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! 💗
Mood board above courtesy of the wonderful @dilfrobinavitch who is insanely talented and I'm so glad to know her!
Status: Complete
Word Count: 3.1k
Author's Note: HAPPY THE PITT THURSDAY TO ALL THOSE WHO CELEBRATE! :D Oh dear baby Jesus in the manger. This is my first fic since I wrote for Twilight (Paper Heart/HezPixie) so go easy on me friends. That's how obsessed I am how much I love this man and this show. This will be a multi-part fic. There will be angst. There will be smut. You have been warned. Comment or message me to be added to the taglist!
Oh also! This is probably super old-school but I always pair a chapter or installment with a song.
Song for Part 1: Move On Up by Curtis Mayfield
Onward!
It’s raining that morning, unseasonably cold for June, so you jog carefully through the parking lot, having forgotten your umbrella at home, and duck through the doors of Allegheny General. You’ve only been working there for two weeks but had quickly mastered the dizzying maze of corridors leading to the elevator that would take you to your office on the 3rd floor, the central hub for hospital administration.
Born and raised in Massachusetts, you’d graduated from UMass Boston with a degree in marketing and spent your 20’s working as an Account & Client Manager in charge of promoting various brands at music festivals across the country. It was the perfect job for that time in your life - single, childless and unburdened, it gave you the opportunity to travel the country and see some pretty kickass bands along the way.
You’d met someone in your early 30’s and wanted to slow down, so you’d changed jobs to something local; it just wasn’t a fit, so you spent the next few years listless and unsatisfied professionally - a difficult place to be for someone who prides themselves on the work that they do. When your relationship reached its natural end as well, with more of a fizzle than a bang, you knew it was time for another change.
During your search you’d come across a posting for a hospital administration job, a step down from your level but in a new field, and you’d applied on a whim. You’d grown up wanting to be a pediatrician, but the time and energy for med school had long since passed you by, and science had never been your strong suit anyway. You were intrigued at the opportunity to work in the medical field in a way that would play to your talent and experience.
You interviewed. You got the job.
Then Covid hit.
An industry you hadn’t even begun to fully understand changed drastically almost overnight, but you had the advantage of being able to shift and pivot with it in a way that others who’d been working in healthcare their entire lives, long-established in the old ways and burdened by muscle memory, didn’t.
And so, despite the devastation and chaos, you flourished.
In just five short years you’d worked your way to Director level and were itching for the next challenge. Fate intervened, as it so often tends to do, and you came across a posting at the largest trauma center in Pittsburgh, Allegheny General. You applied, got the job, and moved to Pennsylvania.
Your new boss, Gloria Underwood, Executive Vice President of Hospital Administration, was whip-smart, and in the few short weeks you’d been there had already become a mentor to you. Though you had a lot to offer, you knew there was always more to learn, and she was more than happy to share her knowledge and experience.
That particular Tuesday morning, after you’ve dried off and grabbed some coffee, you’re immediately sucked into a whirlwind of e-mails, phone calls, and staffing issues, so you’re thankful for the peace and quiet that the lunch hour finally affords you. You throw your AirPods in and put on some Spotify playlist designed to facilitate focus, so you’re completely and totally engrossed in this year’s budget review when he walks in. You don’t notice him immediately thanks to the fact that the playlist and the headphones are doing their job so when his head dips into view just above your laptop he scares the shit out of you. You yelp and reflexively yank one of the earbuds out of your ear.
“Jesus Christ,” you gasp.
“Actually, no. Though if anything, it’d be Adonai. Or Yaweh.”
His words are playful, but you can tell by the look on his face that he’s pissed.
Your brow furrows as your brain tries to catch up to the conversation, despite the fact that you’re still able to register just how attractive he is quickly enough. Tousled hair, deep brown eyes behind functional yet stylish tortoise shell-rimmed glasses, beard with just the right amount of gray. You internally berate what is apparently your only brain cell for focusing its attention in the absolute wrong direction and refocus.
“I’m sorry, can I help you?”
The man in front of you all but rolls his eyes as he straightens up and steps back from your desk, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his hospital-issued hoodie. “Dr. Michael Robinavitch. Most people call me Dr. Robby.”
Ah, you think. Robinavitch. Yaweh. Jewish. Got it.
He doesn’t even bother to wait for you to introduce yourself before asking, “Is Gloria here?”
His apparent lack of manners, and the overall apparent lack of giving a fuck you’d already managed to catalog in the few short moments since he’d walked into the office, immediately piss you off.
“She’s at lunch,” you tell him curtly.
“Of course she is. It must be nice to be able to take a whole damn hour out of your shift to eat.” He sighs, closes his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand as if trying to summon the patience he clearly doesn’t have. After a moment he re-adjusts his glasses and focuses his attention back on you.
“When will she be back?”
You narrow your eyes at him because patience has never been your virtue, either, and yours is wearing thin. “I don’t know, she’s my boss and I’m not her keeper. Is there a problem? Or something I can help you with?”
His responding glare rivals your own and you can tell he’s settling in for a fight, but before he can respond the pager affixed to his hip sounds an alert. He glances down and sighs tiredly, all of the tension leaving his body immediately, the fight forgotten before it had even begun in favor of the one that was waiting for him on the other end of that call.
“Just tell her to check her fucking email, okay?” He walks backward for a moment as he talks. “We need help. Sooner, not later.”
He turns and strides out the door; you watch him go and sit silently for a moment, earbud still in hand, wondering what the fuck that was all about.
It takes a while for your irritation to die down, though the mundane task of balancing last year’s spend against this year’s supply need helps. Not long after you’ve settled back into your review, you shift over to to distraction that is your Outlook inbox to see if there are any fires that need to be put out. At the top is a forwarded message from your boss, Gloria Underwood, Executive Vice President of Hospital Administration, with a simple note:
I see you’ve met Dr. Robby.
Scrolling down further, you read the initial message - a very straight to the point request from him for additional nursing staff in the ER, affectionately dubbed “the Pitt” by hospital employees, Gloria’s follow up message citing budgetary constraints, and the final message from Dr. Robby to Gloria just a few minutes earlier:
Maybe the new girl can find some room in the budget. Or help transfer patients to the morgue. -Robby
You snort-laugh despite yourself. Subtlety was apparently not his strong suit, either.
You pull out your AirPods, deposit them in their case and make your way to your boss’s office, knocking gently on the door. Gloria looks up and smiles, gesturing for you to come in.
“So. Dr. Robby,” you hedge as you take a seat in the chair across from her desk.
She shakes her head. “Yes, the man who operates under the delusion that his department is the only one in the entire hospital that’s underfunded.”
“Every department in the entire hospital is underfunded,” you respond sardonically.
The sad reality is that between the massive overall spend of the hospital, the significant shortfalls from reimbursements like Medicare, and the constant rising cost of supplies and labor - among a multitude of other factors - meant that Allegheny General was constantly in jeopardy of closing its doors permanently. All of the government subsidies and patient revenue in the world weren’t enough to move the needle, so the responsibility fell to those of you on the hospital administration team to figure out a way to keep the lights on in spite of it all.
“My point,” she sighs. “Some of the Chief Attendings get it. Most of them don’t. But he’s the only one who fights me on it every chance he gets.”
“Is he open to a more thorough review and explanation? Maybe that would help him understand the balance,” you offer. “I’d be happy to put something together.”
“I love that you’re offering, but I’ve tried. Beyond that, I can’t even get him to commit to a five minute conversation, much less a full blown meeting.” Gloria pauses to takes a sip of her coffee before continuing.
“I can’t even begin to imagine how tough his job is. That’s why I chose to do what I do instead of practicing medicine. All that pain and death takes a toll on a person, but it doesn’t change the fact that we can’t make money grow on trees. If we don’t do what we do, and do it well, even more people will die during the ambulance ride to another trauma center that’s too far away from them to make it alive.”
You chew on your lip, deep in thought for a moment. “What if we could?”
“Could what?” Gloria frowns.
“Make money grow on trees.” The idea is still formulating in your brain and you don’t mean to be deliberately unclear. You’re trying to decide if your lightbulb moment is grounded in an equal mix of general human compassion and facts and figures. It will only work if it’s both, and trying to iron out the details internally mid-conversation makes you distracted and vague.
“If we could do that, I’d be retired,” she quips.
“Can I borrow a pen and piece of paper?”
“Be my guest.” She locates both on her desk and hands them over to you. You scribble furiously for a moment before looking back up at her.
“If I can find room in the budget for additional nursing staff salary for the Pitt, can we post and recruit?”
Gloria purses her lips, takes a moment to think about your idea. “There are a lot of different ways we could use additional funds and a lot of departments that need them. We’d likely need to get the board involved to re-allocate them appropriately.”
“What if they were funds specifically allotted to ER operations?”
After a moment, she nods slowly. “Yes, we could do that - but I’m not sure how you’re going to find them.”
You grin triumphantly, hand her back the notepad you’d been scribbling on, and lean back in the chair.
“This is how.”
___
Robby throws on the blinker, easing his custom BMW R80, a rare splurge, into the hospital lot and parking it near the doors to the Pitt. Cutting the engine he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, then tilting it up towards the sun for just a brief moment, soaking in the oranges and pinks of the sunrise and hoping that brief sliver of joy will somehow give him the strength to get through another day. He loves his job, feels privileged to save lives, but at a few years past 50 and after entire lifetime in emergency medicine he’s just so fucking tired.
Ever since the chaos of Covid and the devastating loss of his mentor, Dr. Adamson, things hadn’t been the same. It seemed easiest most days to ignore the ever-mounting despair and exhaustion and there was certainly no shortage of patients to distract him - one of the benefits of being a Chief Attending at one of the largest trauma centers in Pittsburgh. Nights, though - nights had become a special kind of hell. It was only his knowledge of and experience with the effect that alcoholism had on a person’s body that kept him from finding company in a bottle of scotch when he couldn’t sleep, something that had become a routine occurrence as of late. In lieu of the rest he so desperately needed he’d revisit all the patients he’d lost and all the ways that he’d failed them.
Whether he wanted to or not, he would remember them long after they were forgotten.
With a heavy sigh, he slings his backpack over one shoulder and heads into the hospital, nodding and smiling and exchanging brief pleasantries with hospital staff as he made his way to the Pitt.
“Robby, brother, am I glad to see you.” Jack Abbot, fellow Chief Attending over the night shift, greets him.
Robby lifts his sunglasses to rest on the top of his head and raises an eyebrow at his best friend’s blood-covered scrubs. “Do I even want to know?”
“Probably not. Handoff in ten?”
Robby throws him a sarcastic smile and a double thumbs up. Jack grins, flips him off, and disappears into the staff lounge.
“Morning, cap.” Dana, the day shift charge nurse, greets him as she settles behind the desk that serves as their command center.
“Morning Dana. How’s my favorite charge nurse today?”
Efficient as ever, she’s already badged into the computer and reviewing her emails. “Great, actually. Especially now that it looks we’re getting more nurses.”
Robby frowns, confused, as he shrugs out of his jacket. He’d been asking for more nurses for months and Gloria had shot him down every time, spouting some administrative bullshit about budgetary concerns, like dollars saved were more important than lives.
“We are?” He moves to stand behind her, peering uselessly at the screen. He can’t read shit without his glasses.
“Yup. Right here in black and white. Four new positions were posted last night. Looks like that hard-fought battle was worth it, boss.
Lena, the night charge nurse, joins them at the desk. “Good morning, darlings. Have you heard the good news?”
“Just sharing it with Robby.” Dana grins. “More nurses. Finally.”
Lena nods. “Just in time, too. I’m ready to retire.”
Dana chuckles affectionately. “You’ve been saying that for five years now.”
“And one of these years I’ll mean it.”
Robby grabs his glasses out of his bag and quietly steps away, ducking into an empty bay. The door closes quietly behind him as he pulls out his cell phone and brings up his work email, scrolling until he finds the email from you to Pitt staff announcing that you’d begun recruiting for four new nurses and encouraging staff to submit recommendations for candidates.
Holy shit.
Months of hounding Gloria for help had fallen on deaf ears, and after just one brief conversation with you, you’d somehow made it happen. The fact that he’d been a fucking asshole to you on top of it wasn’t lost on him. He shakes his head, cursing himself internally.
Way to alienate your allies, asshole.
In all fairness, he’d never known allies in administration. It was a constant fight to get the staff and supplies he and his team need to save lives, and no one ever seemed to give a shit. The almighty hospital Board of Directors always had the final say, and that final say was always “no”.
He’d hadn’t seen you around since that first encounter which wasn’t unusual, but had learned since you’d crossed paths that you were new to the hospital, a transfer from a smaller outfit in Boston. He’d stopped himself from seeking out any more information than that because quite frankly, the spark you’d ignited him during that briefest of conversations scared the shit out of him. He’d never experienced that kind of “kick straight to your fucking gut” attraction before, and he didn’t have the emotional capacity these days for anything other than one night stands. It was so much easier to avoid, his default coping mechanism.
And yet - and in spite of that and his shitty attitude - you’d solved a huge problem for him overnight. And he was nothing if not polite, at least when he wanted to be.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he heads back to the central desk and grabs a post-it and pen, scrawling a quick message as he says, “Hey, Dana?”
“Yeah, cap?”
“Tell Jack I’ll be a few minutes late. I have something I have to take care of.”
She raises an eyebrow at you but knows you well enough not to ask questions. “Sure thing, cap.”
He caps the pen, tossing it back onto the desk, and heads out of the Pitt towards the hospital cafeteria. He glances at his watch to confirm that he has time, that he won’t accidentally run into you, because he’s not ready for that. He doesn’t know if he ever will be. He doesn’t have the energy.
It’s not until he gets there that he realizes he has no fucking idea the way you like your coffee, so he stares dumbly at the options for a moment before settling on black, no nonsense, which is all he knows of you. He grabs a few creamers and packets of sugar just in case, pays for his purchase, and takes the elevator up to administration.
The floor is quiet, so quiet he can hear the hum of the fluorescent lights; administration staff doesn’t get in for another 15 minutes. Crossing the room to your office, he steps inside and glances around at the obligatory photos, presumably of your friends and family. In one of them you’re backlit by the sun with a man next to you, his arm slung around your shoulders, your head thrown back in the kind of carefree laugh it had been years since he’d been able to laugh.
His first thought: Christ, she’s beautiful.
The second: Of course she’s taken.
The thoughts, unbidden and visceral, take him by surprise and spur him into action. Shaking his head in an effort to dislodge them he places the coffee on your desk and the note on top before exiting your office, quietly closing the door behind him, and heading back down to the Pitt to start his day.
You arrive to work that morning to find a cup of coffee on your desk - black, just the way you like it - and a simple note, straight to the point, just the way he was.
Thanks. - Dr. Robby
You take a sip and sit down behind your desk, trying and failing miserably to hide your smile, taking a moment to savor the win. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were somehow, finally, right where you belonged.
( cont.of exhibit of his life. ) feat. doctor john carter (ER).
summary. after a nasty fall, you get sent to presby hospital rather than ptmc where you get treated by a doctor that eerily looks like your fiancé.
word count. 2.2k
content warnings. none, just fluff!
notes. this takes place after exhibit of his life, also i know that ER takes place in chicago (cook county hospital) but i'm having the ER gang work at presby for fanfic purposes thank you! also as always, medically inaccurate!
You should know better than to try and change the lightbulb in the study yourself; that's what your grumpy old fiancé is for. But said boyfriend is currently working his shift at the pitt (the nickname's rubbed off on you, much to Gloria's dismay once she's overheard you last week when you had dropped off Robby's lunch) and the flickering light above your desk is driving you insane.
So you enlist one of your older neighbors next door to hold the ladder for you, hoping this would be enough to avoid any mishaps. But mishaps occur anyways when sweet 65 year old Lillian had stepped away to grab lemonade for the both of you, only gone for five minutes, giving you ample time to lose your footing and fall off the ladder.
While it might've resulted in a sprained or broken ankle at worst, your shitty luck had you pitching forward towards the edge of a piece of blunt furniture before falling onto your back and your head landing onto the hardwood floors. It clips your hairline and while the sudden burst of pain has you seeing stars, your vision evens out and the pain lessens to a dull throb. You wince and settle back onto your ass as you gently touch the source before whimpering.
"Mrs. Robinavitch—!"
Lillian gasps as she rushes into the study, kneeling by your side, and the title has you chuckling weakly. "Not yet, Lils. We haven't even picked a date yet— Ow."
"I'm calling the ambulance," the sweet old woman says and before you can protest, you look at your fingertips when you had touched something wet upon your forehead. Blood. Immediately, your vision blurs and your stomach turns. Then the spots in your vision bloom and the world goes dark.
—
You come and go as the paramedics arrive, your sweet neighbor rattling off what she knows as you try to deny and refuse any help. The paramedics ignore you, attaches leads onto your chest as they flash a penlight in your eyes.
"Do you know your name?"
You mumble, your tongue heavy in your mouth. "… Robby…"
The world spins above you and when you come to, you're in a hospital bed but fortunately still in your own clothes. The sounds of the emergency room comes to life around you but while it all feels familiar, it all feels off— like entering your bedroom and the curtains are the wrong color.
"Mrs. Robinavitch, how are you feeling?"
The curtains slide open and an unfamiliar face enters your room. Blue scrubs, kind face. Your head tilts slightly; you'd figured Lillian would've told the paramedics to send you to the pitt but if you aren't recognizing anyone, panic threatens to settle in at the damage done from falling.
"I— Um. I'm okay," you manage as your gaze flits around the room, searching for anything that could look familiar. But your heartrate is starting to skyrocket and you raise your hands to stop the approaching nurse. "Just—can you give me a minute, please?"
The older nurse stops and gives you a warm smile, understanding laced in her next words. "Of course. My name's Lydia." When you remember your name, you offer it next. Lydia nods and plucks your chart from the foot of your bed, tapping through the iPad before the curtains shift and a new doctor steps in.
Your mouth goes dry. Now you're absolutely positive you must've scrambled your brains on the way down the ladder because right in front of you is a man that's the spitting image of your fiancé— only… ten years younger.
"Looks like you took quite a nasty fall," the handsome doctor smiles as he taps through the screen. "Your sweet old neighbor was smart to call the ambulance as quick as she did, you were losing a lot of blood."
The severity of your injury takes your notice first and you startle. "But I didn't fall that high… there wasn't that much blood when I fell at first. Are you sure?"
The doctor nods, sets the screen down to give you his full attention. It's enough to bring forth a blush; he looks so much like Michael. Behind the doctor, Lydia rolls her eyes goodnaturedly. There he goes, she thinks, charming another patient.
"Head wounds usually look a lot worse than they are but you sustained a minor concussion when you landed. Lillian said you hit your head on the way down," he tells you kindly. With the pain ebbing away from whatever they've given you, it gives you the bandwidth to realize how embarrassing it is to get sent to the hospital for a concussion for just attempting to change a lightbulb.
Before you could respond like a proper adult woman, you blurt out the next thing that comes to mind. "Your name isn't Michael, is it?"
An incredulous chuckle escapes him, cards a hand through his soft brown hair. Your eyes track the movement. "No, my name's Carter. Dr. John Carter. You know what, can you sit up for me?"
Your lashes flutter as you nod. Slowly, you pull away from the hospital pillows to sit up. "Are you sure?"
Lydia sighs and exits the room; she's worked with the young doctor for a good amount of time now, she knows when Dr. Carter's upping the charm for a pretty patient. He approaches your side and settles onto the edge of the bed.
"Am I sure of my own name?" Carter repeats with a soft laugh as his hands gently cradle your jaw. His hands are warm, smelling vaguely of antiseptic, as the pads of his fingertips apply pressure from the back of your head. "Yes, I'm quite sure. So, what happened?"
Your cheeks burn. "I was trying to change the lightbulb. I lost my footing on the ladder."
"Oh, well—it's a good thing you came in. Might've had a bigger injury," Dr. Carter murmurs and warmth returns to your cheeks but it's coming from his palm where he's cradling your jaw, his penlight coming up to gently flash in your eyes.
"I know, I know." You sigh as you blink away the slight spotting, a part of you missing the warmth of his hand before guilt takes a stab into your gut. Fortunately, you chalk it all to the fact that this young doctor looks eerily like your fiancé. "I learned my lesson. Wait 'til my fiancé gets home to do it. God, this just sets back feminism," you mutter dryly.
Dr. Carter laughs again. "No, there isn't anything wrong with waiting for someone else to do something in the name of safety. Fiancé, though? When's the special day?"
A flustered smile curls upon your lips. Pretty, John thinks. "We haven't picked a date yet. He just proposed like last month."
"Congratulations." Dr. Carter murmurs as he begins to edge off the bed. As he does so, Lydia returns but with a new man in tow. You perk up immediately, a glimmer in your eyes and a smile that nearly knocks John off his feet. But that smile is directed over his shoulder and when he gets up to face the newcomer, his eyes widen.
Michael Robinavitch is a storm when he enters, barely managing a quick thank you to the nurse that had greeted him at the front before she recognized his name as the one listed as your emergency contact. Lydia had barely been able to keep pace with his long legs as she guided him through Presby Hospital towards your room in the emergency department.
"Michael," you say in such adoration that John feels a stab of jealousy of the man that looks like an older version of him. "I thought you were at work—?"
Your fiancé shakes his head as he circles the bed, bypassing Dr. Carter, to cradle the back of your head before he lowers down to press a gentle kiss to your lips. "Drove straight here when Dana got a call that you were admitted into Presby for a concussion of all things. Peaches, what the hell happened?"
Your embarrassment returns full force. "I— The bulb in the study," you mutter sheepishly before Robby blinks twice, a fond chuckle curling along his lips as he shakes his head and pulls you in for a kiss to your nose.
"Sweetheart, I was gonna take care of that tonight when I got home," he tuts lightly before he gently takes your chin and lifts your head up. His hand flies up to his scrub pocket for his pen light but another appears in the corner of his eye. He pauses and glances aside to see the doctor offer his. "Hooooly shit."
Dr. Carter chuckles and nods. Both men rub the back of their necks in unison. Between them, you sit and stare in slight awe. "That's what I was thinking. I'm Dr. John Carter." He offers his hand across the bed to Robby.
Robby takes it with a shake. "I'm Dr. Michael Robinavitch."
"This is really fucking weird," you cut in and when both men turn their attention to you, your heart flutters. "Are you two not related?"
Your fiancé shakes his head as both hands drop and fall away, his body shifting to settle beside you with a gentle arm around your shoulders. You melt immediately, leaning your cheek into his soft stomach.
"I had a brother," Carter says with a quiet smile. "He passed when I was a kid, though. But no. No one else."
"Could just be one of those odd coincidences," Robby shrugs as he gently rubs your shoulder. "Very odd, though."
"Very."
A quiet and not-so-awkward silence follows so you cut in with a quiet clearing of your throat. "Can I go home now? I was told I only had a minor concussion."
"Yes, that's right. Sorry about that, I'll go ahead and get started on those discharge papers. Sit tight." Dr. Carter gives you both a terse smile before he exits, leaving you with Robby. When he's gone, your fiancé gives you a little wry grin.
"Did he flirt with you or somethin'?"
You splutter, "what—? No, I don't think so…?"
"Sweetheart, he was doing a head exam with less than a foot of space between you two." Robby raises his brow as he stays standing, your head tilting up to maintain eye contact. "I don't think he had to stand that close, let alone sit beside you."
Your cheek nuzzles into his palm, kissing his calloused skin there before a mischievous grin blooms across your features. "You're jealous."
Now it's his turn to splutter. "I don't get jealous."
"Yes, you do!" You laugh as you latch onto his reaction, digging your metaphorical heels in. "Honey, you got jealous when Mateo complimented my outfit the last time I came to visit you at work."
"He was staring, Peaches."
"The time before that, you got fussy with Jack when he walked me to my car after I dropped you off for work."
"… He pissed me off before you dropped me off, sweetheart."
You pause and fix him with a deadened glare which he had enough sense to buckle down and nod. Happy wife, happy life, he chants to himself.
"Alright, alright. I get… a little jealous," he mutters before he leans in for a stolen kiss, mumbling against your lips. "Could you blame me? My wife's a knockout."
"Not your wife yet, Robinavitch," you giggle teasingly against his lips.
"Don't tell me you're getting cold feet, Peaches."
You pull away to huff at your fiancé. "Definitely not. But I'll start having second thoughts if you can't even admit to being jealous—"
"Okay, yes—I was jealous that the doctor that creepily looks like a younger version of me was hitting on my wife. Would that be such a hard concept to understand?" Robby grumbles as he traces your jawline with his fingertip. He waits for your correction but it doesn't come. You see where he's coming from; although you've been together long enough that the age gap is irrelevant to you, you'd also feel uncomfortable if an older woman that looks just like you had been flirting with Robby.
"No, I see what you mean," you murmur as you kiss his palm once more. "But I really don't think he was flirting."
Robby fixes you with an incredulous look but he had no time to argue because Lydia's returning with discharge papers and sheets on aftercare— although she sees no reason why since you've got a whole doctor in your life that seems as though he'd go above and beyond for you.
Once everything's in order, Robby's got an arm around your waist (you had to fight him on getting a wheelchair for you) and your papers in his other hand. Lydia and another nurse— Carol—waves you goodbye. Down the hall, Carter's conversing with another doctor. When he sees you and Robby, he gives you two a wave before Robby guides you out back to his car.
—
Back inside Presby, Carter and Carol lean against the nurse's station as they watch Robby help you inside the passenger's seat. Carol sighs sweetly when Robby leans down to kiss you before he shuts the door.
"That's sweet," she murmurs.
Carter startles slightly. "Yeah, I guess."
When the older woman notices the way the doctor couldn't seem to look anyone in the eye, something sparkles in the nurse's eye. "And that ring, did you see it? That rock on her finger's just as big as my nail, I swear."
"Mhm."
"Carter, please tell me you did not flirt with that woman even after you've seen that ring?"
He flips through another patient's chart, staunchly keeping quiet.
Carol releases a scandalized gasp. "John—!"
thank you for reading! likes, reblogs, and replies are heavily appreciated! ♡
Summary: A broken boiler, a freezing apartment, and one terrified toddler send you running straight into Michael’s arms. Cold hands, warm blankets, whispered confessions, and a single word that changes everything. Tonight, for the first time, you don’t have to do any of it alone. Tonight, you stay.
Your shift is barely an hour in when the clerk knocks on the break room door.
“Hey, uh… someone’s here for you.”
Your stomach drops.
Parents don’t get called out of shifts unless something’s wrong.
You push through the ED doors and see your babysitter standing at triage, coat still on, hair dusted with snow, looking frazzled and apologetic.
She’s holding Dottie (your two year old daughter) who is bundled like a burrito in two blankets, cheeks red, eyes tired.
Your babysitter sighs as soon as she sees you.
“I’m so, so sorry to bring her here, but… your apartment is freezing. I can see my breath in the living room. I’m not getting paid enough to keep her warm in a walk-in freezer. Respectfully.”
You blink, stunned.
“I— I had the thermostat up when I left. It shouldn’t be—”
“It’s not working,” she says firmly. “I called maintenance twice. Nothing. She started shivering, and I’m not sitting with a toddler in a twenty-degree apartment.”
Dottie lifts her head from the blanket.
Her lower lip trembles.
“Mommy…”
You take her immediately, tucking her against your chest.
Her hands are ice-cold even through the sleeves. Her little fingers are so cold they feel wet, like she’s been holding ice cubes.
Your heart cracks.
“Oh, baby. You’re so cold.”
She presses her face into your scrub top, making a tiny noise that sounds half-whimper, half-relief.
Your babysitter adjusts her bag, still apologizing.
“I really am sorry. If it was just me, I’d tough it out, but she’s little. And she kept asking for you.”
You shake your head quickly. “No, you did the right thing. Thank you for bringing her here.”
“She ate dinner,” the sitter adds. “But she refused to go to bed. She kept saying she didn’t like the cold.”
Your throat tightens.
“Thank you,” you say again, softer this time. “Get home safe.”
She leaves with a sympathetic grimace. You carry Dottie toward an empty family room near the waiting area and settle into a chair with her in your lap. The warm ED air is already helping, but she’s still trembling under the blankets.
You smooth her hair back from her forehead.
“It’s okay, honey. I’m here now. We’re warm. You’re okay.”
Dottie shakes her head, eyes glossy.
“Cold,” she sniffles. “No like cold, Mommy.”
You pull the blanket up around her ears. “I know, sweetheart. Mommy’s got you.”
But inside, panic churns.
Heat outages happen, but never like this.Never when you’re not home.
Not when she’s this little.
You try calling maintenance.
Straight to voicemail.
You try the emergency line.
The emergency line picks up, finally. A bored voice says, “Yeah, we know about the building. Boiler’s shot. No update yet. Have a good weekend.”
Dottie shifts in your lap and whispers, voice tiny and hoarse:
“Want Mikey…”
Your chest squeezes painfully.
“I know, baby. He’s working too. We’ll see him soon.”
She burrows closer into you, her breath warm on your collarbone.
Then, in that sleepy, unfiltered toddler way, she mumbles:
“Papa… wanna Papa…”
You freeze.
Your heart jumps into your throat.
She doesn’t know what she said.
She’s half-asleep, overwhelmed, cold, seeking comfort.
But the word lands with the weight of a hundred unspoken truths.
You kiss the top of her head, breathing through the ache.
“It’s okay, baby,” you whisper. “You’re safe.”
She curls tighter against your chest.
And that’s when a familiar voice calls your name from the hallway sounding urgent, breathless, scared.
Michael.
You hold Dottie a little closer as his footsteps get louder.
Michael’s cutting through the ED hallway, warm blanket in hand, when he glances into the family room and stops dead.
You’re there.
Sitting stiffly on one of those awful plastic chairs, shoulders curled protectively around a bundle in your lap.
His heart stutters.
That’s Dottie.
Blankets wrapped around her.
Face blotchy and tired.
Little hands red from cold.
He pushes the door open without thinking.
“Hey,” he breathes. “Are you—?”
You look up and he sees it instantly:
You’re not okay.
Before he can say another word, Dottie stirs at the sound of his voice.
Her eyes blink open, unfocused, heavy with exhaustion… and then she recognizes him.
Her whole face crumples.
“Paaapaaa…”
It’s not loud.
Not excited.
It’s a broken, tiny, relieved cry, a toddler’s instinctive reaching for the safest person in the room.
Michael’s lungs seize.
She reaches her trembling arms out toward him.
He drops the blanket he was holding.
“Oh— sweetheart,” he murmurs, falling to his knees beside you, hands already moving. “C’mere, baby. C’mere.”
You shift her toward him and she immediately latches onto his scrubs, burying her face in his neck like she’s been waiting for this.
Dottie is plastered to his chest, tiny face buried under his jaw like she’s trying to hide from the entire world.
Her sniffles are quiet, exhausted, trembling little things that hit Michael harder than any trauma alarm ever has.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, rocking her gently. “You’re safe now.”
But she’s still shaking.
Still cold.
And still clinging to him with both fists twisted in his scrub top, refusing to loosen her grip even for a second.
He turns to you.
“What happened?”
You wipe at your eyes, shoulders tight with guilt and fear.
“I had Natalie pick her up from daycare,” you say weakly. “She was supposed to watch her while I worked tonight. I didn’t—God, Michael, I didn’t know the heat was out. When I left, it was a little chilly but— I didn’t know.”
Michael’s stomach twists.
Of course you didn’t.
You work twelve-hour shifts.
You weren’t home.
You had no reason to suspect your apartment was turning into a refrigerator.
But Dottie whimpers again, a soft, broken, “Mmm… cold…”and that’s when something old and dangerous wakes up inside him.
He steps toward the warmer.
“We’re heating her up,” he says, tone snapping into medical mode before he can stop it.
You follow closely, wringing your hands.
He sets out a pediatric blanket from the warmer, checks the temperature against his cheek, and nods. “Okay. Warm enough.”
He tries to peel back the cold blanket she’s wrapped in—
And she LOSES it.
“No!” Dottie cries, clutching the blanket with both hands. “No, Papa! No take it! Mine!”
Michael freezes.
Her voice is panicked.
Not bratty.
Not stubborn.
Scared.
“Hey, hey…” he soothes, heart twisting. “I’m not taking it away forever. I’m giving you a warmer one, sweetheart.”
But she shakes her head violently and tries to crawl even further into him, actually tries to burrow into his coat, tiny fingers clawing at the fabric like she’s searching for a place to hide.
Michael’s chest cracks open.
He gathers her in tighter, one hand splaying protectively over the back of her head.
“Oh baby… I know. I know you’re scared.”
His voice trembles.
He doesn’t even try to hide it.
You choke back a sob.
“She’s never acted like this,” you whisper. “She never clings like this. Not even when she’s sick.”
“She’s cold-stressed,” Michael says softly, rubbing her back in slow circles. “She’s confused. She thinks the blanket is what kept her safe, so she doesn’t want to lose it.”
You nod, crying quietly now.
“I should’ve known,” you whisper. “I should’ve texted Natalie, or checked the thermostat at lunch, or—”
“Stop.”
Michael’s voice is gentle but firm.
He steps closer to you, Dottie still curled into him like a trembling little koala.
“You didn’t know,” he says. “You weren’t there. And you trusted the heat in your own home—like anyone would. You did nothing wrong.”
“But she was freezing—”
“And she’s WARMING now.”
He angles Dottie slightly so he can slide the warm blanket between her and the cold one, layering them instead of removing the first.
The second the heat touches her back, she gasps softly, then melts into full-body relaxation, head limp on his shoulder, fingers unclenching just enough for him to adjust the blankets.
He exhales shakily.
“There you go, sweetheart,” he whispers. “That’s better, isn’t it? Papa’s got you.”
Dottie nods against his throat, tiny voice hoarse:
“Papa warm…”
Michael’s eyes close.
He doesn’t correct her.
He couldn’t if he tried.
He looks at you, your blotchy cheeks, your shaking hands, your guilt, your love for your daughter twisting inside you like a knife….
Dottie lifts one little hand from his collar…
and reaches blindly toward you.
Not to go to you.
But to pull you in.
She wants both of you.
Together.
Your breath stutters as you step closer, pressing your forehead to Dottie’s back, your hand braced against Michael’s arm.
He wraps that arm around you too.
Because in this moment, there’s no distance.
No maybe.
No hesitation.
Just a freezing toddler who trusts him with her whole heart and her mother who didn’t deserve to feel alone for one second.
Michael swallows hard.
“All three of us,” he murmurs. “We’re gonna get through this. Together.”
Dottie is finally warm.
Finally calm.
Finally breathing soft, steady little breaths against his neck.
But she hasn’t loosened her grip for even a second.
Not one.
She’s fused to him, little arms hooked around his collar, tiny fingers curled in his scrubs, legs locked around his waist like she’s anchoring herself to the safest place she knows.
You’re watching them with a complicated look of guilt, relief, exhaustion, something else tangled beneath it.
That’s when Michael says it:
“You’re not going back to the apartment tonight.”
Your stance stiffens.
“Mikey—”
“Nope.”
He cuts you off, tone low, controlled, but edged.
He shifts Dottie higher against his chest when she whines sleepily.
“You’re not sleeping in that place until the heat is fixed.”
“It’ll get fixed,” you insist. “Maintenance always—”
He actually laughs.
A short, humorless sound.
“Maintenance left a two-year-old in a twenty-degree apartment.”
You flinch.
He steps closer.
Not aggressive but certain.
“You’re going to work a twelve-hour night shift,” he says quietly, “and then what? Go home to a meat locker?”
You open your mouth.
“And don’t,” he warns, “say you’ll ‘bundle up.’ Don’t insult both of us like that.”
Your breath hitches from the shock of his tone, from the truth in it, from the way it hits you square in the chest.
“Mikey, I’m not helpless,” you whisper.
“And I’m not asking you to be,” he snaps back with soft volume, sharp words. “I’m asking you not to be reckless.”
You blink hard, stung.
“I’ve been doing this alone for a long time,” you whisper. “I know how to take care of us.”
Michael’s jaw works, face flashing with anger, fear, heartbreak, all of it tightening under his skin.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “You have. And it’s killing you that you still think you have to.”
Your eyes go wet.
He shifts Dottie again, one hand splayed protectively across her back, the other hovering like he wants to touch you but isn’t sure you’ll let him.
His voice softens but the sternness stays.
“I’m not telling you to depend on me,” he says. “I’m telling you to stop pretending you don’t need anyone.”
Your breath catches.
“Michael…”
“No,” he says, firmer now. “Listen to me.”
He closes the distance between you, Dottie’s warm little body pressed between your chests as he leans down enough to look you dead in the eyes.
“If you go back there,” he says, voice low and rough, “you’re putting yourself and her in danger. And I will not sit here and watch you do that because you’re afraid letting me help means you’re weak.”
A tear slips down your cheek.
He wipes it before you can.
“You’re not weak,” he murmurs. “You’re exhausted. And proud. And stubborn. And doing your best alone when you don’t have to anymore.”
You open your mouth to argue and nothing comes out except a sound that’s half-sob, half-laugh, because he’s right and you’re so fucking tired, and you hate that he can see it
You swallow hard.
“And I’ve been asking you,” he continues, quieter now but no less intense, “to move in with me for months. Not because I want control. Because I want you. I want her. I want a life where neither of you ever has to choose between independence and survival.”
Your breath shakes.
“Mikey…”
He takes a slow breath, then lays it out plainly:
“You are not going back there tonight.”
You open your mouth, but Dottie lifts her head just enough to whimper:
“Papa house…. wanna Papa house”
Both of you freeze.
Michael closes his eyes like the words hit him directly in the heart.
When he opens them again, his voice is softer but still unwavering.
“Come home with me tonight,” he says. “Both of you.”
You stand there, trembling with the weight of everything, your pride, your fear, your instinct to protect her, your instinct to protect yourself.
Finally, voice small:
“Okay. Just tonight.”
He nods once, but you see the disappointment flicker.
So you add carefully:
“If maintenance fixes the heat before the weekend… we stay at our place. Just until it’s safe.”
His jaw tightens.
“And if they don’t?”
You meet his eyes with something braver, something steadier:
“Then Monday ,our next day off, me and Dot come make your house a home.”
Michael’s breath leaves him in one shaky exhale.
“…You mean that?”
You nod.
“I mean it.”
He steps forward, forehead touching yours, Dottie sandwiched warm and safe between you.
His voice is barely a whisper.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “We start tonight.”
The shift ends with Michael still carrying Dottie.
Still.
Like the entire twelve hours were just one long, continuous toddler-wearing endurance challenge.
You push through the employee exit with him, rubbing your eyes.
“Okay, seriously,” you mutter, “how did she get away with being held your whole shift? Anyone else would’ve gotten yelled at by charge.”
Michael’s mouth curves slowly, smug, infuriating.
“Being an attending has its perks,” he says lightly.
You snort.
“Michael.”
“What?”
He shrugs like it’s obvious.
“She didn’t want to be put down. I wasn’t going to traumatize a toddler on a cold-stress night because someone might complain I’m rounding with a barnacle attached to me.”
You roll your eyes, but your mouth softens.
“She really wouldn’t let go?”
“She screamed if I even leaned forward.”
He shifts her gently, her small body still melted against his chest.
“I think my spine fused to hers at some point.”
“She loves you,” you whisper.
He looks at you for one lingering second, too long, too tender, before he unlocks the car.
By the time you reach his house, Dottie is still asleep and still clinging, one fist knotted in his scrub top like a tiny hostage-taker with no intention of negotiating.
Michael steps inside first.
You follow and stop cold.
Because there’s a room.
A whole room.
Lights dimmed, decorated softly.
A toddler bed with a quilt.
Stuffed animals arranged neatly.
A nightlight casting warm gold across the walls.
A bookshelf with board books.
And on the dresser?
A framed picture of you and Dottie at the pumpkin patch.
And another of Dottie on Michael’s shoulders at the zoo.
Your breath leaves your lungs.
“Michael,” you whisper, “this is… when did you do all this?”
He adjusts Dottie on his shoulder, refusing to meet your eyes.
“I—had time,” he mutters. “I started it the week you told me you were keeping separate places ‘for now,’” he admits, not meeting your eyes. “Figured if I finished it… maybe you’d never leave.”
But the tips of his ears flush pink.
He’s embarrassed.
Scared.
Hopeful.
God.
You step into the doorway, unable to stop staring.
“Mikey… this is beautiful.”
He finally lays Dottie on the bed as gently as human fingers can manage.
She curls instantly into the quilt, body seeking warmth, still clutching his finger.
And when he tries to pull away, her little voice cracks in a barely-there whine:
“No go… stay…”
He sinks to one knee beside the bed again.
“I’m right here,” he murmurs.
Then soft as breath, quiet as prayer he leans down and presses a long kiss to the top of her head.
And he says it. “I love you,” he whispers.
Not loud.
Not meant for anyone but her.
Not something performative or planned.
A truth escaping because he can’t hold it in anymore.
“Wuv you, Papa.” Dottie murmurs back half-asleep
He wasn’t supposed to hear it yet. He tears up instantly, looks at you like he’s been caught stealing something sacred. You just nod, eyes wet, and mouth: “She means it.”
His eyes widen like he’s just realized he stepped off a cliff.
“I—” he stammers, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean— I mean, I did, but— I shouldn’t have said that without— I don’t know if that’s crossing a line— I didn’t mean to overstep—”
“Mikey,” you say softly.
He swallows hard, terrified now.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I know she’s yours. I know I’m just— I didn’t want to confuse her or make you feel like I’m trying to take a place that isn’t mine.”
You step up beside him.
Not touching him yet.
Just close enough for your voice to reach him without the room hearing.
“You didn’t cross a line,” you say softly.
He looks up at you, he’s uncertain, raw, hopeful in a way that hurts.
“She loves you,” you continue. “She chose you. Today of all days? You’re the person she clung to.”
You gesture gently at the toddler burrito still gripping Michael’s finger.
“She feels safe with you. That’s not something you forced. That’s something you earned.”
His breath catches.
“And,” you add softly, “I knew you loved me. But hearing you say it to her… Michael, that’s different.”
Now his expression shifts entirely.
Not embarrassed.
Not scared.
Just vulnerable.
“I do,” he whispers.
You blink.
He steadies himself.
“I love you,” he says, voice shaking.
“And I love her. I didn’t know if I was allowed to say it yet, but… I do.”
And then, finally, you touch him, fingertips brushing the side of his face, slow and unsure and perfect.
“Of course you’re allowed,” you whisper.
His eyes close.
He leans into your hand.
And behind him, half-asleep, Dottie sighs contentedly, like she’s been waiting for this moment longer than either of you.
You don’t remember falling asleep.
One minute Michael was covering you with a throw blanket on the couch, his voice soft as he said, “Sleep. I’ll keep an eye on her.”
Hours have passed.
The house is dim.
The nightlight from Dottie’s room spills a warm glow into the hallway.
And the faint sound of toddler giggles pulls you awake.
You stretch, disoriented, until memory hits.
Heat outage.
Cold apartment.
ED.
Dottie clinging like she’d drown without Michael.
Michael’s room.
Michael whispering I love you to your daughter.
You sit up slowly.
And that’s when you see them.
Michael’s living room has turned into a toddler Olympics arena.
Dottie is in pajama pants and one sock (one… WHERE is the other?), hair sticking up from her nap, cheeks flushed from sleep and mischief.
Michael is on all fours on the rug, letting her climb on his back like a very tired, very patient jungle gym.
He makes an exaggerated groan as she tries to stand.
“Whoa, that’s a big jump, Dot. I’m not a trampoline—”
“YES PAPA TRAMPOLINE,” she declares, bouncing.
You snort.
Michael looks over at you and his entire face softens.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just gives you that quiet, relieved smile like seeing you awake is the final confirmation that you’re all actually here, safe, warm, together.
“Hey,” he says softly. “How’d you sleep?”
You rub your eyes. “Like someone tranquilized me.”
He laughs warmly, “Good. You needed it.”
Dottie spots you from atop Mount Michael and shrieks:
“MAMA YOU AWAKE!!!”
Then she tries to leap off Michael’s back toward you.
He catches her mid-plummet with a reflex so fast it’s practically medical instinct.
“Whoa! No flying, Dot. Mama doesn’t have trauma gear on.”
She wiggles in his arms, full-body excitement.
“Come play!”
Your heart stutters, because this, THIS right here, is the moment you always told yourself you couldn’t have.
Quiet.
Domestic.
A man who loves your child like she’s his entire universe.
A home that feels like home.
Imperfect and alive.
You clear your throat. “Give me two seconds. I have to call maintenance.”
Michael groans.
Dottie imitates him dramatically.
“Papa do it,” she says, patting his cheek.
You raise a brow. “He’s not calling to yell at my landlord.”
Michael mutters, “I absolutely am.”
You pull out your phone and dial.
Three rings.
Four.
Five.
A tinny voicemail recording picks up:
‘You have reached Ridgeview Apartments Maintenance Office. Leave a message.’
You let out a laugh that isn’t humorous at all.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Michael stands, shifting Dottie onto his hip like it’s second nature.
“They didn’t call you back?”
“Nope.”
He stares at you for a long, steady beat.
Then he says, confidently:
“They’re not fixing it tonight.”
You exhale. “Probably not.”
“Or tomorrow.”
“Probably not,” you admit again.
“Or by the weekend.”
Your shoulders drop. “Yeah.”
“So,” he says, stepping fully into your space , but not close enough to trap you, just enough for warmth to bridge the inches between you, “that gives us one option.”
You lift your chin.
“You’re really gonna hold me to that deal?”
Michael glances at Dottie, who has started chewing on his collarbone for absolutely no discernible reason.
He sighs again.
“Yeah. I am.”
Dottie pats his cheek. “Papa home.”
And it hits you again how effortlessly she loves him.
How effortlessly he loves her.
How effortlessly you could all slip into this life.
He lowers his voice.
“You two stay here. All week. No going back there until heat is fixed. And Monday…” He swallows once. “Monday we make this official.”
Your stomach flips.
Not with fear.
With relief.
With want.
With the truth you’ve been running from.
Dottie wiggles, reaching for you now.
“Mama sit. Mama read book!”
You laugh tired, warm, heart aching in a good way.
Michael watches you both with something soft and terrified and hopeful in his eyes.
You settle onto the couch with Dottie in your lap, her curly head tucked under your chin. She hands you a board book upside down.
Michael flops onto the rug dramatically.
“Fine. I’ll be the floor parent. Again.”
You roll your eyes affectionately.
“You like being the floor parent.”
“Yeah,” he says, grabbing a stuffed elephant and making it dance for Dottie. “I really do.”
Dottie shrieks with laughter.
You look at her.
Then at him.
And the truth settles in your chest like something warm finally thawing.
This isn’t perfect.
This isn’t planned.
This isn’t easy.
But it’s real.
It’s home.
You flip open a board book and settle in.
“Alright, circle time,” you announce. “Who’s ready for a story?”
Dottie raises both hands like she’s at a concert.
Michael raises one.
“This feels targeted,” he mutters. “Why do I have to sit crisscross applesauce?”
“You’re the one who agreed to floor parent duty,” you remind him.
He grumbles something that sounds like, “Attending doesn’t cover this,” but Dottie pats his cheeks and he melts instantly.
You begin reading in your best cheerful storyteller voice.
Dottie is laser-focused.
Michael pretends he isn’t, but you see him mouthing the words with you by page three. At some point, Dottie crawled into Michael’s lap.
Twenty minutes pass like this cozy, silly, and peaceful.
And then, without warning
Dottie freezes mid-bounce.Blink.Blink.
She slumps backward into Michael’s chest like a puppet with cut strings.
He catches her automatically.
“Oh—?” Michael glances down. “Dot? You alive?”
No response.
Just a toddler who has achieved instant REM sleep.
Completely limp.
Mouth open.
One arm dangling dramatically.
Head on his shoulder.
Dead to the world.
You snort.
Michael stares at her in disbelief.
“She was JUST yelling,” he whispers. “Was this… was this a power failure?”
“It’s called being two,” you say. “Their battery goes from 100% to ‘system shutting down’ without warning.”
He shifts her carefully, her arms flopping like a ragdoll.
He softens immediately, brushing a thumb over her cheek.
“Hey, baby girl…” he murmurs. “You tired?”
She snores softly in answer.
You press your hand over your mouth, choking on how cute and how heartbreaking it is.
Michael gently lowers her off his lap to the rug, laying her on the blanket you spread earlier.
He adjusts her the way only someone who has watched you parent and learned every move by heart knows how to do, tucks her hair behind her ear, fixes her pajama leg, sets her elephant toy beside her.
Then he sighs deeply. He yawns so wide his jaw cracks. “I’m not tired, I’m—”
Thud.
He’s out cold mid-sentence, still in his work clothes..
Face-first.
Next to her.
Right on the rug.
He doesn’t even try to get up onto the couch.
Doesn’t adjust.
Doesn’t say anything witty.
He’s down.
And one second later?
He snores.
Loudly.
Like someone turned on a chainsaw inside a bear.
You cover your mouth again to keep from laughing out loud.
“Hopeless,” you whisper.
He snorts mid-snore.
Like he’s arguing in his sleep.
You slide off the couch and sit on the rug between them.
Dottie is curled on her side, thumb in her mouth, one tiny foot resting on Michael’s ribs.
Michael is starfished on his back like a man who has accepted defeat.
One hand still lightly touching Dottie’s arm — even unconscious, he’s making sure she’s close.
You pull the throw blanket over both of them.
The room is warm and dim and quiet.
And looking at them , your daughter safe and warm,
the man you love snoring like a dying tractor,
their bodies touching even in sleep….
You feel something settle deep in your chest.
Something like peace.
Something like belonging.
Something like home.
You whisper, barely audible:
“My family.”
And from the floor, in the middle of a snore cycle, Michael mumbles something that sounds like:
“Mmh… ours…”
Your heart flips.
You lean down, kiss the top of Dottie’s curls, then Michael’s temple.
He stirs just enough to mumble, eyes still closed, “Stay.”
You whisper back, “We’re not going anywhere.”
A/N: Confession: I’ve been dying to give Michael a soft little baby to love, and Dottie has fully taken over my brain. If you want more scenes of her calling him “Papa,” clinging to him, or just absolutely owning his entire heart… say the word.
I have zero self-control and would happily write a mini-series about them. 😭🧸❄️
This is a slightly weird request but if there are any SPN fans who have read my Life's Lessons Saga (the sequel specifically) and have also seen The Fantastic Four: First Steps, could y'all please DM me? I'd love your help with something in relation to the sequel and how it may continue!
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.
I’m not sure if any of the below are still active, or still want to be tagged but I’m just going on my old tag list from about 3 years ago! If you’d like me to remove you, please let me know ❤️
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."
