at first—you can’t remember the last time you kissed someone—but Michael takes a half-step toward you and, oh, he is good. When you feel his tongue run over the seam of your mouth, you moan just slightly, and he presses his advantage by backing you against the door. He’s even holding the back of your head so you don’t bang it against the wood.
He tastes like the cranberry beer he ordered, and you think vaguely that right now, you would do anything he asked. His hair is surprisingly soft as you run your fingers through it, pulling slightly, and Michael moans. You would drop to the ground if he wasn’t holding you so tightly.
In your fervor, your shoulder hits the intercom box, and you hear the speaker crackle to life. Your doorman’s voice pipes up. “That you, number six? Working late again?”
Michael releases you and tries not to laugh, so he hides his face in your neck. You have to take a second to catch your breath. “Yep, it’s me!” The click of the door’s latch brings you back to reality, and Michael holds it open for you.
“Meet me at the Exchange on Sunday?” he asks, his voice full of something like possibility. “Eleven?”
“It’s a date,” you answer, still panting a bit.
“Yeah,” Michael is certain. “It is.”
Standing alone in the stairwell, you text Adam: Amazing kisser. He responds while you’re climbing the flights: Hell yeah.
It’s hard for you to focus when you return to work. Adam’s still not back, and you can’t get a certain Michael Robinavitch out of your head. You spent nearly the entirety of Sunday with him, not to mention most of Saturday just thinking about him: he was so alluring, and smart, and funny, without being too full of himself.
The two of you had walked the opposite way up the river on Sunday, and coffee had turned into lunch, and lunch had turned into beer and pretzels. You talked about everything and nothing: where you grew up, stories from your college and professional school years, your opinions on cats versus dogs. (You forgave Michael for not taking a stiff position on the latter.) He ended up walking you home from the bar a little after sunset, a little unsteady on his feet, and before you put him into an Uber, he stole another kiss.
When you debriefed Adam over the phone Sunday night, he confidently said, “You’re so screwed.”
But work stops for no man—or any slightly lovesick attorney, even as Michael texts you Monday morning, Have a good week, Lady Justice. That afternoon, you plea out on a terrible trial that was supposed to start next week and have a meeting with your investigator, who now has an external drive of security footage from the gas station. He leaves it on your desk for you to watch, but you have court nearly constantly from Monday to Thursday, and you feel like you’re drowning—even more so than usual. On Thursday afternoon, he brings you a subpoena to sign. You’re emailing a prosecutor about something unrelated and keep typing as he talks to you.
“The attending at PTMC,” he explains, handing you a pen. “I talked to him yesterday: he worked on the victim for the Jameson case. I cleared it with general counsel at the hospital. She didn’t give me too much grief since it’s just a deposition, but she’s insisting on accompanying the doc. First round of depos is set next week.”
“Excellent!” you chime, clicking the pen. Your eyes skim the paper, and you’re about to skip down to your empty signature line, but you freeze.
Personal Appearance Subpoena
To: Michael Robinavtich, M.D.
“This is the doctor who treated Damion Yates?” you exclaim, and your investigator peers at you strangely.
“Yes. Seems like a nice enough guy. Do you know him?”
You stare back down at the paper, as though looking at it for long enough will cause the words to change. Collecting yourself, you print and sign your name at the bottom quickly, and hand it back. “A little. You’re right. Nice guy.”
The investigator shrugs. “I’ll hand-serve it on him and the general counsel tomorrow. Charge nurse said he’s working then. Don’t forget about the surveillance video.” He closes the door behind him.
Michael Robinavitch, M.D. All of a sudden, you feel nauseous. Of course it had to be him. Of course Damion Yates had to be taken to that hospital at the end of the day shift that Michael was working. You hold your head in your hands and whisper to the surface of your desk, “Just my luck.”
Michael had never said anything to indicate that he looked down on you for being a defense attorney. In fact, he praised you for it, and laughed at your jokes at the Commonwealth’s expense. But this is different. You represent someone that the state believes killed his patient. And you’re going to have to ask him about it, in detail, with him under oath. In front of Nathaniel, a court reporter, and PTMC’s lawyer. Just my fucking luck.
You’re at a loss for what to do. Tomorrow, Michael will probably see your name at the bottom of the subpoena, and even if he doesn’t, general counsel will prepare him before he comes to be deposed at your office. You think you would rather die than say to him, Hey, next week, I’m going to direct examine you at my office about a really traumatic event that you tried to help with, but ultimately failed, because the young man whose blood probably got all over you had a disastrous gun shot through his heart. Pretty much everybody but me thinks my client fired that bullet. Is that going to make things weird between us?
But that’s exactly what you have to do. He’s been fairly quiet this week—you probably would be too if you worked multiple twelves in an emergency room—but there’s a smattering of texts, mostly each of you saying good morning and good night. You press the text box and sigh.
Hey. Can I see you today?
He responds much faster than you’re expecting. Sure. I’m off today. When?
Meet me at the Exchange at 6:30.
It’s a date, sweetheart.
You drop your head onto your folded arms, feeling defeated. He may just change his mind about that, you think.
The hours drag, but the work day finally passes, and the Exchange is packed with college students and night shifters when you finally make it over there, not really feeling your limbs. Michael is at his usual table, which you’re impressed he was able to snag, wearing a Steelers pullover and a wide smile. He has two to-go cups, and you raise your brow at him.
“Caramel macchiato and a black coffee,” he explains, and you would kiss his cheek if you weren’t in public. Because he is assuredly not your boyfriend and you met a little over two weeks ago, you remind yourself. Even though he knows your favorite songs and how to kiss you to make you weak at the knees. He hands your cup up to you from the table, ostensibly just so he can touch your fingers.
You had planned to ask him to walk outside with you, but the wind is biting, and you feel so safe at this table, his table. His hospital badge is peeking out of his bag, forgotten on the floor, and it reminds you why you’re here. His face in a small square, then: MICHAEL ROBINAVITCH, MD. EMERGENCY MEDICINE. DOCTOR.
“Enjoying your day off?” you ask, and you have to fight to put a smile on your face.
“Much more so now,” he flirts, and watches you take your first sip. “I slept in then went to the gym. Edited a journal article for a while.” He does look especially well-rested, and you resist the urge to picture him on any gym equipment. Because he is not your boyfriend.
“The one you’re co-authoring?” you ask, and he smiles warmly, clearly impressed that you remember.
“That’s the one. You’re a steel trap. How was work?”
“Not too bad,” you try to say nonchalantly, but it doesn’t work. “About that...”
Michael is looking over your shoulder, which is strange considering his usual attentiveness, and he stares for so long that you pivot your own head. A man with black scrubs, short graying curls, and coarse stubble on his jaw is holding his hand up at Michael.
“Well, if it isn’t Dr. Robby,” the man says, clapping Michael on the shoulder when he finally pushes through the crowd to get to you both.
Michael smiles lopsidedly and looks between you both. He says your name and then, “This is the one and only Dr. Jack Abbot.”
Your mouth drops open in a smile of disbelief, and you hold out your hand. He takes it to shake, and his hands are even rougher than Michael’s, you notice. “Dr. Abbot. It’s my pleasure.”
“No, no, I’m sure it’s mine. And you had better call me Jack before you make me feel old,” he says smoothly, and you wonder at Michael describing him as grouchy. “Robby, do you normally take pretty young ladies here on Thursday nights? If so then I’ve been missing out.”
You blush fiercely and Michael crosses his arms, but you can tell he’s used to this kind of ribbing. “Just this one, and you are adamantly not invited.”
“Rude.” He shakes off the comment and turns to you. “How’d he trick you into this?”
“By dumping one of those—” you point to Michael’s cup, “all over me. He’s a real charmer.”
Michael runs a hand through his hair while Jack laughs loudly. One of the baristas calls out an order and Jack tilts his head toward the counter. “That’s mine. I’m heading into Pitt. See ya, brother.” He and Robby shake hands. “And I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around,” he says to you, and even with all his charm and bluster, you think he really means it.
Both you and Michael watch him pick up his coffee and leave, like a comet you can’t look away from. “Nice to put a face to a name,” you laugh, feeling strangely light.
“You’ll never forget him, I assure you,” Michael grunts, which makes you laugh again. “He’s only in a good mood because you’re here.”
“Well, I’m glad,” you hum.
“Anyway. What were you saying, sweetheart?”
You nearly short-circuit. He needs to stop calling you that if he wants you to remember how to speak English. “Um. I wanted to see you but I also need to tell you something.”
His expression darkens a bit. “Go on?”
You look around. “I think it’s better if we talk about it outside.” When he frowns, you add, “It’s not horrible, I promise. I just want to be able to hear you clearly.”
“Be my guest,” he says, picking up his bag.
He walks you over to the small park abutting the river, making sure he’s on the side with traffic as you go down the sidewalk. You sit on a cold metal bench, and he pulls a jacket from his bag. It’s his Beers of the Burgh one. “Did you bring this just for me?” you ask, your heart aching.
“Every man must have his secrets,” he says, and you swear you can see the moon reflecting in his eyes while you put your arms through the sleeves. “Alright, shoot.”
You take a deep breath, pulling in as much of the cold night air as you can stand. “I represent a young man named Quade Jameson.” Michael nods but clearly doesn’t recognize the name. “He’s accused of shooting another young man named Damion Yates.”
Michael squints, as though he’s trying hard to recall something, and pivots his body toward yours so that he’s staring directly at you. You can tell he wants to say something, but stops himself.
“I already know you treated Damion when he came into the emergency department. You talked to my investigator yesterday.” Michael flinches. “I didn’t know that you were involved when I asked you out for dinner, I promise.”
He sighs and puts his arm behind your shoulders. “Okay. Why are you telling me this?”
“Because tomorrow, you’re going to be served a subpoena for a deposition taking place next week.”
“And you’re going to be the one asking me questions.”
You bite your lower lip so hard that you’re surprised you don’t taste blood. “Right.”
Michael hangs his head and you can see him rubbing his forehead with one hand. When he doesn’t say anything, you turn toward him and mumble, “Michael, I’m sorry. I never wanted our professional lives to mix.”
“Luck of the draw,” he groans, finally lifting his head to look you in the eye. He’s surprised, but he’s not angry. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”
Tears come into your eyes at his soft tone, and you look out at the water, hoping he can’t see. It’s surprising how affected you feel—the relief washing over you. And he said we. You try to steady your voice as you say, “We can’t talk about what you’re going to testify to. But thank you so much. I’m so happy you’re not upset.”
He shrugs good-naturedly. “You’re just doing your job.”
You turn back toward him and put your hand on his jaw, feeling the softness of his beard, and he leans into your palm. “And you were just doing yours. As well as you possibly could, I’m sure.”
“One of the many I couldn’t save.”
“But you tried,” you whisper, just inches from his lips now. “I know you did.”
Despite everything, he kisses you, tucking you to him against the coldness of the evening. A line of bicyclists whizzes by right behind you, yet neither of you look up.
“When’s the deposition?” he asks, after you finally come up for air and put your head on his shoulder.
“Week from today.”
“My day off,” he scoffs, but his hand is resting on the top of your head. “It’s a date. Let me walk you home. You’re exhausted.”
“Will I see you this weekend?” you ask as he pulls you up from the bench.
“If I’m lucky,” he answers, and tucks your arm through his. When you get home, he doesn’t take back the jacket.
Michael can’t stop thinking about you, and Dana is noticing, which is making it worse. Jack told Dana; Dana told Princess and Mohan; they told Mateo, who told seemingly everyone on planet earth. Thank God no one actually knows who you are, because now, every time Michael smiles or says a kind word, someone whispers it’s because he’s getting some. Which he isn’t, even. Yet.
Monday is pure insanity. He puts his bag in his locker, where the folded subpoena sits, before Jack comes up behind him to grill him on what Michael and the pretty young thing are, how long they’ve been not-dating, and why he was not properly notified. Michael is cagey, and the stonewalling only makes Jack more motivated.
“And she’s an attorney?” Jack whistles, yanking his stuff out of his own locker. “Your kids’ll be smart.”
“Lay off, Abbot,” Michael growls, feeling sort of naked without his jacket, which you still have.
Jack holds his hands up in surrender and turns to leave. “You are so screwed, Robby.”
Three drowning victims from a car that went over the side of the bridge. Two of them make it, one of them doesn’t. A broken nose and a stab wound, with the combatants separated by nothing but a curtain and the iron wills of the interns. A third-degree burn victim. They all start to blur together. It’s really Michael’s fault, because he stayed up late last night staring at the ceiling and thinking of his little public defender. The fact that he’s even thinking his in the context of you is a major problem.
You don’t really text him over the next three days, and he chooses to not think about that too much. Each day, he texts you good morning when he gets up at the cursed hour of five to go to the gym. You answer an hour later with a gif that makes him smile. He imagines you’re probably too busy to think up clever things to text him while he’s getting bled and puked on, but God, he wishes you would.
Thursday arrives despite him tossing and turning all night. He can’t decide what to wear, and it’s bothering him more than it should. Scrubs would be stupid: he’s not working, and the deposition’s at your office, not the hospital. Button-up and slacks it is. Tie or no tie? Tie says I’m taking this seriously; tie it is. Blazer or no blazer? Blazer says I’m taking this too seriously, like I have something to prove; no blazer it is.
He met with PTMC general counsel yesterday at Gloria’s behest and she reminded him to protect the hospital, but to tell the truth. He wondered vaguely what she would say if he asked, And if those things come into conflict? But he didn’t.
“I know the lawyer who issued your subpoena,” Ms. Wilder says toward the end of their conversation. “She might try to slip you up. Don’t let her.”
Michael swallows. I think I already have.
The front desk receptionist at the Allegheny Public Defender leads them through the labyrinthine County Office Building until they reach a midsize conference room, where a woman sits at a long table with a laptop and what looks to be a desktop microphone. The receptionist hands Michael and Ms. Wilder a mini water bottle each and assures them that things will start soon. Ms. Wilder greets the woman, who turns out to be a court clerk, by name.
After some vapid small talk, he hears three sets of footsteps, one clearly a pair of heels. His ears perk up, and he tries to not look too interested when you enter the room. You’re wearing a dark brown suit with a turtleneck underneath—no lipstick today. He forces himself to look at the older guy coming in behind you, who’s shorter than you and already looks disinterested. After him, a man dressed in more casual clothes comes in, and takes a seat in the corner.
“Dr. Robinavitch. Ms. Wilder. And madam clerk! Good to see you,” you greet everyone at the table, and your singsong tone eases his nerves. You set down a legal pad and a pen in the place across from him.
“He goes by Dr. Robby,” Ms. Wilder says for him, as though he’s a child, as you lean over to shake their hands. His hand is noticeably warmer than yours, per usual, and he can’t meet your eye while he thinks about it or he might blush.
“Dr. Robby, this is Nathaniel Groff, the District Attorney.” Michael and the DA shake hands, but the DA doesn’t say anything, and Michael tries not to bristle. “Looks like we’ve got everyone present.” He wonders who the man in the corner is, and where your client is, but doesn’t mention it. Instead, he watches you take a seat and tugs slightly at his collar.
“Ready?” the clerk asks, and both you and the DA nod. “We are on the record in the case of Commonwealth versus Quade Jameson. Mr. Jameson is represented solely by counsel as he is in state custody. Also present is District Attorney Nathaniel Groff, as well as Karen Wilder, general counsel for Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.” The clerk glances at you, and Michael feels his palms start to sweat. “Counsel, you may begin when you’re ready.”
“Thank you.” You look at him, the color of your eyes so pronounced in the light from the window, and his mouth goes dry. “Could you please state your name for the record?”
“Dr. Michael Robinavitch, but everyone calls me Dr. Robby.” It’s strange to talk to you in this sterile way.
“Dr. Robby, where are you employed?”
“Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. I’m an attending physician in the emergency department.”
“How long have you been a doctor?”
“Over twenty years. I did my residency at Big Charity in New Orleans, specializing in emergency medicine, and I’ve never practiced any other specialty.” He tries not to be smug about the genuine interest in your expression.
“In your professional capacity, have you had reason to come into contact with a man named Damion Yates?”
“Yes.” He looks at Ms. Wilder and then away. She had explained to him that the judge had issued a supplemental order for him to testify despite the doctor-patient privilege, because of the patient’s death and the high relevance to the pending criminal case. “I treated him in the ED at PTMC.”
“Did he, unfortunately, die while under your care at the hospital?”
“Yes, Mr. Yates was pronounced dead after a significant period of coding by myself and my team.”
You smile very slightly at him. “Can you explain for the record what ‘coding’ is?”
He relaxes a bit. “Basically, it means we’re pushing all our resources for a patient according to their needs, and it notifies all relevant staff of the emergency. The code means we give them all possible medical intervention to try to save them.”
“What was your involvement in Mr. Yates’ treatment?”
“As the attending, I supervise major trauma intakes, and I happened to be standing near the door to the ambulance bay when his gurney came in. My staff and I took him to Trauma Two.” When you raise your brows, he explains, “It’s a special room for major wounds or conditions that we think will require a lot of equipment.”
“Why did you direct him there?”
“He presented with a single gunshot wound to the left chest and was mostly unresponsive.”
You stop taking notes and look up, your head tilted to one side. “What do you mean when you say ‘mostly unresponsive’?”
“Some patients go in and out of consciousness, especially when there’s significant blood loss, because the brain is not getting enough blood volume to maintain consciousness.” Michael shifts, remembering Damion’s face, the pain and desperation in his voice. “I remember Mr. Yates occasionally waking up and speaking to us.”
“What did he say?”
“This is gonna be hearsay,” the DA mumbles, and you glare over at him before continuing.
“Dr. Robby, let’s back up. When Mr. Yates was wheeled into your department, how would you describe his wound?”
“It was… catastrophic. The bullet went through his heart, and he had experienced significant blood loss before he arrived.”
“When Mr. Yates spoke to you, did he seem like he thought he was going to get better?”
Michael grits his teeth. “No. I think—he knew.” The DA crosses his arms and leans back as you nod gently at Michael.
“Okay. Do you remember anything he said to you?”
“His most lucid moment was not long after he came in. I was leaning over his gurney and he said that someone had been following him.”
“Did he say anything about what that person looked like?”
Michael had spent the night before digging through his own memory, so he answers somewhat easily. The way you framed the question makes him remember something he hadn’t told Detective Asher. “He said that he was wearing a red shirt. I remember that clearly.” You write something down in big, bold letters and circle it.
“Did he say anything else relevant to his cause of death?”
“No. He sometimes muttered a name, and I found out later it was his mom’s. Yolanda.” Michael clears his throat and blinks hard.
Your expression softens. “Is there anything else you would want to say about your treatment of Mr. Yates?”
“Only that I’m very sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”
Silence settles. He watches you gesture to the DA, who says he doesn’t have any questions of his own, and Michael exhales. It’s over.
You somehow know Michael’s going to come into your office before he does. You hear him thanking your receptionist down the hall and making his excuses to Ms. Wilder, who you first met at a networking reception six months ago. (Adam’s bright idea, not yours.) But then you hear his oxfords padding down the hall. You put your legal pad back in your portfolio, kick your heels off, and pull your legs up into your chair.
He appears in your doorway, looking unsure whether you’ll invite him in. He looks so handsome. And the best part is, he has no idea. He’s not quite a silver fox yet, but he’s starting to have the bearing of one. His dark red tie makes his eyes look the exact shade of milk chocolate.
“Knock, knock,” he says quietly, leaning against the doorframe.
“Come on in, Dr. Robby,” you say, winking. He appears to relax. “Have a seat. Welcome to my lair.”
He closes the door—hm—and pulls his tie off with two concerted pulls while he sits down. You swallow. He notices and smirks—jerk.
“Did I say anything particularly interesting?”
You shake your head. “You know I can’t tell you.” You lean forward across your desk, and he matches you automatically. “You did a good job. Was that your first time?”
“Nope. My first criminal one, though.” He puts his elbows on your desk so that he’s even closer to you; all the oxygen seems to have fled from the room. “It’s fun watching you do your job. You’re so…” Sexy? Definitely capable enough to be a candidate for the enviable position of a doctor’s younger girlfriend? “Confident.”
You smile and lean back a bit so you can think. “I do my best.”
“Why wasn’t your client there?”
You look at your knees, which are tucked up near your chin. “He doesn’t have a constitutional right to be at a deposition, and if I insisted on him being there, we would have had to do it at the jail. A place I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy.” You shrug. “And I wondered if it might be painful for you to see him.” Michael’s eyes soften, and you have to busy yourself with organizing your desk. “He’s not a bad guy.”
“I’m sure,” he hums, so magnanimously that your hands still. “I have to work a twelve tomorrow. I wanted to ask if you’d like to come over to my place and watch a movie after. I make a mean chicken alfredo.”
“I dunno. Might need a subpoena,” you joke. “I would love that, Michael. It’s a date.”
He stands up, loosely holding his tie at his side, and leans down to kiss your cheek. “Good deal. I’ll text you the address. Have a good day, sweetheart.”
You’re burning up in your turtleneck, and you decide that after he leaves you’re going to prop open your tiny, grimy window. “You too.”
Michael opens the door, looks both ways as though he’s sneaking out—which you suppose he is—and then he’s gone. And you feel profoundly lonely all of a sudden.
With some effort, you turn your attention back to the notes you took during the deposition, opening your portfolio to look at your handwriting. RED SHIRT is circled three times. Above it, slightly smaller, is FOLLOWING. You turn to your computer and click on the huge file on the external hard drive. After a few seconds, the surveillance video pops up, and you drag the seek button around until you find two minutes prior to the approximate time of the shooting. Your eyes burn from having watched two hours of this video yesterday.
You see him again. This clip haunted your thoughts last night. Strutting on the sidewalk past the gas pumps, one hand in one pocket of his baggy shorts. You pause the video. White guy. White Jordans. Red shirt.
You text your investigator a picture of the still. He’s probably already left the building, as you also should. But you’re burning with energy. We absolutely have to find this guy.
Michael doesn’t know why, but the next morning at shift change, he gets there early and tells Jack everything. About The Incident, seeing you at the Exchange again, all the dates, all the texts. The deposition. Having you over for dinner tonight. Everything.
“Shit, dude,” Jack says with as much seriousness as he’s ever said anything, Michael thinks. “That’s a lot.”
“Yeah.” Michael opens his locker. He puts his bag in and covers his eyes with his hands, pressing so hard that he sees blues and purples. “Am I completely fucked?” Jack’s silence is answer enough. “Fuck.”
“What’s the problem?” Jack snickers. Michael wants to punch him. “She’s smart, she’s cute, she’s funny, she’s nice, she’s employed. She apparently likes you, God help her.”
Michael drops onto the hard wood bench and tries to put his hands into his pockets before he remembers that he still doesn’t have his jacket. “She’s too young for me.”
Jack shrugs. “She’s young, but I don’t think she’s too young. Not her fault you’re old.”
“Shut up.” Michael puts his face in his hands. “I just—am I ready for this?”
“You’re fifty, dumbass. I certainly hope you would be.” Jack sits down next to him. “I know what’s wrong with you.”
“Of course you do.”
“You don’t think you deserve to be happy. But you do.” Jack nudges his friend’s shoulder with his own. “Embrace it. Don’t sabotage a good thing. And trust me, she looks like a good thing.”
Michael shoves him at his last sentence. “Shut up, Abbot.” Before Jack leaves, Michael calls, “Thanks, buddy.”
“You’re welcome, Robby.”
The day is fine—surprisingly calm for a Friday, in fact. Two falls from a nursing home, one of them caused by the other. A blown-off finger from a firecracker. Critically dehydrated hiker. Michael tries to pay attention to his residents and patients and not think too much about how he’s going to make his famous alfredo: will he stick with the recipe this time or freestyle? What will you wear to his apartment? What are you doing at work right now?
Do you think about him as much as he thinks about you?
He knows he’s in too deep when he shuts himself in the break room late in the afternoon and texts you. Can’t wait to see you later. He sits at the table with his leg bouncing until you respond, ten minutes later.
It’s a picture of your smiling face, with what looks to be the side of the courthouse in the background. Docket’s over. Just a couple more hours.
He’s trying to think of something funny and alluring to say when McKay throws the door open. “Robby? We got a critical COVID case coming in.” He nearly drops his phone in his hurry to lock the screen.
“Alright, you, me, and Princess. N95, goggles, and gowns. Is Trauma One open now?”
“Yeah. James Eddings, seventy-one. Son hadn’t heard from him in a couple days and went over to find him on the floor. Breathing’s really bad. Ambulance is pulling up. We’ll have to intubate.”
“He vaccinated?”
“The EMTs radioed en route so I went ahead and looked. His history doesn’t say anything about it.”
Michael’s stomach drops as he follows McKay out to get their PPE. “Princess, with us,” he says to her, and she instantly obeys. “I want everyone to clear out of central while we wheel in Mr. Eddings,” Michael yells, being intentionally vague so no one panics. “Take the few hallway patients into bays for just a couple minutes.”
Everyone who was standing around is now moving, pushing beds and wheelchairs, while Michael, McKay, and Princess suit up in the general supply room. Michael ignores the shaking in his hands while he tries to tie his gown. “We got this, ladies,” he says as confidently as he can.
Everything afterward moves in a blur. Trauma One is sealed off, and they move fast to assess the damage. Heart rate too high, blood oxygen too low, skin pale and so clammy that it almost sticks to their gloves. They intubate, and the beeping is so loud in Michael’s ears, as is his own breathing behind his respirator.
“Robby,” McKay says twice before he looks up at her. “This is multi-organ failure.”
“Now that he’s intubated, let’s hand him off to the ICU.” He blinks, feeling like he’s moving in slow motion. “They can assess for primary respiratory failure and then do the sequential organ failure assessment if needed. We’ve done all we’re equipped to do down here. The two of you take him upstairs, and I’ll supervise the scrubbing of this room.”
“Got it,” McKay says, with a little too much concern behind her goggles as she and Princess wrangle all the equipment and begin moving the bed. Michael opens the door for them, out to central, which is thankfully still empty except for Dana, who is wearing a mask.
“Dana, need a full clean on this room,” Michael says through the door, hating the shaking in his voice. “Let our guys finish in here and then central can go back to normal.” He clears his throat and yanks off the gown and gloves so he can throw them away. When he takes a step toward the bin, his legs feel weak. Not here. Please, not here.
He steps out and pulls off his respirator, throwing it in the trash can, as two of the janitors approach Trauma Two. He nods to them while he washes his hands, schooling his face, then stalks off to the single-occupant bathroom.
The door bursts open when Michael hits it with his shoulder. He intends to step over to the sink and splash some water on his face, but his heart is slamming against his ribs, and his vision starts to gray. He locks the door and drops to the floor harder than he means to.
Why this? Why today? The ringing in his ears blocks out all other sound. Dr. Adamson. The tubes, the way his own breath fogged up the plastic of his PPE. He’s breathing hard now, and grinding his jaw so hard he fears he might break his teeth. The animals on the walls of pedes, the way residents, nurses, everybody kept coming up to ask him what to do, what to do. He can’t get enough air in his lungs. I miss you. I miss you. I’m sorry. Forgive me.
You knock on the door for the third time, harder now, wondering if you have the wrong place. But the small mailbox next to the door definitely says M.R., and you’re starting to get worried.
Maybe he changed his mind. Or forgot. Even though he just texted you about this three hours ago. “Michael?” You say tentatively. Louder, “Michael?”
You don’t hear a response, or even any movement. You look down at your phone and press his number. Five rings, no answer, no ringtone from behind the door. Maybe he’s stuck at work? But surely he would have texted you.
A sickening feeling tells you that this has all been an elaborate prank, and that the guys from Punk’d are about to throw open the door and shove cameras in your face. Your hand is pressed flat against the door. You don’t want his one neighbor across the hall to think you’re stalking him, but you don’t really know what else to do. At least you shared your location with Adam before coming over, in case this is actually the place you get murdered.
Being a public defender could make you really twisted.
You try the doorknob, and surprisingly, it twists. “Michael, it’s me,” you say as you squeeze the metal. “I’m coming in, okay?”
The space you step into is obviously large, but dim. A skylight lets in a weak moonbeam and nothing more. You can make out the shape of a wide couch and you nearly trip over a pair of sneakers. You turn your phone flashlight on. “Michael, are you here?” Nothing.
You navigate past the kitchen and down a hall, and all the doors are shut. One is a bathroom and another is a tidy home office filled with books and academic journals. You reach the last door and your chest constricts. You switch your flashlight to its dimmest setting before opening the door, keeping the light at your feet.
There’s a large bed, covered in navy blue bedding, with a shape balled up in the middle. You tiptoe over to his bedside lamp and flick it on, thankful to see that his back is rising and falling on his breaths: you can tell because he’s shirtless. His scrub top is gone and his shoes are by the front door, but other than that, it looks like he came home and collapsed, still wearing his pants and socks. His phone is on the nightstand; you tap the screen to see a picture of Michael and a teenage boy you don’t recognize, along with ☾ Do Not Disturb at the bottom. How do you go about this without startling him?
“Michael, wake up for me,” you shake his shoulder as gently as you can considering how nervous you are. His skin is soft and warm. He groans softly. “Please wake up.” His bleary eyes blink open slowly, slowly, underscored by dark circles that look almost purple. “Are you okay?”
He shoots upright and looks like he might bolt out of the room. “I— Why—” He realizes he doesn’t have a shirt on and folds his arms around his middle. All of a sudden, his face crumples. “Oh, shit.”
“Michael, honey, are you sick? What can I do for you?”
“Sick in the head, maybe,” he says, and the lamp enhances the shadows on his face. He sighs. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
You lower yourself on the mattress next to him, careful not to touch him, just in case he doesn’t want it. “Talk to me.” He takes in a shaky breath. A minute passes with no answer. “Please, Michael, talk to me. I won’t judge you.”
He lifts his head without looking at you. “I had a mentor. An attending named Montgomery Adamson.” Michael sniffs. “Best man I ever knew. He got COVID during the pandemic. We put him on extracorporeal membrane oxygenation for seventeen days, but we had to let him go. I watched him die.” His lip starts to tremble and he can’t go on.
“And why are you overcome by that memory today?” you ask as softly as you can.
“Man came in today with COVID and likely multi-organ failure. It took me back to that day like I’ve never experienced before. I—I had a panic attack.” You can see tears on his face now. “My charge nurse sent me home. I got here and apparently crashed.”
“Is it okay if I hold your hands?” He nods. You kneel in front of him, taking both of his hands, and look up into his face. “You’re okay. I’m here with you.”
“I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I forgot about you,” he starts to sob.
“Shh, Michael, you have nothing to apologize for.” You stand so you can hold his head to your middle while he cries. His hair is soft when you run your hand over it, over and over. “You’re okay, sweetheart. Let it out. Tears are always worth the time.”
He weakly grips the back of your jeans as he presses his face into your stomach and weeps. Drops fall down your own face just from watching him. Has he been carrying all this, alone, for years? You have no idea how long you stand there: at least ten minutes, alternatively comforting him and crying with him. His breath finally goes even and you hand him the tissue box from his own nightstand. He wipes his face while you sit, cuddled close to his side like that night on the park bench, except now you can feel the warmth of his skin without a barrier.
“Thank you for sharing that with me,” you say into his shoulder before pressing a kiss there. “Will you let me stay? Do you feel up to that?”
He looks conflicted and embarrassed. “You really want to stay after that?”
You purse your lips. “Yes. If you’ll allow me.”
He shakes his head and gives you the tiniest smile. “Be my guest, then.”
You hold his face in your hands. “Take a shower. Then, you have an appointment with Chinese takeout and You’ve Got Mail.” When you kiss his cheek, you swear you can taste the tears there, and your heart cracks.
His closet is a treasure trove of options, which he offers up when he sees how damp he’s made the front of your shirt. “I’m always messing up your shirts.” He’s got hoodies from medical school, quarter zips from St. Jude, and the Steelers pullover that you’ve seen before. You opt for the latter and pad out to the living room to sit and order the food.
What strikes you most is that it smells like him everywhere, and that books are on basically every available service. The entertainment center, the kitchen table, the narrow bar, and even the small table in his entryway have books and medical journals sprawled over them. Stray pairs of glasses sit on some of them.
The food arrives and you cue up the best romcom ever made. Michael pads out into the living room, his hair damp, wearing a white tee and red flannel pajama pants. Seeing him look so domestic puts your heart in your throat.
“Settle in,” you say, lifting the plush blanket over your lap, hoping he understands your request. He sidles up to you and accepts a small container of fried rice, which he picks at lethargically—but he does his best, knowing you’re watching him.
By the time Meg Ryan is sick in her apartment, your head is on Michael’s lap, and you have a second blanket. He pretends that you’re not lying when you tell him you’re not falling asleep.
“I love this movie,” you mumble. His arm is so comforting where it rests across your middle.
“I saw it in the theater. Were you even born then?” he whispers.
“Shut up.” You yawn. Tom Hanks is pausing in the middle of the park’s path: your eyes aren’t even open, you can just tell from the swell of the music. Somewhere over the rainbow. You think you hear Michael say, “Thank you for being here with me.”
Is this what being with Michael forever would be like? Warmth, comfort, honesty? You’re desperate for it. Thankfully you’re pulled into sleep before you can say something stupid.
You wake up with a square pillow under your head and a text from Adam. You sly fox. You stayed over. Your legs are sore from you sleeping in your blue jeans.
It takes a second to remember where you are, but staring up at the skylight, you put the pieces together. Michael lifting your head up to put the pillow under it and his lips ghosting over your temple. You remember very well.
You stagger to the bathroom and run your hand over your hair, though it doesn’t do much good, and swish some mouthwash. That’ll have to do.
Michael is in the kitchen when you come back out, and he hands you a glass of water. He’s already fully dressed in his jeans and a plaid flannel. “Morning, sweetheart.”
You chug half the glass and set it down so you can hug him. “Morning. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he chuckles, and kisses the top of your head. “Let me drive you home.”
You don’t hear from Michael for the rest of the weekend, though you don’t expect to. When he dropped you off at your apartment on Saturday, you made him promise to set up a therapy appointment, and he sheepishly agreed to look into it. He hugged you and drove away.
You meet up with Adam at the Exchange on Sunday, and he grills you about everything he missed while on vacation. You spend hours talking, and you’re equally excited and nervous at the thought that Michael might walk in. But he doesn’t.
Work becomes more bearable with Adam back on deck. You spend all of Monday doing arraignments and preliminary hearings and trying not to think about Michael—about how he’s doing, whether he misses you, whether he regrets any of it. Whether he regrets showing you everything. Adam keeps looking at you with concern during the docket, but you avoid meeting his eyes, no matter how hard he tries.
The next afternoon, your investigator runs into your office, scaring the hell out of you. Before you can hide under your desk, he shoves the external hard drive at you, which he had taken back from you. “It’s footage from a Flock camera, and then one corner of a city parking lot.” It’s not normal for him to insist you watch something immediately, but this time he does.
He clicks on the parking lot video first. “I got this after interviewing a doorman at a nearby walkup who swore he saw the guy. A different doorman than I talked to the first time. It’s hard to see, but here, this guy gets out of this black truck—” he points, “and approaches the sidewalk that runs along East North Street.” You see flashes of red and white as the man gets closer to the camera, though he keeps his head down. “This lot is about a mile and a half from where our shooting happened.”
The man gets closer and closer before turning to walk parallel to the camera. Even with the grainy footage, it’s your guy alternative perpetrator. “And the Flock camera?”
“It captured his plate before he turned into the lot. I bet he thought he was in the clear because this lot isn’t well-lit, and it’s next to a car junking place, not any buildings.” He clicks the other file. “I had to fight with the City to get this, but here we go.” It’s a surprisingly well-lit clip of cars traveling down a one-way, and you see the black truck go by. He slows the video until it’s nearly still.
PENNSYLVANIA
BBR9233
LET FREEDOM RING
“And there he goes,” you gasp. “Can you—”
“Called PPD an hour ago. Told them they could either run this plate for me or deal with the consequences after making me jump through the hoops of a subpoena for Driver and Vehicle Services.” He breaks into a satisfied smile. “Car’s registered to one Trevor Mayes.”
“I would say we need to talk to Mr. Mayes,” you say, nearly so excited you can’t breathe.
“Luckily for you, you have all the access in the world to Mr. Mayes.”
“Oh? How so?”
“He got booked at the jail on drug trafficking charges thirty minutes ago.” Your mouth hangs open. “PPD couldn’t figure out why I happened to be calling about someone who was actively getting arrested. Imagine my surprise.”
“I bet they found a nine millimeter handgun in his truck,” you scoff. “Amazing work. I’m so proud. I need to go tell the boss that we all need to be conflicted out of Mr. Mayes’ upcoming arraignment. And I’ll brag about you exceedingly.”
On your way down the hall, you shoot a text to Nathaniel, which you almost never do. Need to talk to you urgently. Be in your office in fifteen minutes.
Your boss congratulates you and promises to give your investigator a shoutout at the next staff meeting. You thank him and run out. Luckily, the prosecutor’s office is in the same building, and you rush over with your laptop, the file, your portfolio with your legal pad inside, and the hard drive. The DA receptionist eyes your agitation with suspicion while he leads you down the hall.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite public defender,” Nathaniel says sarcastically, but without too much bite. Thank God he’s not in a bad mood, you think. “What’s so important?”
You plop into the armchair across with him and try not to get annoyed at how clean his desk is. “Nate, I know you and I don’t always see eye to eye—” understatement of the century, “but I really need you to hear me out on this. It could save us both a lot of grief.” You flip open Quade’s file and find your first sheet of jail notes. “When I first talked to Quade Jameson, I knew something was amiss. Believe it or not, I was right.”
You spend half an hour just laying out everything you’ve found: the videos, your investigator’s notes, even the timeline you made last night, which had holes that the new videos filled. “Through no fault of your own, you’ve got the wrong guy.” It takes a lot of self-control to say that, but you’d do anything for Quade. And his mom. And his daughter. “And you have the chance to do the right thing by letting him go. You’ve already got the real perpetrator in your custody.”
Nathaniel sits back in his big, comfortable leather office chair and puts his hands behind his head. “Your guy was found on the street with a firearm of the same caliber as the bullet found in my shooting victim. Your guy threw said gun into the bushes. Said gun did not have a full clip. Your guy refused to talk to my detective.”
You feel your control slipping. The leather of the chair squeaks as you dig your fingers into it. My client, Mr. Groff, is a young Black man who got scared. But you can’t imagine that, can you? You think unaccountably of Michael. Clever, levelheaded Michael.
“I hear you, Nate,” you say, with as much feigned sincerity as if you were saying I could punch you in the face right now. “Just do me one favor. Who arrested Trevor Mayes?”
“Officer Dailey.” He knows because he took the call for the application for a search warrant, you’re sure of it. “Why?”
“I imagine they’re done searching his truck and have towed it. Can you call Officer Dailey and ask her if she found a nine millimeter?”
Nate sniffs. “To what end?”
“Please.”
He huffs and picks up his work cell to dial. It rings twice. “Dailey? Question for you,” he drawls, as if this minor conversation is taking all his effort. “Did you all find a nine millimeter in Trevor Mayes’ truck?” You hear her muffled voice. His face drops. “How many cartridges?” It drops further. He listens for much longer than it would take to answer that simple question. “Thanks.”
Both of you sit in silence, the unstoppable force and the immovable object. You squint at him.
“Officer Dailey says Mr. Mayes started talking about the shooting when they pulled him over,” he says at last. Your heart pounds. “It was pre-Miranda rights, but it was unprompted.”
You try not to let your exhilaration show and decide to use a different tack. “Your kids play little league soccer. You want to be watching them on the weekends, freezing your ass off on the sidelines, not fighting with me on this as it goes on.” You lean forward. “And an innocent man is sitting in that jail while his family calls my office to ask how to get on food stamps.”
Nathaniel’s jaw juts out. You prepare for the worst. “What do I get?”
“The satisfaction of a job well done,” you say, and he rolls his eyes. “Just don’t file the information, and do an agreed order with me to release Mr. Jameson. You can always re-arrest him and file the information if I’m wrong. But I’m not, not on this one.”
He stares down at his hands, flat against the desk, for a long time. You can hear his breaths. Without looking up, he says, “You write and file the order. I’ll email Judge with my reasons and copy you, just so she doesn’t storm over here.”
You stand, holding out your hand. “Thank you.” For the first time in a long time, Nathaniel Groff shakes it.
Thursday arrives in all its splendor. The bond modification was signed yesterday, and the District Attorney’s Office made their announcement this morning. Adam sends you a link to the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette website: DA Groff Decides Not to Pursue Murder Charge, Says Alternative Suspect Being Investigated. Adam’s text underneath says, Good job, counsel. Drinks on me this weekend.
You stare at the drawing on your desk. It was done by Quade’s daughter Isabelle, who came to sit in your office while her grandmother went to pick up her dad at the jail. She drew crude hearts and a rainbow that didn’t really have a curve. She also scrawled four stick people, their only differences being your heights, and pointed to each. “Daddy, me, Grammy, you.”
Quade looks much better when he’s not wearing a bright red jumpsuit. He’s wearing jeans and a hoodie his mom brought to the jail for him, and you can smell laundry detergent when he hugs you. He and his mom thank you over and over while Isabelle continues to color.
“You’re welcome, and I’m so sorry for everything you’ve been through,” you say, trying to force the wobble out of your voice.
“You believed me,” Quade responds. “That’s all I needed.”
The relief on his face, the tears on his mother’s, the butterfly clips in his daughter’s hair. You bottle it all up to store in your heart for all the days when it feels like all you do is lose. You also think of Damion Yates, and the doctor who was unable to save him. Death, loss, confusion, anger. Mistakes.
You had called the tire factory that morning and assured them that Quade would return the next day, and told them in no uncertain terms that they ought to rehire him. You talked to Quade’s direct supervisor and then his boss with as much conviction as when you talked to Nathaniel. They listened.
Finally, after several achingly long weeks, Quade and his little family go home. You close your door, lay your head on your folded arms, and cry tears of profound relief, as loudly as you want to.
Your receptionist knocks on your door a little before the office closes. You’re writing a suppression motion and don’t look up when you call out that she can come in, assuming she’s going to tell you about an upcoming appointment and then leave. Something that sounds like thick glass thunks down onto your desk, and she stands there until you turn.
It’s a vase of orange and yellow peonies with a small card sticking out on a pronged stick.
Congratulations, sweetheart. Am I allowed to say that, as a witness? Guy at the flower shop says these symbolize good luck and prosperity. I can’t tell if he’s making it up. Exchange at 6:15, if you’ll have me. -M.
You text him as your receptionist retreats with a knowing look. Thank you. It’s a date.
The Exchange is a moderate walk from your apartment, and you notice it’s not terribly busy as you head down the road. You can see that the standing chalkboard, which usually has cute menu drawings, instead says Closed for private event.
You stop in your tracks and look down at your phone. You’re running a few minutes late. Surely Michael would have told you if he walked here and it was closed. As you near the door, your favorite barista pops her head out. She beams and waves you over.
You glance behind you, like she must be gesturing to someone else, but there’s no one there. She exaggeratedly rolls her eyes and pulls you in by the arm.
“Surprise!” A chorus of voices sings, and you nearly jump as party poppers go off from two baristas standing on the bar. They’re surrounded on the counter by pastries and bowls of punch.
Your eyes adjust to the dimness of the shop slowly. You see Adam, your investigator, your boss, your receptionist, and a smattering of your fellow public defenders. Then there are several people you don’t recognize, some of them with scrubs on. Finally, you see Michael in the center of it all, with Jack at his side.
Michael’s wearing a blazer and that dark red tie. You press your hands over your heart.
“Everybody cheer for Lady Justice!” The barista shouts from over your shoulder, and the applause and cheering is raucous, even though there are probably only thirty people here.
Michael sees that you’re overwhelmed and steps up to take your hands while everyone else falls into their own conversations, mostly laughing at the shock on your face. “I got your receptionist’s number last week. Congratulations again.”
You swallow hard to tamp down the tears. “Thank you. This means so much to me.” You laugh. “Public defenders never get feted like this. Adam will get jealous.”
“Already am, my girl,” Adam chimes in, coming up from behind Michael to give you a quick hug. “Proud, but not surprised.”
One of the baristas climbs down from the bar and plugs their phone in behind the counter. “Let’s get this party started!”
All the tables are pushed up against the walls so people can dance. You quickly learn that the punch is spiked, and you pretend not to know that the Exchange doesn’t have a liquor permit. Michael takes you around to meet his coworkers, all of whom look at you so intensely that they must be planning to paint you from memory. You try to catch all of the names: Princess, Cassie, Mateo, Samira, and others whose names and positions go in one ear and out the other.
Jack laughs at their interest in you when you get around to him. “Don’t worry. They’re all wondering who they owe their gratitude to.”
“Oh?”
“This one’s been in too good of a mood for too long. It’s all starting to make sense to them.” He points at Michael, who is distracted, and Jack uses the opportunity to offer you his hand. “A dance?”
The song is slow, but he keeps a respectful distance, and positions himself so that you can keep an eye on Michael. He continues, “Robby is a good guy.”
“I know,” you smile, trying to look at Jack as often as you look back at his friend.
“Our job is insane,” Jack murmurs. “I hope you understand. He’s worth the risk.”
You squeeze Jack’s hand and look seriously at him before you repeat, “I know.”
The song ends and he bows to you dramatically. “I must take my leave of Lady Justice to go to the Pitt.” He squeezes your shoulder before picking up his bag from the corner. “See you.”
“Thanks for coming. Have a good shift.”
“No such thing,” he winks, and he’s gone, weaving through the dancers to go save some lives.
You can tell it’s Michael touching your elbow just from the feel of his palm. “Hey,” he says into your ear, and a thrill runs down your spine.
“Hey.” You turn and put your arms around his neck while his own hands slide down to your waist. “Thank you again for all this. I feel so happy.” You press your face into his shoulder and let him lift your hand as another achingly slow song comes on over the speakers.
“Me too,” you hear him mumble into your hair. “I hope Mr. Jameson is doing okay.”
“His life is forever changed, but he’ll rally. People usually do, with time.” You choke up. “His faith in me meant a lot.”
Michael runs his hand across your back in quiet comfort. His voice is low, just for you. “I met with my department’s social worker. She gave me a list of therapists.”
You smile into his shirt, and you hope he can feel it. “Very good. We’ll set up an appointment soon.” You love saying we.
He says your name, and you look up to meet his gaze, which is soft. Those damn puppydog eyes. “You mean a lot to me. Thank you for putting me back together the other night.”
You kiss the tip of his nose, not caring who sees. “I want to help. Because you mean a lot to me, too.”
The chaos of your living room—books, papers, empty mugs, blankets, and pens everywhere—affects you much less when Michael is kissing you with abandon. He backs you through your door and doesn’t even stop for you to take your shoes off, so you have to toe out of them blindly. He presses his leg up between your thighs, pinning you to the door, and you gasp with pleasure.
“You sure about this, sweetheart?” he groans into your neck, his hand gripping your ass so that he can grind you down onto his knee.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been more sure of anything in my life,” you laugh, and he captures the sound with his mouth. He tastes like punch, which the two of you polished off, as you were the last people to leave the Exchange other than the baristas. It reminds you of the first time you kissed him, and that craft cranberry beer you shared. Both of you are tipsy and kept running into each other on the walk to your place.
Michael drops his blazer on your couch and you seize the chance to run to your bedroom before he can ravish you in your disastrous living room. You hear him following down the hall, and his gaze darkens when he rounds the corner to see you already in your bra. He steps to you and plays with the waistband to your slacks while you tug at his tie.
“You look amazing in a tie,” you admit, leaning up to nip at where your hands are revealing the skin beneath his shirt as fast as you can. “I need you to wear one every day.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He hooks his thumbs into your waistband and pulls, taking your underwear along. You gasp at the rush of cold air. To get your revenge, you undo his belt buckle and pull so hard that one of the ends hits you in the thigh. Done with teasing, Michael strips, and watches with relish as you look down. You nearly gasp.
He is thick. But he’s back on you almost instantly, unhooking your bra so he can kiss at the swells of skin, soft at first, and then biting. “Will you let me fuck you good, sweetheart?” he asks into your chest, and you tremble with anticipation. His beard is scratching you deliciously.
“Please, Michael, I know you’ll take care of me.” He growls at that and lifts you up onto your bed alongside him. He slides so that his legs are hooked over the end.
“Sit on my face, baby.”
At first, you’re sure you don’t hear him correctly. There’s no way. Is he that wasted? But then he’s gripping your thigh hard, trying to pull you over. Seeing your expression, he smirks. “Come on. Let me taste you.”
You’re certain you’ve never been so wet in your entire life. You crawl over and nestle your knees around his head, and you nearly jump when he instantly leans up to press a kiss to your clit. His fingers draw circles on the back of your thighs. “Pretty girl,” he says, and his breath fanning over your skin makes you cry out.
He alternates between assaulting your clit and sticking his tongue into your entrance as far as it will go, and uses his fingers wherever his tongue is not. You’re practically melting, and you have to grip his hair to keep yourself lifted up.
“Michael, I’m s-so close,” you whimper.
He pauses only to say, “Cum on my face.”
Your orgasm explodes, and Michael doesn’t let up; your whining and pleas only motivate him. When you start begging and squirming, he tortures you with his mouth a little while longer, but then he runs his tongue over his lips and lets you roll off of him. Your head hits your pillow and you pant, your legs turned to jelly.
When you can finally open your eyes, he’s rolling a condom over himself, and despite the shaking in your thighs, you rally. “I need you to fuck me, baby,” you simper. He leans down so you can hook your arms around his shoulders.
He runs his tip through your folds, and you could cry with the sensation. “Tell me if I hurt you,” he says into your ear before sinking into the gates of heaven.
Your mouth falls open at the sheer width of him. Your nails claw at his back, and you’re sure it’ll leave marks, but he only moans in that deliciously whiny voice of his and whispers praises into your collarbone. The stretch makes tears form at the corners of your eyes all over again. Michael kisses them away.
He drags himself in and out of your intoxicating heat, and it’s embarrassingly soon that you start seeing stars again. He lifts your knees so that he can thrust at an angle, all the while telling you how perfect you feel, how perfect you are. Your heart is hammering where his lips and tongue trace over your chest. “Michael, I’m gonna cum again. Baby.”
You feel him nodding into your neck and give yourself up to it. You’re shocked at your own voice, echoing with pleasure, but Michael says, “That’s right. Let me hear you.” He slams his hips into yours until you’re sure you’ve lost the ability to think. “I’m so close.”
“Cum for me, Michael. I want to feel you,” you practically sob, and soon, he’s losing his steady rhythm. He says your name with bare adoration as he stills. He collapses on top of you, and you run your hand through the back of his hair.
Both of you clean up, and he holds you close under your covers, keeping out the October chill. You trace figure eights through the hair on his chest. After a while, you can sense he wants to say something.
“Hit me with it, Dr. Robby.”
“Please put me out of my misery.” He grabs your hand and kisses your fingers.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” you shrug. But you definitely do.
“Would you be exclusive with me? Please?” He presses your hand, caged between his, to his chest.
MYTHOLOGICAL BEAUTY — michael robinavitch x f! emergency medicine resident!reader
one day, i am gonna grow wings; 3k - february 13-14, 2020
you were adamson’s star resident, when you land yourself in the emergency room, robby realizes there’s more to your story than what you let on during work hours.
i don’t belong to anyone; 3.2k - august 9-26, 2020
after performing extreme measures to preserve adamson’s life, robby faces two fears: death and inheriting the responsibility of the emergency department all in the same day.
i owe you a black eye and two kisses; 3.2k - december 25, 2020
robby takes time off of work, you call in a favor just to skip family christmas dinner. robby gives in to years of pining and unrelenting frustration, only for it to not go exactly as planned.
a romantic cliché; 3.6k - december 24, 2021
upon receiving your early-admission letter for your fellowship, abbot begrudgingly tells you a secret he was supposed to take to the grave. you and robby have a heart to heart just before you are set to put in your two weeks.
we kissed for hours straight; 4.8k - august 24-26, 2024
survivor’s guilt is killing robby, you decide to get him flowers as an effort towards a ceasefire. really you just wanted a proof of life, he wanted a proof of you being actually there and it wasn’t just some sick dream that he’d wake up alone.
you dream of walls that hold us in prison; 4k - august 26, 2025
you go over robby’s head, he forces you out of the emergency department, seemingly screwing any chance he had of mending a wound he created. lucky for both of you, you’ve grown over the past five years.
blood gushing from my head; december 24, 2025
robby crosses multiple lines that you weren’t even aware of until they bothered you. then it clicks to him why your legs are littered with scars from soccer games, why you ended up being the doctor of the family, why you vehemently avoid them. what’s a christmas without family drama and a moment of you questioning your relationship?
something special, someone sacred; july 4, 2026
power outages, flooding, honestly the worst the entire emergency department has had the privilege of seeing— certainly not you, dana, robby, jack, or samira have seen. you finally let robby in.
Summary: You and Donnie have been friends since you started at the Pitt, and you both like to drop funny pet names into conversation with each other. Robby overhears, and he seems less than pleased, though you're not entirely sure why.
Tags: f!nurse!reader, jealous!robby, bestie!donnie, pre-relationship, silly pet names
---
You’ve always been affectionate with your friends. Even with your coworkers, at previous positions. Hugs, nicknames, holding hands, whatever it takes to get through the day.
And you bonded with Donnie as soon as you started at the Pitt. He reminds you of your older brother’s friends, how they’d always look out for you, protect you, tease you.
You’ve shared enough beers in the park after shifts to really bond with him, and he was the first one to notice how you tended to drop pet names into conversation with people you know. Donnie, being Donnie, took that to the extreme, finding the weirdest things to call you that are still at least mostly work-appropriate. It’s become something of a game for both of you, and you hardly notice the endearments, such as they are.
On hard days, he’s always the first to come up and give you a hug, and he always picks up an extra soda for you at the vending machine. You grab him an extra candy bar when you splurge a little, and it’s nice, having a work best friend. As much as you’ve heard Princess and Perlah whispering about it, you and Donnie have both acknowledged that your relationship is nothing but platonic.
More than that, when he has a date, you’re right there with advice and tone checks before he sends a text that might blow everything up before it starts. When you have one, he does a quick check with his buddies to make sure the guy is on the up-and-up. It’s easy, and it feels like having family close by, even when you don’t.
“Hey, honey,” Donnie says, rapping his knuckles on the counter. You’re at the Hub, helping Dana update the board, and he spotted you as soon as he left South Twenty. “I need a favor.”
You sit back in your chair, resting your chin on one hand. “What can I do for you, my love?”
You see Robby’s head tilt in the corner of your vision. He’s been working on a patient chart for a few minutes, and you don’t know why he’d be listening, but he seems very interested now.
“Can you check in on Central Twelve in like, five? I need to go take a leak, but they need meds in a minute.”
“Of course. Need anything else?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. That’s it.”
“I got you, boo,” you say, grinning at him. He taps the counter one more time and spins on his heel to hurry to the bathroom.
Robby’s eyes are boring straight through you now, and you turn to face him, smile faltering a little at the look on his face.
“Did you need something, Dr. Robby?”
He frowns, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. “No.” The word stretches out between you. “You and Donahue?” His eyes dart in the direction Donnie went, then back to you.
You nearly laugh at the lingering confusion on his handsome face, but you manage to hold it in. “Just besties.”
The lines on his face don’t ease, even though he nods. “Right.”
“Is that okay with you?” you say, watching his expression carefully. You’ve always had a little bit of a crush on Dr. Robby. He’s older, smart, forceful when he needs to be, and he’s always been kind to you. And those eyes. Those big, sad, brown eyes. You’re certainly not used to having him so focused on you, but you can’t say you’re complaining.
He blinks at you, and you’re fascinated to watch the blush rise in his cheeks. “Oh, uh, sure. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know. I need to go see a patient.”
You can feel him watching you as you head for Central Twelve, but you do your best to shake it off. The patient is a sweet old man who needs blood pressure medication to address the lightheadedness he came in with. He thanks you profusely, and Donnie walks up as you’re leaving the room, so you hit him with a fist bump on the way by.
“Thanks, sweet cheeks.” He smirks and you keep walking, heading to the next patient who needs assistance.
It’s not a terribly stressful shift, all things considered, but you like the beer ritual in the park, so you head that way once you’re done handing off your last patient. Donnie’s already there, handing you a cold beer with a nod. You sit across from him, listening to the chatter around you while you sip on the beer.
You often don’t engage much when you come to the park, but it’s nice to be around these people to decompress a little before you head home. You’re surprised when someone sits beside you, and when you look up, it’s Dr. Robby.
He pushes up the sleeves of his hoodie before catching a can from Mateo. He takes a long drink and sighs, running a hand through his hair.
“You okay, Dr. Robby?” you ask, nudging him with your knee.
His eyes shift over to meet yours, crinkling a little at the corners when he smiles. “Can I ask you something?”
You shrug. He’s never needed permission before. “Sure. What’s up?”
“You always call me Dr. Robby.” He says it slowly, thoughtfully, like it’s been bothering him all day. You wonder if it has.
“That’s not a question,” you say, nudging him again.
He chuckles a little, under his breath. “No, it isn’t.” Clearing his throat, he turns to face you a little more directly. “Why don’t you use nicknames with me?”
“Isn’t Dr. Robby already a nickname?”
“Yeah, but that’s what everyone calls me.”
You blink at him, trying to understand what he’s asking you. “Sure. I’m just trying to be professional.”
“But not with Donahue?”
The lightbulb goes off. “You want me to call you sweetie? Cupcake? Honey bun?”
It’s dark, but the flush you saw earlier creeps back into his cheeks and he looks down at the beer in his hands, twisting it in his strong fingers. “No, not exactly.”
“Listen, Donnie’s like my brother. We look out for each other, we give each other shit, we use stupid nicknames.”
Robby lets out a low breath, catching your eye again. “Got it.”
“You’re not my boss, but you’re the boss, you know?”
He nods, letting out a low breath through his nose. “I know. Believe me, I know.” He drains his beer and stands to go.
You’re not sure what that means, but when he looks back at you, you catch a gleam of something in his dark eyes.
“Ready to go home, cake pop?” Donnie says, tossing an empty can at you to get your attention.
You roll your eyes at him. “Sure am, lovebug.”
Robby shakes his head and holds up a hand as he leaves for home. You watch him go with a little more attention than is strictly necessary. He puts in his AirPods and walks confidently into the dark.
Maybe tomorrow you’ll figure out what’s going on with him. And why he’s so bothered about the nicknames.
Probably not, but you’ve got his attention now, and that’s something.
---
A/N: This one came to me in a fever dream while I was very sick last weekend, so not sure if it's anything, but I hope you enjoyed it!
the slow, domestic morning of robby’s fourth of july shift
a/n: idk have a robby x reader fic now that i’m pitt-pilled. there’s more of this to come tbh, if i ever get over the impostor syndrome 🤷🏼♀️
tw: domestic fluff, mild innuendo
“Why are you telling everyone you’re going on sabbatical?” You ask your husband, out of breath just from asking the question. You feel impossibly huge, with just days left to go in your third pregnancy, and the baby jabs a foot into your ribs as you finish speaking. You press the heel of your palm into the top of your stomach, trying to get some relief from the ache.
Robby grins at you from the foot of the bed, Adam’s chunky legs kicking as Robby changes his diaper. “Because no one needs to know my business,” he replies, fastening the diaper and re-zipping the dinosaur pajamas, before hoisting Adam up into his arms and peppering his cheeks with kisses. Your 13-month-old giggles happily and nearly headbutts Robby in his excitement.
“Mm,” you hum skeptically, glancing down at the swells of your breasts - up three cup sizes, completely unreasonable - and the way it looks like you’re smuggling a watermelon under your shirt. Dryly, you reply, “I think everyone will have some inkling of what you’ll be up to the next three months.”
Robby bounces Adam in his arms and laughs, “ohoho, they think Daddy’s going on a motorcycle trip, isn’t that right, Ad?”
Adam nods in agreement, babbling his newest word - Dada.
You hold your hand out for Robby to help you out of bed and groan as your weight is shifted. One hand is pressed to your lower back, fingers kneading at the knot of pain that’s been present since month four. Your husband makes giant, chunky babies and it’s borderline miserable carrying them. It’s something you really should’ve considered when procreating with a man both broad and tall. Too late now.
“Motorcycle? Really?” You roll your eyes at him and tilt your face up so he’ll lower Adam and you can kiss the baby’s cheek. “There’s no way they believed that, you’re ridiculous.”
“They don’t have to believe me,” Robby huffs, “they just have to not ask me any questions.”
You waddle your way out of your bedroom and down the hall, planning on having him wake the girls up before he leaves. It’s just easier for you if he gets them ready for the day - which, since it’s the Fourth of July and Robby’s working, means they’re going out into the backyard to run through the sprinklers and eat popsicles until he gets home - and he’s more than happy to do it and spend time with them before his shift.
“And when I pop up in L&D within the week? Then what?” You huff, breathing hard. It’s slightly easier when you’re standing, since baby dropped low. But that just means there’s aggressive pressure on your pelvis. Adam reaches for you from Robby’s arms, whining, and you take him, settling him on top of your giant stomach, his little face pressed into your neck. You shouldn’t be carrying him, he’s definitely too heavy for it when you’re this pregnant, but you can’t help it. He’s not going to be the baby for much longer and you want him to have all the cuddles. You feel a little guilty that you got pregnant so soon after he was born and that he won’t get all the one-on-one time the girls got.
“Then I’ll wear a hat and no one will know it’s me,” he retorts, trying to take Adam back, but your son clings to your neck and shouts “no, dada!”
Robby grumbles, “you shouldn’t be holding him. He’s heavy.”
“And whose fault is that, Mr. I Weighed Nearly Eleven Pounds At Birth?” You raise an eyebrow at him and he has the decency to shrug and look sheepish. The twins clocked in at a very healthy six pounds four ounces and six pounds six ounces - meaning a collective baby weight of over twelve pounds and your body felt every ounce. Adam weighed a solid nine and a half pounds and baby number four is measuring big too. You’re pretty sure your lower back is never going to recover.
“Still,” Robby argues, “he’s over the recommended weight limit. Give him back to me.”
Adam clings to you harder and you push at your husband’s bicep. “Just go get the girls, we’ll be waiting here because I don’t trust myself on stairs,” you tease.
“Yes, ma’am,” he presses a kiss to the top of your head and slips into the girls’ room. You can hear him through the open door, gently waking Nora first - your oldest by five minutes and the early bird - and then Eloise - quintessential middle child. Bouncing from side to side with Adam in your arms, you laugh to yourself as Eloise fights with Robby, whining and complaining about getting up. They’ll be four next month, the girls, and their personalities are so strong.
Nora busts out of the door with a grin so like her father’s. “Hi, Mommy!” She chirps, patting the lower swell of your stomach. “Hi, baby!”
“Morning, Nor,” you ruffle her hair, unable to bend over and give her a kiss. “Ready for breakfast?”
“Yup,” she tugs at the foot of Adam’s pajamas, eliciting a grumble from your youngest. “Can we have cake?”
Her smile is mischievous, eyes twinkling as she remembers the week after Adam’s first birthday last month where you let them have cake for breakfast.
“Nope,” you reply cheerfully. “How about waffles?”
“No waffles,” Eloise whines from her perch in Robby’s arms. Her dark hair is a messy halo around her head and she looks supremely disgruntled at having been woken up. One little hand is wrapped around Robby’s neck and the other is pushing her hair from her face. “I don’t want waffles!”
Robby pats her on the bottom and bounces her, taking Adam from you with his other hand. It’s an easy transfer, mostly because you think Adam is half asleep again.
“Hey, what did we say about being good for Mommy, huh?” He presses a smacking kiss to her cheek. “Waffles are yummy and especially if we cut up some strawberries for you, right?”
Eloise gives him a stink eye that has you clapping a hand over your mouth to muffle your laughter. Taking Nora’s hand, you follow your husband down the stairs, clutching the railing like it’s a lifeline. Your body feels so heavy and awkward. If this baby is smaller than Adam at birth you’ll be shocked. Robby, of course, manages the stairs and two children easily, setting them both at the table before swooping Nora off the ground too and getting her in her seat.
“I need your shift to go fast,” you mutter, wedging yourself into a chair so Robby can handle breakfast. You rub at your stomach, wincing as the baby gives you another jab. “It’s time for Daddy to take over kid duties for a bit.”
“Daddy’s happy to do whatever Mommy wants,” Robby winks at you, pulling out the waffle batter you’d made last night. His grin is shit-eating and you know he’s dying for his shift to end too, his three-month paternity leave (or sabbatical, if you work with him at PTMC) is something he’s been looking forward to.
“Mommy doesn’t want Daddy touching her,” you sing-song back. “Mommy’s a whale and also hates that she’s referring to herself in third person.”
The girls slip off their chairs and rush to help Robby with the waffles, distracting him and leaving you to get Adam settled on your disappearing lap for a quick feed. He’d mostly weaned from breast feeding in the last few months, but you do still let him latch when he’s being clingy and needs comfort. Robby’s giving you a Look - you’re aware that breast feeding so late in your pregnancy can get labor going, but again, baby’s due in a few days so it can’t hurt.
It’s awkward and uncomfortable, but Adam curls up against you as best as he can and you can feel his body relax once he latches and starts drinking. You stroke his dark hair back from his forehead, studying his tiny, Robinavich features, listening to the girls fight over who gets to help Robby with what.
It’s the kind of morning chaos you always imagined when you and Robby first started trying for kids. Four under four wasn’t the initial plan, but you wouldn’t change it for the world.
Robby slides a plate onto the table in front of you - a perfectly golden brown waffle with a whipped cream smiley face and a pile of strawberries on the side.
“Eat up, sweetheart,” he kisses the top of your head and cradles the back of Adam’s with one hand. “Who knows what the day might bring.”
“Oh, don’t jinx it,” you groan.
—-
And later, when baby boy Robinavich is born at 11:55pm on the Fourth of July, sliding out right into his daddy’s tired arms and weighing in at a whopping ten pounds even, you remind Robby that he jinxed it.
He just grins at you, the nearly 17 hours he’s spent in the hospital written in the lines on his face. The exhaustion is overriden by the joy in his smile and the tears welling up in his eyes.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he leans in, baby secure in the crook of his arm, to kiss you softly.
You sleepily grab for your newborn and laugh, “baby factory is closed now, Dr. Robinavich, hop your ass over to urology for the snip.”