a/n: super short, not proofread, probably bad but it's okay
It was about 12:37am when you woke up. You body was hot. You felt restless.
You twisted your head, looking to see where you husband was. He was not beside you.
That's when you realized the shifting underneath the sheets.. and then the heat between your legs.
A sudden lick through your cunt told you everything you needed to know. You whimpered softly, hips bucking without your consent.
"Ry-?"
"Mm..?" A hum vibrated through your skin, causing your body to tremble.
You lifted the comforter only to find your husband between your legs, staring up at you.
"Ryland what're you doing, baby?"
His cheeked flushed a little.
"I... can't figure something out.. I need to relax."
You laughed sleepily.
He had just gotten home. You were asleep then. He was helping out with the whole astrophage problem so that meant coming home late and working from home sometimes.
It was one of those nights.
He must've been exhausted. That being why he couldn't figure out whatever he needed to figure out. His outlet was always eating you out.
When he did, his brain completely relaxed. He could let go and think freely. Plus he knew you liked it.
"I'm sorry I.. I didn't want to wake you up. I just.. need to let me brain relax..."
"Baby, come here.." You said, looking down at him sympathetically.
He pulled back from your legs reluctantly and settled beside you. Lying by your side.
You pressed a hand to his cheek.
"You're working yourself too hard, baby."
"I know.. I just.. I want to help."
You nodded. "I know, honey, but you should be asleep right now... not worried about something you can figure out tomorrow."
"You're right.." He said. "This thing just.. particularly stumped me. I want to figure it out or.. I probably won't sleep at all."
You sighed. "Oh my sweet boy." You pressed a kiss to his lips. "Always so hard at work."
He nodded, humming as he pressed his lips to your temple.
The two of you were silent for a moment.
"I missed you today.." He said, brushing your hair behind your ear.
"I missed you too..." You looked up at him. "I wish you'd take just one break. I know this whole astrophage thing is serious, but.. so is your mental health."
He nodded. "I will. I already talked to Stratt about it. I need some more time with you."
You smiled. "That's good."
He nodded again and sighed.
"Hm?" You asked. The sigh sounded like it was from frustration.
"Still stuck on that problem."
You laughed softly, shaking your head.
"You're such a silly man."
He pouted. "What, for needing a little help to relax? Needing to have a little bit of a stress reliever?"
"Not the fact that you need a stress reliever, but the fact that your stress reliever can sometimes involve eating out your wife who is in a deep slumber."
He shook his head. "Don't judge me."
You giggled softly. "I'm not judging you.. just observing."
He hummed against your head. Silence settling over you two as you had your own silent thoughts.
"So..... Can I..?" He asked.
You looked up at him. "Can you what?" You asked, teasing.
"Finish what I was doing..?"
"And what was that?"
He groaned. "Babyyy."
"Hm?"
"Don't make me say it."
"You woke me from my sleep, Ry. I think it's fair."
He groaned again, but sighed. "Can I finish fucking you with my tongue? Finish this problem?"
His sudden boldness made you shiver. But you nodded, of course. "Yes, you may.."
"Mm thankyouthankyouthankyou" He mumbled, moving to lay on his back now, however.
"Please, come sit on my face." He asked.
"Ry-" You had only done this once before. You were terrified of suffocating him.
"Please." He asked, looking at you.
You sighed. You had to admit the thought aroused you. So, you sat up and sectioned yourself on top of his face.
He was quick. The second he felt your warm, wet pussy on his face, he started making out with it.
You whimpered, hips bucking into his face, causomg his nose to bump against your clit.
His glasses were beginning to fogging as he devoured you. His tounge now sliding in and out of your hole.
"Mm-" he mumbled something. It was inaudible, of course, just sending a vibration through your pussy.
You held onto the headboard in front of you as you rose his face, feeling every little thing.
"Oh my god-" You moaned.
Ryland took that as a sign and he continued doing exactly what caused the sound to spill from your lips.
He seemed to be spaced out, but in a good way. Probably pussy drunk. The one thing that helped him the most.
Even though he was very set on figuring out what he needed to, he couldn't focus tonight. The sounds you were making drove him wild. It was causing his pants to tighten.
He whined into you, it making you shiver.
Your legs began to squeeze against his face, so he wrapped his arms around your thighs and held them, continuing his relentless licking and sucking.
He mumbled again, something along the lines of "Yeah that's it baby-" and "Good girl, ride my face, use me."
You were trembling.
"Ryryry-" You whimpered. "I'm gonna cum-"
He nodded. One of his arms moved from your thigh to your surprise. He slid it down his body, only to shove his hand under his sweatpants.
He began to stroke himself. Already whimpering as if he had already reached his climax.
"Ry-!" Your hips twitched.
You came, eyes rolling back.
He didn't stop.
He kept fucking you through your orgasm, but kept going anyways.
You didn't know what he was doing behind you. Didn't know why he was whining so much.
He just kept fucking you with his tongue, sucking your clit, swiping through your folds. Everything.
He began to moan into you, and only then did you feel the soft jerking of his hand.
The fact that he got hard from simply eating you out drove you crazy.
You only reached your next orgasm after a minute or so after, him groaning into you as you slid yourself back and forth on his face. He came, making an absolute mess in his pants.
The two of you were panting softly, but he quickly switched into aftercare mode. He helped you off his face, helping you lay down before pulling you into his chest.
"R'you okay, sweetheart?" He asked.
You nodded, now more exhausted than before.
"Get some rest.." He said, brushing his hand gently through your hair.
The two of you fell asleep together, completely a mess.
This one was a little harder to make, because on one hand I wanted to include pictures that would have Princess' hand or legs, but on the other hand I'm adamant on keeping it neutral so that anyone can identify with Reader.
thinking about frank castle with a girl who’s just so shy…
One of Franks favorite things in the whole world is your giggle. When you get all shy and embarrassed and giddy and bashful and he calls you out on it, every single time, you’ll hide your face and giggle your sweet little giggle.
You’d do it now, if he were to wake you up, but that’s the last thing he’d ever think of doing. Your eyes blink open anyways, though, and he watches you rub them with a sleepy little groan. Your breath hitches and your head turns when his big fingers push your messy hair off your forehead.
“Mornin’ pretty girl,”
You smile, bashful and still half asleep, while you wrap around his bare chest. He’s always so warm, and his heartbeat pumping in your ear has you lulling back to sleep.
“Tired?” His voice murmurs, while he drags a paw over your cheek. You nod against him, snuggling closer. “Yeah, baby? I tire you out, huh?”
There it is.
You whine his name, covered by giggles, while stuffing your face into the crevice between his arm and stomach, embarrassed like he hasn’t had you worn out and out of breath, laying in bed with legs you didn’t know could shake that much.
“Oh,” He laughs, grinning down at you. “Ain’t gotta be embarrassed. Just me, just your man.”
His hands cup your head and pry you out of hiding.
“Just your Frankie.” Then, just to see you flush again, while his fingers hold your jaw and sweep over your face, he adds, quiet and soft, “Look so pretty all flushed, no reason to hide fr’m me. Think I had you lookin’ a lot worse for wear last night, this ain’t nothin’ to be blushin’ ‘bout.”
“Frank!” You repeat, rolling over to the other side of the bed while your hands cover your face and the smile that you can’t force away.
“Baby,” He chases after you, chastising you with puppy-dog eyes and an ear-to-ear grin. “C’mon,”
“You’re dirty, Frank,” You let him push you back against his side anyways.
“Oh, am I? Am I, my dirty girl?” He’s murmuring down at you, holding you close and tight enough that there’s no where else to hide. “Gets so shy, like she ain’t just as nasty, my sweet, dirty baby.”
“Frank,” You whine once more, quieter, and maybe just a little bit needy. It’s his fault; he can’t talk like that and expect nothing! He grins again, delivering a swift and forceful kiss to your lips.
“There she is,” He pulls back, holding you against his chest. “My girl already wantin’ some more from me?”
“Frank!” His laughter bellows through the small bedroom. God, there isn’t anything that he loves more than this.
olderbf!frank who is an avid sidewalk rule follower. He is always on the outside, guiding you or holding your hand, making sure you're out of harm's way.
olderbf!frank is the type to tie your shoes for you, hearing the soft clinks of shoelaces on the pavement, stopping in his tracks to bend down on the dirty floor and tapping your leg when he’s done. Even plants a little kiss on your head for good measure before walking again.
olderbf!frank is always near you. You’re always in his line of sight, and if he can’t see you or you’re off on your own, your location is pulled up on his phone and his check-ins are hourly. He doesn’t care what you’re doing, just that you’re safe. The world is a scary place, and he’ll be dammned if he let anything hurt you.
olderbf!frank who brings you gifts or things that you like with a grunt. Sure, he got you your favourite breakfast, but he went on a walk for himself, and it happened to be right there. He never makes a big deal out of anything; it’s just what you deserve.
olderbf!frank who never raises his voice at you. He’s an angry man, and he has a right to be, but with you, he’s always soft, gentle. He’ll listen to your frustrations and rants about him or the world and never raise his voice.
olderbf!frank, who is always touching you with his hands on you, on the couch, your feet in his lap as his hands rub soft circles into your legs absentmindedly as he watches whatever is on the TV.
olderbf!frank who always does the household chores for you: dishes, cooking, cleaning. You name it, and he does it. Breakfast in bed at least once a week, and the fridge is always stocked with your favorites because he's an attentive man.
olderbf!frank who strictly calls you sweetheart, honey, my girl. The sweetheart started as a joke, back before you guys were dating. It pissed you off the way he said it so condescending but over time, over all the coffee and late-night calls, it became serious, sincere; now it was all he'd ever call you.
olderbf!frank who is very secretive about you. Sure, he mentions you to a select few, but his number one priority was keeping you safe from the dangers he knew were out there.
olderbf!frank, who takes your heels off after date night, after warning you they hurt. He doesn't say I told you so, just undoes the clasp, slipping off the expensive heels from your feet, massaging them for you.
olderbf!frank who loves to get you tipsy, giving you sips of his scotch while you guys lounge around, loving the way you get needy, sucking his neck, leaving a trail of hickeys in your wake. The way you tug his hair while his hands explore your body, as he groans into you.
Summary: Andy has worked hard to clean up his family's name and reputation from the damage inflicted by his father. He's currently at the stage where he needs a wife if he's to maintain his image of perfection.
A/N: Reader is female. No other physical descriptors used.
Warnings: Abusive parents, Family stress. Please let me know if I missed any!
Previous--Next
Part of the Royal Vows AU.
Andy considers the invitation from the Marquis. He might not be the best at social cues, but he's fairly certain this invitation to dinner is also an introduction to the man's daughter. Andy's research on the family has shown good things. The family's history was clean, if a little power hungry. And their title of "Marquis" wasn't so far below his own station that he would have to worry about further bringing down his own family name.
He's also seen photos of you and, somehow, you always look picture perfect, photo-ready. He's not sure your secret, but he likes the idea that you'll help his image.
Taking out his stationery, Andy decides to accept the invitation and hopes he's correct that he'll be introduced to you.
A small, but rich, dinner is planned out. As always when there is a guest, your parents seek to impress with small doses of perfection. Father would say that anyone can hide a number of flaws behind a gaudy display. Keeping things small and simple makes it easier to see the perfection. Maybe that's why you'd always been taught to keep yourself small around others.
After the dinner you would all go to the parlor where your harp skills would be put to the test. You were literally auditioning for the role of Duchess with Duke Barber as the decider of your fate. Mother has been making you practice more, "just to be sure." Your fingers hurt but it's ok.
You're used to playing through the pain.
Duke Barber arrives in a car that isn't as flashy as you had expected. Still expensive, certainly, but not meant to be a statement of wealth. Then again, he is known for his frugality, spending just enough to show that he has the money and not a penny more. You find the restraint impressive.
When he steps out of the vehicle you're pleased to see that he is handsome and not so old. He carries himself well, if stiffly. His clothing is fancier than the car would leave you to believe, but it is the kind of clothing to expect at a dinner of this caliber.
Andy is careful about his every movement, following protocol to the letter, adamant at not being found wanting. He greets your parents and gives a polite, acceptable kiss to the back of your hand after perfect curtsy.
It felt like a performance, but Andy knows it's an essential one. He's just grateful you seem willing to play along. Your mannerisms are as perfect as if you were the living embodiment of protocol. Andy finds it easy to talk with you because you know your part of the performance so well.
The dinner was of fancier fare than Andy was used to but he could appreciate the effort that went into it. He prefers simple meals from cheaper ingredients, but this is a special occasion, right? A possible show of status and and means so as to establish a union between the families.
Normally you were not supposed to clean your plate but Mother had learned about Duke Barber's dislike of waste so, for once, you were encouraged to eat everything served. Possibly another reason for the smaller portions. They allowed you to eat without having to worry about the calorie count.
The men talk over the meal, bringing yourself and Mother into it as appropriate. The added stress of the importance of this dinner isn't helping and you find yourself tiring faster than usual. It's easier at larger parties where you can find a corner to hide in.
While the talk with the Marquis is less than he had hoped, Andy continues to find himself drawn to you. You're treating every movement, every word, as of it were natural instead of his stiff, measured words and movements. A natural grace that he's never seen before.
It isn't long after dessert before you all move to the parlor where your harp rests in the middle of the room. You take your place and wait for Father to tell you to start playing.
The harp had been the first instrument where you displayed "competency," as Mother put it. Unlike the flute, the violin, the piano, a harp encourages you to move regardless of the setting, allowing you to let go of so much nervous energy. And you were enamored at the idea of each string being so taut specifically for the purpose of making the most perfect note it could. You could relate.
The Marquis gives you the signal to start and Andy watches with interest as your hands, arms, sometimes even your torso, move to reach all the chords you need. Your movements are mesmerizing and, combined with the beautiful, soft music they produce, he finds himself entranced.
Andy can't remember a time when he felt relaxed, peaceful. But here, with you, your music, your natural grace, he feels it. His shoulders and jaw aren't so tense. His face is less stern. He's not thinking about anything other than you and your music.
After an hour and a half, Father signals you to stop. You think you see Duke Barber startle at the cessation but, of course, you don't indicate anything.
The goodbyes are as formal, proper, stiff as the introductions and your heart falls. If Duke Barber isn't interested, you know you will be punished. But there's nothing in his demeanor to indicate his thoughts of you have improved.
As Andy drives home he checks his memory on how long one is supposed to wait after introductions before asking to court. He also makes several notes about needing to make his house more accommodating. His full-size bed will need to be replaced. He should make sure to add space to the closet.
Andy almost freezes when he realizes he's smiling. He's actually hopeful about this.
"I'm telling you, Duke Barber will be writing to ask to court our girl," Mother argues.
"How can you be so certain? The man left as uptight as when he arrived!" Father counters.
"You didn't see him while she was playing. He softened, I know it!"
Father nods, accepting Mother's information.
Looking at you he says, "you'd better hope he writes."
"Yes, Father," you acquiesce with a bow, your movements and volume perfect as ever.
I'm in love with your inappropriate charts. Also I really love your writing ❤
As a scientist and friendly slowburn addict, may I suggest another very serius topic to discuss: who's going to be in the slowest of slowburns?
I don't know how likely it is for them to even end up in a slowburn tbh but...
If they're in a slowburn situation, how slow will it actually be? Hallmark movie slow where absolutely everything happens in a span of a week? Or tv show slow where the audience celebrates every little milestone like it's a blessing? Is it their patience or stubbornness?
Basically are they suited for a slowburn and how slow will they burn if at all?
Sorry for rambling ............. 😅
Nonnie when I tell you that today was the day from hell at work and this ask made me SMILE so hard and also made me reconfigure my spreadsheet and imagery and thank you for your question the answer is below!!
Full list under the cut!
Instalove with 9 smut chapters and a 3rd act breakup
Diego Jimenez
Stewy Hosseini
Tommy Shelby
Frank (Don’t Worry Darling)
Andy Barber
Don Draper
James Bond
Marc Specter
Nathan Bateman
Frank Castle
Angel Reyes
Oberyn Martell
We lusted from afar for the first third of the plot but now it is on like donkey kong
Percival Graves
Duncan Idaho
Boba Fett
Kendall Roy
Horacio Carrillo
Ray Merrimen
Bucky Barnes
Eddie Brock
Harvey Specter
Bruce Wayne
Patrick Zweig
Benny Miller
Hallmark movie with a week-long arc and a forgotten city fiance
Chris Argent
Daniel Le Domas
Don Eppes
Duke Leto Atreides
Christopher Pike
Frankie Morales
Marcus Pike
Dean Winchester
Rhett Abbott
Jake Seresin
Poe Dameron
Little touches and longing looks that have weekly viewers losing their minds
Orlando Oxford
Sherlock Holmes (Enola Holmes verse)
Abel Morales
Gurney Halleck
Steve Rogers
Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon
Josh Lyman
Raymond Smith
Rafael Barba
Matt Murdock
Santiago Garcia
Bradley Rooster Bradshaw
The slowest and burniest of slow burns regardless of media type
Morning had came and gone quietly. Most mornings followed the same rhythm whether he paid attention or not. Pipes groaned through the walls. Someone upstairs dragged furniture they never seemed to finish moving. Next door, the television clicked on too loud for the news again.
Frank had gone through his morning as he usually did. Black coffee. Gathering the places he would go to and the names he would visit for the day. He pushed the thoughts of the night prior away.
That is, until the afternoon when 2:30 hit.
The door across from him.
The door usually opened.
Footsteps. Keys. The faint shuffle of someone starting another ordinary day.
Today, the hallway stayed still.
Frank sat at the small table in his apartment, cleaning solvent beside a disassembled pistol. He worked methodically, hands steady, eyes focused on metal and oil. He glanced at the clock.
2:40.
Nothing.
He told himself he wasn’t waiting. People took days off. Slept in. Changed routines. None of it meant anything. He reassembled the mechanism with a clean, precise motion.
Still no door.
Smart, he decided. If she had any sense, she’d stay away from him. Pretend they’d never spoken. Find another route home. Avoid eye contact forever. That was how this usually ended.
How it should end.
Frank packed his gear without thinking about it further.
~~~~~~~~~~
The city didn’t feel different.
He did.
The first man went down before he finished begging.
Frank barely heard what he was saying. The words blurred together. Excuses. Promises. Fear. Usually Frank listened. Usually he made them talk. Made them understand why this was happening. Tonight there was no such thing.
A gun clattered across wet pavement. Another body hit the ground moments later. Quick. Efficient. Final. One of them wheezed and sputtered through broken breaths, his coat caught by Frank’s hand.
“You ain’t even gonna ask why I’m here?”
Frank stared down at him. Normally he would have. Names. Routes. Suppliers. Information. Tonight he felt nothing but a dull pressure behind his ribs. He finished it and walked away before the echo faded.
He moved through familiar streets afterward, boots carrying him along routes he knew too well. Without realizing it, he turned down the block where the alley sat.
The same alley. His steps slowed.
The memory rose uninvited. He remembered the weight of you against him. Your hands gripping the front of his coat like you already knew you were safe there.
You hadn’t pulled away.
Hadn’t screamed.
Just looked up at him, breath uneven, trusting him even though you understood what he was.
Frank forced his gaze forward and kept walking.
~~~~~~~~~
By the time he returned home, night had settled deep over the apartment building. Apartment 447 felt smaller than usual once again. He set his gear down and began cleaning. Routine kept his hands busy even when his thoughts refused to cooperate.
Nothing would’ve come of it anyway.
Neighbors talked. Shared coffee. Borrowed tools sometimes. That was all it could have ever been.
He’d known better.
He always knew better.
Metal clicked softly as he wiped down another weapon.
Across the hall.
Silence.
Her door hadn’t opened at all. Hadn’t closed. No footsteps. No keys. Maybe she’d left early. Maybe she’d moved out. Maybe she was avoiding him exactly like she should.
Frank forced his attention back to the workbench. Not his business. The cloth dragged across steel.
Then.
A sound.
A lock turning.
His head lifted before he could stop himself.
Her door opened.
Relief came sharp and immediate, gone just as fast when he realized he’d felt it at all. Footsteps lingered in the hallway.
Not leaving.
Waiting.
Then.
A soft knock.
The rag stopped moving in his hand.
Frank didn’t move.
The sound settled into the room, heavier than gunfire. He stared at the door. She shouldn’t be here. He knew that. His hand rested against the table as seconds stretched longer than they should have.
Another knock. Gentle. Uncertain.
Frank stood.
He opened the door only partway, keeping his body angled against the frame, one shoulder braced there as if ready to close it again at any moment.
You stood in the hallway. Not in your work uniform. Just regular clothes. Hair slightly messy, like you hadn’t planned on leaving your apartment today. Your eyes met his immediately.
You didn’t look away.
“I know who you are,” you said.
Frank’s jaw tightened slightly.
“Do you.”
Not a question. A warning.
You shifted your weight, nerves visible but not retreating, “I wasn’t sure if I should stop by.”
He said nothing. The hallway hummed quietly around you both. You swallowed, “I just… wanted to say thank you.”
Frank studied your face, searching automatically for fear. For revulsion. For the moment realization caught up and sent you backing away.
It didn’t come.
“You shouldn’t thank me.” He said.
“I should.” A small breath left you, “I was scared last night…”
His expression hardened.
There it was.
He waited for the rest.
“But not of you.”
The words landed harder than anything he’d heard all day. Frank didn’t know what to do with them.
You continued, quieter now, “You could’ve walked away. Pretended you didn’t see me. You didn’t.”
He looked past you down the hallway instead, gaze settling anywhere but your eyes, “That life…” he said slowly. “…people don’t usually stick around once they see it.”
You nodded once, like you understood, “Yeah. I figured.”
Silence stretched between you.
“I didn’t come here because of that,” you said after a moment. “I came because you helped me.” Your fingers tightened slightly around each other, “And it felt weird… acting like you were just my neighbor again.”
Frank shifted slightly against the doorframe, arms folding loosely across his chest. A barrier more than a posture.
He expected awkwardness.
Distance.
Instead, you stood there like this was just another conversation between neighbors. Like nothing essential had changed.
“…You okay?” he asked finally, the words leaving before he decided to say them.
You nodded, “Took the day off. I think my brain needed a minute.”
He gave a faint nod, understanding more than he let show. Silence settled again. Not uncomfortable, just unfamiliar. Neither of you moved to end it.
“You don’t have to avoid me,” you added softly. “If that’s what you were planning.”
Frank almost let out a humorless breath.
He had been.
Still was.
“We’ll see.” He said.
It wasn’t rejection. It wasn’t acceptance either. But you smiled a little anyway, like it was enough.
“Okay.” You stepped back toward your door.
“Goodnight, Frank.”
He hesitated a fraction of a second before answering.
“Night.”
Your door closed gently across the hall. Frank remained in his doorway long after, listening to the lock click into place.
Safe.
He finally shut his own door, leaning against it briefly. The apartment felt different now. More breathing room.
Across the hall, she hadn’t run. And for the first time since the alley, Frank realized he hadn’t pushed her away fast enough.
Summary: When Frank shows up at your apartment bloody and in need of patching up, you help him out. But it's a little more than that...and maybe it always was. Requested; see request here! word count: 4.4k
Warnings; mentions of blood, sexual tension and scenes but no full on smut.
You've just had the longest shift of your life, a shift so long that despite the fact you hate your rundown hells kitchen apartment you're grateful to be home. You fumble with your keys, turning them the wrong way in the lock out of pure exhaustion, and then the right way when your brain kicks back to life. The door creaks with protest that you ignore. You've been told to oil the hinges to stop the squeaking, but you like the sound being there. You live in Hell's Kitchen after all, and if anyone were to break in, you would like to hear them coming.
You close the door behind you and it cries out again as you push it shut and turn the lock. But the hairs on your neck rise before you can turn back to the foyer, and you know out of pure instinct that someone's in here with you. I guess the creaking door does nothing to warn you if you're not home when someone comes knocking.
You reach into your purse for the gun you keep there, just as a voice, gruff and quiet, calls out from behind you.
"just me, sweetheart."
Frank. You would recognize that voice anywhere, and you slide your hand out of your purse and turn around. Sure enough, his figure is there, obscured by the dark apartment. You reach over to the wall and flick the lamp on, only to come face to face with the reason Frank is in your home.
"Jesus,"
"No, just me." he mutters absolutely deadpan, as he leans against the wall. He's got blood all over him, and a hand pressed to his right side. There's red seeping out from between his fingers, and when he pushes away from the wall, you can see blood he's left behind on the wallpaper.
You take a step toward him, dropping your purse to the floor as you close the distance. "How much of this blood is yours?" you say, lifting a hand to his face. You grab his chin and tilt his face from side to side, assessing the damage.
"You don't wanna know." despite the fact he's torn to shreds in front of you, he reaches out and runs a finger over the collar of your uniform. "How was work?"
The roll of your eyes tells him everything he needs to know.
"That bad, huh?"
You nod, and move past him, despite the way his affection makes you shiver. "Don't get me started."
"Okay then," he follows you through the apartment, a strong limp in his step that he doesn't try to hide. He doesn't bother hiding those things from you anymore. You see right through him. Plus, it hurts like a bitch too much to care.
"Stop following me and sit down." you snap, without looking back at him. He halts his pursuit of you, and moves back toward the living room.
"yes ma'am." he listens to you, he can't help himself. A pretty lady tells him to do something and he obeys like a dog.
When you return to the living room after five minutes, you're in new clothes, an old grey t-shirt, already stained from the previous times you've had to do this, and light blue pajama shorts. The last thing you need is to get blood on your work uniform, so whenever you're tasked to clean him up you have to change.
"I like the shorts." Frank says as you make your way over to him, pulling a stool close to his chair so you can begin. You've got your first aid kit in one hand, and a bottle of scotch in the other.
"You say that every time, Frank." you unzip the first aid kit, which is a lot more serious than the regular household one. It's got a lot more in it than one would expect, considering you're packing wounds and stitching up holes in the man before you more often than you would like.
"Because I really like 'em." You try to avoid his gaze as he speaks, pretending to be interested in the contents of the kit you so don't have to look up and feel the burn of his eyes on you. The situationship you have with Frank is a complicated one. You know he likes you, and you would dig your teeth into him if given the time, but nothing ever seems to come of it.
"What happened this time?" You pass him the bottle of scotch and he pops it open, taking a swig as you reach toward his shirt, pulling it up to observe the injury on his ribs. It's a large gash, probably from a knife, and it's bleeding like crazy.
"Just a little conversation that went south." He grunts as you press some gauze to the wound and hold it there.
"Seems like more than a conversation." you press harder onto the wound just to scold him, and then grab his hand and place it over the gauze. "Hold it there, keep the pressure." He knows the drill, but you tell him anyway just for the sake of it.
"Okay, your turn. What happened today?" Frank's brows are furrowed, and it's clear he can tell your frustration isn't just at having to patch him up again. You stand, and take the few steps to move between his legs, now examining the wound on his shoulder.
"Nathan," you say the name of your coworker with distain, "took credit for my work again." Your hands move over Frank's skin, gentle and caring as you wipe away blood from his other wounds. This one isn't as serious as the one on his abdomen, but you still want to treat it anyway.
"Did you tell him to stick it where the sun don't shine?" Franks asks, his free hand coming up to your hip, holding you gently in place as you work on him. He likes you this close, you can tell by the way his breaths deepen. In and out, intentionally slowed, as if he has to keep himself cool.
"Tried to, didn't do much." you begin disinfecting the wound on his shoulder, and Frank lets out a sharp breath that brushes against your torso. He shifts his grip from your hip, to the back of your thigh and you try not to startle at the gentle squeeze he places there.
"If you want, I can go ask him to apologize."
You know what he means by that statement, and while it's tempting you're not sure you want your coworker to come back to the office black and blue.
"You'll have a conversation with him, I bet. A conversation like you had tonight?"
Frank shrugs, looking up at you with those deep brown eyes, so dark they're almost black.
"No thank you, I can handle Nathan myself." You tape some more gauze to the wound on his shoulder, and let your eyes fall to his, taking in the expression he holds. It's full of affection, and you watch a small smile slide itself onto his lips, gentle and not often seen.
"I know you can, but if you ever need me I'll be there."
Your stomach does a little flip at the words, and you know he means it more than anything else he's said tonight. You don't want to give into him so easily, but you know if he asked you, you would do anything.
"Thank you," you manage to murmur, and his thumb runs up and down the back of your thigh, a soothing gesture. He still hasn't taken his eyes away from your face, as if there's nothing else in the world he would rather lay his eyes on.
You pick up the bottle of scotch he placed down a while back and shove it at his chest. "Drink this." he has to take his hand away from your thigh to grab the bottle. "You're going to need it."
He chuckles, but does as he's told, bringing the bottle to his spilt lip. You'll sort that lip out later, but right now you've got to sort out the wound he's been putting pressure on for the last few minutes.
You sit back down on your stool, and place your hand over his on the wound, giving him permission to let go. He lets you take the lead, like a good little solider, and removes his hand so you can get to work. He keeps on drinking as you disinfect, and stitch him up, only wincing or hissing occasionally at the pain. You're not sure if it's because he's used to it or if the scotch really is helping.
"Thank you." Frank says, voice rough and tired once you're done with his abdomen. You stop rummaging through the first aid kit for a second to analyze him, his face, littered with cuts and bruises.
"Don't get ahead of yourself, we're not done yet."
He chuckles, low and quiet as you stand again and take the steps between his legs once more. You lift his chin with a finger, though it's not nessacary really, since he's already looking right at you. His eye contact is strong, and it makes your knees weak as you examine the cuts on his face.
"I've never seen someone get this many hits on you." you note, counting each cut and bruise. "Did you give them a head start?"
"You know me," he gently knocks your hand away as you touch a bruise on his eyebrow "gotta make it a fair fight."
He watches you closely as you reach into the first aid bag for more supplies, but stops you before you can pull anything out. "Hey, just wait a sec." he reaches out and grabs your free hand, tugging you closer between his legs. "Just be here with me a minute."
His hand is calloused and rough around your own as you take a moment to stand and look at him, really look at him, without just seeing the blood and bruises. He looks content, and more relaxed than you've ever seen him.
"Did you want some clean clothes?" your voice comes out as barely a whisper, Frank's hands coming up to hold your hips. His hands hold warmth that you can feel through the fabric of your clothes, his touch heating every inch of skin as his fingers flex.
"I really like these shorts." he mumbles again, ignoring your question completely.
"well these shorts won't fit you," you run a hand through his hair, watching as his eyes close when you do so. "Do you want clean clothes or not, Frankie?"
He practically purrs at the nickname, and at the fact you run your fingers through his hair again. As soon as you touch him he becomes shamelessly pliable, his head going wherever you push it.
"Yeah, I'll take clothes if you got 'em." the words come out as an afterthought, Frank's mind preoccupied. He's respectful, has always tried to be, but he can't deny that he's getting attached to you.
"If you want the clothes you're going to have to let me go get them." you mumble after a minute, and Frank opens his eyes to find you looking down at him. He feels the weight of your hands on his shoulders, and his own hands pressed to your hips. He feels the fabric, wishes he could touch just a sliver of what was underneath. He rubs his thumb up and down over your hip to get just that, pushing up the hem of your shirt just enough for him to feel the smallest piece of skin. Then, as quick as he had done it, he lets go, and watches as you walk off to the other end of the apartment to find him a change of clothes.
His hands clasp themselves together as he waits, nothing for them to hold while he sits here alone. When you return you have one of his shirts from the previous time he visited all bloodied and bruised, except it's been washed, dried and folded. Blood no longer curses the fabric, and you hold it out to him with a smile, unknowing just how much this makes his stomach twist. The subtle act of care for him, has his mind reeling.
He takes the shirt from your hands, his eyes flicking between it and you with a frown.
"If you don't want that one, I think I have another somewhere that you left a few weeks ago. I couldn't get all the blood out of it though, so it's still a little stained."
Frank shakes his head, "No, this one is fine. Thank you." he puts the shirt on the arm of the chair and attempts to pull his torn up shirt over his head.
"Fuck, you're gonna pull your stitches out Frank." you scold, halting his movements. "Let me help, Jesus." Frank wants to protest, but he can't find the words to do so when he feels your hands on him. Again, you make him shamelessly pliable.
You take the hem of his shirt in your hands and usher him to lift his arms, slowly as to not put all the work you'd done bandaging him up at risk. "Good," you say, as you lift the shirt over his head, freeing him of the fabric. Frank almost caves completely at the loosely given praise but holds himself together as you look him over.
"hold on, let me get a cloth." you vanish toward the bathroom before Frank can respond, leaving him shirtless in your living room and obeying like a dog once more. When you return with a damp cloth in your hand you mumble under your breath, "remind me to clean you up in the bathroom next time, that's much more efficient." Your words go in one ear and out the other for Frank, his eyes on the cloth in your hand.
"What're you doing with that?"
You look at the damp fabric between your fingers and back at him. "have you looked down at yourself? You're filthy, but you're not going in the shower and dampening your bandages after I've spent all this time putting them on."
"You're not giving me a sponge bath like I'm some old man." Frank snaps, making to stand, but you push him back down into his seat without hesitation.
"Calm down, I'm just wiping some of the blood off of you, you look like a stuck pig."
Frank shuffles in his seat, "I can do that later." his words don't carry any weight though, because you settle yourself between his legs again and he's lost looking up at you like a lovestruck teenager.
You run the damp cloth over his shoulder, the white fabric coming away red as you clean his skin of all the darkness. His hands find the back of your thighs like earlier, and he holds you there, warm fingers burning against your skin. You wipe away at his chest, and his neck, but as you move to clean his face, Frank halts you.
"Why is it you're so gentle with me, huh?" his hands begin to move, absentmindedly up and down the backs of your legs as he speaks, but never higher than is polite.
You frown, and bring the corner of the cloth underneath his eye, wiping away at the red splattered there. "Because who else is gonna be?"
The words hang between you for a moment, and Frank tilts his head to the side, looking at you a little differently now.
"C'mere," He takes his time moving you forward, and you take the two steps he ushers you to, before climbing into his lap. By the time you're still, you've got a leg on either side of his hips, straddling him in your living room chair.
As if nothing happened, you bring the cloth back up to other side of his face, and continue your work from before. You wipe over his cheek, and under his jaw before Frank grabs your wrist in a large hand. "Can you stop that for a second?" he releases your wrist, and moves a hand to your face, cupping your cheek in his large palm. "please?" He adds as an afterthought.
Frank damn near melts as you press your cheek further into his palm, taking the cloth from you and throwing it onto the table beside the chair without so much as looking. You're trying hard not to lean on him or his wounds too much, even breathing softer as to not cause him pain, but of course, Frank notices that too.
"I'm not made of glass, honey. A beautiful lady in my lap won't break me."
He watches as you duck your head, shy for a moment in the quiet apartment. Frank has been here more times than he can count over the past few months, and almost every night he spends here ends up like this. Him holding you close in some capacity, but never straying further than that. He's enjoyed it for the most part, keeping you close, feeling something other than anger and resentment. But now, Frank feels something different stirring within him, in his chest, his stomach.
When you look back up at him, so close now, the world stops moving. The clock on the wall doesn't seem to tick, and the little light on the fire alarm above him doesn't seem to blink.
"Can you please let me finish cleaning you up?" you ask, and despite the fact he could sit here with you doing nothing forever, how can he ever say no to you?
He nods, "Yeah, do what you gotta do." you lean toward the table to fetch the cloth, Frank's hand on your back steadying you so you don't fall away from him. He lets you wipe the rest of the blood away, gentle, caring and cautious, watching every movement with a marine's eye. And when your hands start to slow, the job coming to a close, Frank turns his head to the side, kissing your wrist as your hand comes up to wipe his brow. When you don't pull away he places another kiss on the heel of your hand. The affection is a 'thank you' an 'I'm sorry' and something else he's not ready to think about just yet.
"Was that an apology for smearing blood on my walls?" you joke, though it's barely a whisper. You're deadly still, waiting for his next move.
"I'll clean that up." Frank says, leaning forward to brush his nose against the side of your neck. He's crossing a line he drew for himself long ago, but maybe it's time he lets go of some rules.
"Does that mean you're staying the night?"
Your invitation brings him pause, and it sprawls itself over the both of you like a blanket. You're on the same page it seems, but you're walking on broken glass just the same. If you go through with this, things won't ever be the same. Frank runs the risk of making you a target for his enemies with every touch and embrace. But maybe he's long past that point already.
He lifts his head, his face now so close to yours that your noses touch with each exhale. "If you'll have me."
You do nothing but nod, and Frank somehow manages to pull you closer, arms wrapping around you like barriers, protecting you from the outside elements. He closes the distance in a few slow breaths, and for the first time, his lips meet yours.
The kiss is tentative, and he takes his time getting to know this new piece of you. The part of you he hasn't got to meet yet.
"You doing okay?" his lips brush yours as he speaks, pulling back from the kiss just enough to say the words. To check on you.
You nod, eyes closed but Frank grumbles in disapproval, squeezing you gently in his arms. "I need to hear you say it."
He breathes in the touch of your hands as they move across his shoulders, your eyes opening at last to look at him. "I'm okay."
Your fingers slide up the nape of his neck, and that feeling that tugs at his chest starts again. He knows what it is, but he hasn't felt that way for someone in so long that can't bring himself to acknowledge it just yet. This time, you lean in for the next kiss, and your initiation of it drives him wild. His hands find your hips, grinding you down onto his lap just as a shrill sound fills the apartment. Your nose bumps with his awkwardly as you startle to attention, looking toward the source of the sound. It's the doorbell, though you have no idea who would be ringing it at this hour. Frank groans as you shift on top of him and you can't help but notice that he's very solid beneath you.
"Should we go see who that is?" you say as he turns your head back to face him with an eager hand. His fingers trace down your jaw, marking out a path for his lips later on.
"Probably just some kids." Frank mutters, pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth. He's tense in the shoulders now though, and you can tell he wants to know who has interrupted your night just as much as you do. He's weighing up whether or not to let it go, running his warm hands up your legs, teasing the fabric of your shorts with his fingers, when the doorbell rings again.
"Maybe if we ignore them, they'll go away?" you offer, kissing Frank's shoulder. He bucks his hips up slightly, an almost involuntary movement to relieve some tension, and you chuckle against his skin. He could get used to this if given the chance.
The doorbell rings a third time, and it's becoming apparent that whoever it is, is not going away. "Fuck's sake." Frank throws his head back in frustration, both sexual and otherwise, grabbing the fresh shirt you got him off the arm of the chair. He pulls it over his head with a little help from you just as a voice calls out from behind your front door.
"I know you're in there, Frank."
The voice is one you don't recognize but clearly Frank does, because he mutters under his breath, "Fucking Lieberman," before lifting you effortlessly off his lap. Your feet touch the carpet as Frank stands and heads toward your door. It's strange to see him like this, moving to answer your door in an almost domestic manner, even though you know it's anything but. You can almost imagine being with him in a home you share, though you don't have time to dwell on it before Frank pulls open the door and you rush to make yourself semi presentable to whoever it is. You run a hand through you hair, and pull your shorts a little lower, straightening them out from where Frank's hands have roamed.
You move toward the door but keep a fair distance back, waiting for Frank's assessment of the man he knows.
"What'd you want?" Frank's rough voice sends a shiver down your spine, the outside air cold and fresh coming in through the open door.
"Why weren't you answering your phone?" the so called Lieberman asks, avoiding Frank's question as if he's used to it by now.
"I'm busy,"
Frank's response gets Lieberman looking past him and into the apartment. His gaze finds you as the words come together in his mind. He takes in the sight of you, and then looks back at Frank, and down a little to the tent in Frank's black cargo pants—a reminder of the sort of busy Frank was.
"Oh shit, I uh—" Lieberman fumbles over his words, taking a breath to compose himself. "we've got a situation, and I hate to interrupt but this is a little more important."
Frank is struggling to think of something more important than what's in the room behind him right now, but he nods. "Can you give me a minute?"
Lieberman doesn't object, and Frank closes the door in his face after a few seconds of silence. When he turns back to face you, he heaves a sigh that makes you laugh.
"Raincheck?" you say, even though that's the last thing you want to do. He makes his way toward you, reaching out those hot hands to hold you again.
"I'm sorry," he presses a kiss to your forehead, and it's extremely clear that your relationship with him has changed in to something far more serious than before.
"S'okay, just make sure you come back and finish what you started another time." You can feel him smile into your hair, and he pulls you into him one last time before he leaves for the night. He's all patched up and clean, thanks to you, but he wishes he had the time to repay you for it.
"I'll be back before you know I'm gone." his voice is a deep rumble that you can feel in your chest and you pull back to look at him. He's still got the split lip you forgot to attend to in favor of kissing it, and a cut on his brow left untreated as well. But he's more than capable to doing that himself.
You push yourself up onto your tiptoes and kiss him, and his hands tighten their grip on you momentarily in order to savor it. He tastes like blood and spearmint, something you note as he pulls away and the taste of his lips lingers. You push him toward the door, gently so as not to bruise him more than he already is, and though it's not common, he smiles. He really smiles, before opening the door to the apartment and putting back on his facade. He slips outside without anymore words, but you know everything that went without saying.
I'll be back soon. Wait for me.
I love you.
-
reblog and comment to support your writers! (also don't feed my work into ai databases please)
GENERAL TAGLIST: @heliads @candywh0r3 @caplanreadss @hiya-itsamber @s00buwu
Warnings: Slow burn, mentions of child abuse, swearing, mentions of deaths, accidents, blood, scaring, stalking, swearing, bullying, and sexist behaviour. Might be some smut as well (I think this is all)
Summary: You have been suspended from work and do not know what to do with yourself. Then in just a matter of hours, you find yourself on a plane to Montana to stay with people you have never met before. And as if that is not enough one of the men you are suppose to get to know is handsome enough to make your knees shake.
A/N: This story is loosely based on Susan Mallery's book "Kiss Me", which is a book I really love. I was reading it in the spring of, 2021 and the idea for this story started to form. I then went through a lot of shit and the story just stayed in my WIP folder. However, at the beginning of 2022 I started to get new ideas for the story and thought now or never. So here we are. I want to give a big thanks to @banditthewriter @kaunis-sielu @maw000 and @dreamcatchernightsky for their support! Also a big thank you to the incredible Cat for being my Beta reader.
Word Count:
Teaser
Part 1: I Can't Say No To You
Part 2: Cowboy, Take Me Away
Part 3 - Brighter Than The Sun
Part 4 - Unsteady
Part 5 - Obvious
Part 6 - Girls Like You
Part 7 - If I Was A Cowboy
Part 8 - Think About It
Part 9 - Have A Little Faith In Me
Part 10 - Give Into Me
Part 11 - Pushing Time
Part 12 -True Colors
Part 13 - Drive Me Crazy
Part 14 - Fall Into Me
Part 15 - The Good Ones
Part 16 - Nervous
Part 17 - Family is Family
Part 18 - Road Less Travled
Part 19 - Better With You
Part 20 - Trouble
Part 21 - Remember This
Part 22 - Caught Up In The Country
Part 23 - Mammas, Don’t let your babies grow up to be Cowboys
summary: you think about all the times brendon park has been good to you whilst others question if he could ever partake in a relationship. (wc: 2.3k)
pairing: brendon ‘the shark’ park / pitt!f!reader
content: fluff. secret relationship with the pitt’s shark. grumpy x sunshine duo. pilates princess!reader?? 100% park the shark ooc because i didn’t watch all of the season & he’s on for all of 1 minute lmao.
dedicating this draft to @novatheory for dragging me by the collar back into the pitt obsession
“Do you think he ever feels anything other than bitter resentment?”
You peered over the monitor you had been using to compete in the catch up with Santos on your charting—something Dr. Al-Hashimi took great pride in addressing from time to time. Whitaker and Javadi had their elbows leant against the work station, whilst Santos pressed the heels of her palms into her eye sockets from the mild distraction caused by her peers.
(Safe to say, you were winning the catch up game. Well, until your interest had piqued too.)
Fingers paused on the keyboard, you awaited the conversation to strike up against after a pregnant pause.
Whitaker hummed, “I think he just stares at a wall when he goes home.”
Who were they talking about? You craned your neck to look into Trauma One, where—from your seated position—you could only make out a green fleece and rounded shoulders.
“Dr. Robby?” You dove into the discussion head first. Three sets of eyes turned to the sound of your voice, and you managed to return the blank look on their faces. “Are you talking about Dr. Robby?”
It would make sense. You weren’t partial to the knowledge that Dr. Robby could hold an immense amount of resentment, and spend his spare time boring his eyes into the blank slate of a bedroom wall. There was a great depth of sadness behind those brown eyes and weathered features that would wrinkle in amusement any time you spoke.
Dr. Robby liked you. A breath of fresh air in an all-too-consuming atmosphere that often felt like the walls were closing in with no exit in sight. In spite of this, you weren’t immune to his wrath of a bad day and unaddressed mental health problems that he struggled to pin down.
However, it didn’t entirely make sense for the three musketeers loitering at the work station, to be putting negative connotations on their nuanced Chief Attending; that often gave them the benefit of the doubt.
Santos rubbed at her forehead, speaking lowly, “No. They’re talking about Park the Shark.”
Now, that was a name that made you forget about the looming deadline of your charting.
Park the Shark. The rather foreboding entity that bestowed his abrasive presence within the ED when he was called down from Orthopaedics to leer over a case. Broad shouldered with sharp facial features and an attitude that would silence a room rather than liven it up. Some would assign him to the adjective: arrogant.
If you were playing the same crossword, you much preferred the noun: boyfriend.
(Something that wasn’t common knowledge to the hub of gossip in the PTMC.)
Your smile grew wickedly. Nothing quite like hearing your boyfriend of five months and ten days catching strays whilst inspecting a broken femoral bone alongside Dr. Robby.
“Oh—” You started, standing from your spot to join Whitaker and Javadi with your half drunken coffee in one hand. You nudged Whitaker to move up, “—I’m sure he’s a kitten beneath all of that mean facade.”
“Coming from the person who always gives people the benefit of the doubt?” Javadi laid her eyes on you with a playful smile, “Yeah. Your opinion is invalid. Look where that landed you last time.”
Javadi was referring to the dicey situation you landed yourself in with a flighty forty-year old man with a bad burn and enough pills in his bloodstream to hallucinate that you were a six-foot threat holding a knife designed for his jugular. You had taken the case with a pep in your step, and a broad smile—because you wanted to help. The same friendly smile and dash of naivety that got wiped clean off your face when the man lunged at you with the intention to block your windpipes on a more permanent basis.
It took Donnie, Robby and Jesse—with a couple of fists to the back from Dana—to pry the guy off of you.
You scrunched your nose up at the memory. “Low-blow, Dr. J.” You took a sip from your straw, eyes trained on the large surface area of your boyfriend’s back as he manoeuvred around the patient.
Javadi spoke again, “Can you imagine him in a relationship?”
Yes. Yes, you could!
By all means, Brendon Park was nothing short of a grouch. Low-browed, body made up of ninety-nine percent brood, loathing things such as, his time being wasted, small talk; or long queues in traffic and in the stores on his rare day off.
The other one percent, though? All made for loving you.
When it came to you, Park the Shark—as he had been so graciously titled in the Pitt—was all softened edges and lack of authority in contrast to his razor-sharp reputation in the workplace. When Brendon Park was around you, doors would magically open, the caffeine addiction wouldn’t come with a small dent in your chequing account, and if you suddenly found the inspiration to invest in a herb garden at 9AM? Brendon Park conjured up a green-thumb and made it happen.
He would press a soft kiss to the back of your hand at stoplights, power through four episodes back-to-back of Love Island, despite finding it the most mind numbing piece of garbage that was ever thrown on TV. He would find the right angles for semi-planned candid photos for your Instagram feed, with zero means of protest. He would sweat through a Pilates class after some light teasing from you, that someone with his stature couldn’t possibly make it through an entire session. (He did, but he wasn’t far from quitting.) One time, in between sharing a bad takeaway and a movie that you had pleaded to watch, Brendon tried out your LED face-mask that you had bought on a whim.
Just because you asked him to.
Let’s not even address what had happened behind a closed curtain and the aggressor of your attack, when Park had found out upstairs.
Which, funnily enough, had been the pinnacle moment in where you began to realise how deep Park’s feelings ran for you.
1.) Because what business did an OR surgeon have with a man under the influence of narcotics and a bad burn on his forearm? And 2.) Because it hadn’t always been smooth sailing seas to the heart of the Shark hunting the shallow waters of the ER.
“You’re like a cockroach.” Park had stated with a yank of his latex glove. He had been brought down with Garcia, and quickly realised that he was surrounded by incompetent butchers, which only furthered his impatience when you approached him with the sunniest disposition and a mouthful of conversation for him.
It seemed that you were the only person in the entirety of the PTMC that would rush to the opportunity to speak to the infamous, Park the Shark. Your consistency was a little vexing, because Park didn’t exude the whole ‘please talk to me!’ vibe, in fact, the only other thing than work that he put effort into; was being closed off.
(Didn’t mean he shut off the ability to recognise a visually astounding resident.)
You placed a hand to your chest in faux-flattery, “Thank you, Park.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
Despite wanting to project a healthy amount of space between him and you, Park still made sure to hold the door open by his foot until you sauntered past him. You flashed him a mischievous grin in passing, “The symbolism of a cockroach is that they’re resilient. They thrive even in the most extreme environments.”
With his palm held beneath the dispenser, Park didn’t spare you as much as a glance as he scoffed, rubbing the spit of sanitiser up to his wrists before stalking over to the stairs to retreat back into the confines of the OR.
You had watched him go, calling out to him before he disappeared, “I’ll be ready with more animal facts for whenever you’re needed down here!”
And, you did exactly that.
Any snippet caught of Park the Shark lurking in the murky waters of the ED with a hardened expression and little time for pleasantries, you were there with useless facts on a vast array of animals. It started off vague, and then you thought it would be fitting to only present shark facts to the local grump.
The first fact had been met with a brief look up and down in utter silence. The second time, you had matched his strides toward Trauma Two and uttered that capybaras made great companions to alligators which earned you a shake of the head, and a slight curl of his lip—something you would have missed, if you hadn’t been inspecting his facial expressions. The third, fourth and fifth time, Brendon Park could be considered a hypocrite. No apparent time for small talk, but now, he would find himself slowing his walk whenever you giddily rounded the work station to do your fair share of sugar talking.
A man of few words spoke a great deal when it came to his actions.
So, when Park the Shark idled up next to you with his hands braced against the edge of the countertop, and a thunderous face; anyone might have presumed you were about to receive an earful.
(You hoped not. This was the day that, just hours prior, a patient had you in a chokehold.)
“Female sharks have evolved to have skin that is three times thicker than male sharks.” Park uttered the fact to you, whilst his eyes softened remarkably under the intrusive lighting overhead.
You blinked, not expecting him to partake in your adolescent game. “I—Uh…”
“All good?” He interjected.
“Yeah…Yeah, I’m good.” You swallowed, cringing when the reminder of the assault struck a sharp pain down your throat. You smiled meekly.
Park gave a curt nod, “It’s been dealt with.” And, then he knocked his knuckles against the surface top and parted through the sea of nurses and patients.
You were left utterly bedazzled.
Dana Evans, who stood close by and had no intentions of minding her business when she witnessed the lonesome Shark prowling about her ED, swimming up to one of the fresh-faced residents with all the suaveness he could muster from his cold exterior; simply let out an impressed chuckle, her hand coming to rest on your shoulder to give it a quick squeeze.
You tilted your chin up to stare at the mother figure of the Pitt.
“You did it, kid.” Her accent thick as she spoke into your ear, “You’ve caught a shark.”
The charge nurse was then subjected to a tight-lip and a nonchalant shrug if anyone—like Perlah or Princess—queried Park the Shark’s regular attendance in the ED, even when he was not required. She turned a blind eye to the coffees delivered under your name with a cryptic note that had been left for your deciphering only. And, when you adorned a cute little shark pin on your badge…well, Dana Evans bit her tongue and diverted her attention to what mattered.
The only thing Dana had commented on was that, against all stereotypes of the big bad boyfriend and bubbly girlfriend, she had become privy to the knowledge that Brendon Park liked his luminous green matcha and you liked your black coffee; this was after she had caught you sneaking a kiss with the intimidating OR figure before your shift started, both grappling onto your drinks of choice from the local coffee shop a few blocks down the road.
It was also the first time Dana had ever seen a smile on Park’s face. (Something she thought about for the rest of her shift, because clearly, you were doing something right to soften that concrete shell of his.)
So, as a collective, Brendon Park exceeded all expectations for a man who severely lacked the traits of a social butterfly. He was a man that proved that being mean to the world never encroached into the space of when it came to loving his girl.
And, you were being loved right.
With all this thought about having a magnitude of gratitude for the hostile OR surgeon that made enough space for you and your bizarre animal facts to slot into his life, you watched as Park peeled the latex gloves from his hands and exited the room that Dr. Robby remained in for a few moments more. His hand—as everyone’s routinely did—came to the sanitiser dispenser; eyes scoping the chaotic scenes of the Pitt until he managed to find you amongst the other residents.
No animal facts today, big guy.
You took a sip of your coffee.
Park tilted his chin at you when he began to rub the sanitiser into the callus of his hands. There was not a singular hint of a smile, but from the intensity of his stare, you could presume his thoughts were far from the means of child friendly.
(Neither of you had the desire to catch a HR case with Glorida Underwood. So, the PDA of it all stayed within the confines of the PTMC car park, or either of your apartments.)
“He’s looking right at us.” Javadi muttered under her breath, body turned to face Whitaker—who was quick to busy himself with his watch—and you from the side to prevent the obvious staring you had all been doing.
Park began to wade through the ED, eyes set on you as he made his way back to the stairs—because he didn’t have time for elevators. You spoke to him through the subtlety of facial expressions, and he exchanged yours for a brief wink which made your skin prickle with heat.
He disappeared to the staircase, and your phone brightened up in your scrub pockets.
Sharky (4:26pm): You’re beautiful. Love Island tonight.
Yeah. You thought. Who could ever tame a shark like that?
⭑.ᐟ THE THING THAT I CAN’T IGNORE ── Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch
summary: there’s a betting pool happening at work to figure out the root of the chief attending’s newfound happiness even if it’s a no-strings attached situation that’s causing it. (wc: 4.5k)
pairing: michael robinavitch / f!reader
content: fluff/humour. secret relationship trope. age-gap relationship/friend w benefits. resident!reader (with inaccuracies of how residency works.) insecure!robby but he hides it well ft jealous!robby—i’m trying to show off some of his whimsy. medical inaccuracies errrywhere. 18+ brief mentions of sex.
Robby is watching you from Trauma One.
His sweetest kept secret.
For some reason, you have managed to bypass the seven-week itch and Robby thinks it’s down to being younger than him by a margin; meaning you often ran circles around him.
From his obstructed view, he can occasionally capture you stretching above the line of the monitor like a docile cat. Before you reduce yourself to a bad posture again, Robby notices that soft fatigue that glazes over your watery eyes when you yawn. A sleepy look that—since the big shift in your non-labelled situation—he can recognise.
Because you’ve started staying the night.
Dr. Mohan is leading a hilar flip when he asks her, “You got this?” in which she gives him a strained smile alongside a curt nod; the tension still taught between them.
He backs out of Trauma One and takes a leisurely stroll up behind you. You’ve dozed off somewhere in between him habitually sanitizing his hands and pulling a singular latex glove from a box nearby. He spares you a moment, so he can read the long waiting list of patients allocated to rooms across the department.
Snap!
You jolt awake from the feeling of thin rubber striking the back of your neck. You peel your eyes open to see Robby bending at the waist to look at you warmly.
“Hello,” he says sweetly, his smile reaching his eyes, “Good sleep?”
“I’ve had better,” you grumble and rub at your eyes, “I was just catching up on my long overdue notes like you asked me to do.”
Robby hums, “It looked like it too,” he chirps sarcastically and takes a deep inhale as he speaks again, “Save the charting for later. I’ve got a patient with GERD that has your name written all over it. Easy case to wake up to.”
You emphasise your lack of enthusiasm as you stand, “You just told me to catch up on my charting.” it comes out as a whine.
“Yes, I did. Then you started dozing off at the workstation, so now, I’m telling you to follow me so we can get this patient discharged and free up a bed,” Robby lilts as you catch up with his pace, his eyes on every corner of the PTMC.
“If I have to redo my third-year of residency because of your indecisiveness on where to put me, Dr. Robby, I will be filing a report against you,” you grumble in discontent.
Robby huffs a laugh. “Ho-ho. I’ll be sure to send you flowers.”
“No you won’t.”
“No, I won’t. Not for that anyway.” Robby advises you casually, he spares you a glance over his shoulder with a crooked smile on his face, “Because you won’t have to redo your third-year.”
The easy banter between the two of you makes your stomach burn with giddiness.
You liked how things were going with Robby. Under the radar, no strings attached. Though, somehow, you both seemed to be getting a little tangled in your…well, entanglement.
It was proving to be difficult to not have the boundaries blend into a real thing with all the bells and whistles of emotional feelings attached. The initial intentions were simply just for sexual pleasure—and then you started getting pleasure by just co-existing.
It was messy. But it was your kind of messy.
McKay catches up to you, bumping your shoulder with hers, “How’s it going? I haven’t seen you all morning.”
“About to give a patient a shot of Mylanta for his GERD,” you respond quietly, “Dr. Robby caught me sleeping.”
“Yikes.” she cringes, “Well, he’ll keep you right.”
He has been for the better half of the year, in more ways than you know. Is how you want to respond to Cassie’s innocent statement. You settle for the latter of a hopeful smile and shrug of your shoulders.
The three of you come to a slow halt in front of the patient bay Robby had selected for you off of the board.
You peer into the window of the room.
A bucket of ice cold water dumps over you.
“I can’t take this case on,” you blurt in a panic, which in turn has Robby and McKay’s head cock to the side, because what do you mean you’re rejecting a case as a R3. You shake your head, “No, seriously. It sounds stupid, but I matched with that guy on Tinder, and…it didn’t end on good terms.”
It was true. The male sitting upright on the gurney, in a hospital gown one size too big for him, was currently under the status of blocked on your phone.
Things had been going well within the app at the time, you matched, connected over menial interests and then took the conversation to text message. You must’ve missed the lesson in life that made the translation of app messaging to text messaging the equivalent to a hard launch into a relationship with a guy you had never met face-to-face.
Because—and what a story to weave into a one truth and two lies game it had come to be—whilst you were elbow deep in a wide array of traumas that wheeled through the doors of the PTMC, this guy had left exactly 54 text messages, 32 missed calls and 1 beautifully arranged voicemail that poetically told you that you fumbled the catch of the century.
(Fish were slippery for a reason, right?)
Even with the slight malicious tone blurred between his words, you still kept the voicemail; because it was deeply comforting to play to your co-worker Dennis Whitaker at 4PM after his patient had just coded.
McKay dips her head to speak lowly to you. “You mean he’s the guy?”
“What…guy?” Robby’s question is lost to the wind when you squeal out confirmation to McKay that the patient was in fact, the guy.
He watches the exchange between you and McKay like a third party stuck behind a noise cancelling window. Somewhere amongst the back and forth with hints of worry and mild amusement, Robby starts to feel left out from the bigger picture.
Tinder. Voicemail. Blocked, is all he took away from this. So…he frowns and crosses his arms across his chest.
“Wow. In the flesh…I’ll swap you for Central 8,” McKay barters, “Utensil through the nose.”
“Can someone tell me what’s going on here?” Robby cuts through with his hands up, “You have history with this guy?” he thumbs to the door of South 15.
You nod, “Not so much a history, more a brief encounter that’s funny to talk about over drinks.”
“Yeah. Well, we—” he gestures between you “—aren’t having drinks.” Robby supposes there’s some sort of streak of jealousy going on in his voice, “Can you catch me up to speed? This guy needs a shot.”
You launch into a shortened version of the story of how this man came to gain such a notoriety that extended all the way into the pit of the PTMC and used for comedy relief after patient coding. Robby, for all intents and purposes, is trying his best to keep a neutral, maybe slightly concerned facial expression as you gesticulate through a brief recap of how you and this guy came to be.
It’s poorly timed the way the envy flares in his chest. He cranes his neck to take a look at the patient again, brows in a pinch because seriously? You had been setting up a potential, future relationship with that?
Then you casually drop into the conversation that the male had informed you that someone like you, served no purpose for a man with such a catalogue of aptitudes. (He works in finance.)
And Michael Robinavitch doesn’t like that.
“So, that’s your type?” Robby physically cannot help himself. It’s like he’s purposely being conspicuous.
You hesitate in surprise, “Obviously not? I don’t really have a type, per se.” (You do. He’s staring right at you.) “I mean, this was all before…”
“Before?” Robby goads, shifting from one foot to the other, he sinks his hands into his fleece pockets, pulling at the lint gathered there as the words get stuck in your throat. “Alright. I’ll take the case. In the meantime, you can go back to catching up on your notes. I’ll come find you afterwards.”
“Dr. Robby, I’m happy to swap cases with her—”
“I’ve got it.” Robby cuts McKay off with a curt nod and polite smile—something she isn’t buying.
McKay surrenders, but not without flitting her eyes between the pair of you. If there was anyone that could read signs a mile off, Cassie McKay was the woman for that.
Thankfully, she doesn’t press on the matter as she breaks away from the group.
“Discreet, Dr. Robby,” you murmur.
Robby pulls a face that is ridiculously handsome and borderline cocky, “I’ve got this. Charting. Go.”
Robby finds you at a different workstation much later on. More awake, a few more cases under your belt, but still wearing a notable level of bleariness. He provided the shot of Mylanta to your ‘what could’ve been’ and spent half of his time between other patients, rendering to the insecurities of the probability that he was the oldest male you have ever been with.
He mulls over his words until he finds a way to express this to you.
“So…Tinder?”
“Nope.” you look up at him, “Offloaded the app.”
“Hm.” Robby nods with a frown and then decides to put some feelers out there, “Do…you think I have a predisposition to geriatric behaviours?”
Your fingers halt on the keyboard. The patient notes on the monitor are forgone for an easier distraction. The expression of perplexity is hard to squash when your brows pinch at the question that has seemingly been plucked from the thin air of the PTMC.
Robby stands at full height over the central workstation. Brown eyes shimmering beneath the clinical lighting, there was an ease in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before and the look of innocent curiosity blended nicely amongst his weathered features.
His long fingers tap idly at the surface top.
You hesitate, and then point a finger to your chest, “Are you asking me?”
“Well—” Robby exhales through his nose as he leans against the workstation, his forehead creasing as he peers over the rim of his glasses at you. “—I’d like to think you could give me some biassed insight.”
He tosses a lopsided smile in your direction, and you harness some restraint to ensure that from an outsiders perspective that this was an ordinary conversation between the Chief Attending and a third year resident. When you poke your tongue into the flesh of your cheek to prevent a broad smile spreading across your features, that is when Robby mirrors the amusement filled to the brim in your eyes.
Workplace relationships came with hardships.
It was becoming evident that having a loosely labelled ‘relationship’ with Michael Robinavitch, the long-time bachelor of the PTMC, was a whole different ballgame altogether.
It was a long-standing commitment, the act of secret keeping that is. An oath to keep things under wraps, whilst also balancing the navigation on what to do when the leak eventually becomes noticeable—all whilst surviving a twelve hour shift on a protein bar and a prayer. It meant that you were met with hurdles like: how morally grey is it really to sleep with your boss, who could also provide you with a gleaming recommendation at the end of your residency?
The answer fell somewhere in the ‘power imbalances’ category in the tedious employee handbook.
(Luckily for you, you only skimmed the surface on the hierarchical structures chapter.)
It also meant that Robby would often approach you throughout the day with a bucketful of insecurities to unload in a feeble attempt to salvage the dignity that he lost on the way. Unfortunately—he thinks, for you anyway—his keen interest to receive intermittent reassurance from you that the gap in your ages was justifiable, through the form of abnormal questions that dogpiled onto your already stressful day; was his way of seeing the world through your eyes.
It was sort of…pendatically romantic.
You begin to type your notes again, “Did Javadi school you again?”
“No…” Robby frowns at the thought, “Just extending some morbid curiosity.” he leans one arm against the workstation and scans the rooms closest within his vicinity. “And, you can put an end to my suffering right about now—”
“You act your age.”
Robby slowly edges his attention to you.
“Act my age?”
You let out an airy laugh, “That’s a good thing. It means you didn’t peak in your formative years. Or the years following that.”
“Huh.” Robby clicks his tongue as he straightens up, shaking a finger in your direction whilst he reads off the board, “Pinning this for later. I did not like the way you worded that.”
“You got it, boss.” you track his movements as he rounds the workstation to depart it.
Robby lets out a cackle from the back of his throat as he leaves, angling his body with his hands up to allow space for Trinity Santos to stroll past him. She occupies the vicinity in his immediate absence, her jaw slack as she stares over her shoulder at the humoured physician disappearing into the south-end of the department.
As she idles up to the workstation, her brunette hair swishes around when she turns her attention to you.
“What did Dr. Goofy want?” she asks plainly.
“Dr. Goofy?” you repeat, unable to prevent your face from cracking with mirth.
Santos shrugs, “Yeah. He’s been…like super chill recently. He seems happier? I don’t know. There’s an underground betting pool going on about the source of Dr. Robby’s joy.”
“Really?” you brighten at the thought, “Have you put money on something?”
“He’s getting laid,” Santos admits, her eyes narrow whilst she looks around, lowering her voice at the same time, “I just…don’t know who. I mean it has to be someone in the PTMC, right? I like to think he’s like a caged animal—the hospital and his apartment are the only two roaming spaces for the guy.”
You hum, locking the computer. “Or he’s going to therapy?” (You knew that wasn’t true. Just throwing Santos off her scent.)
“Yeah,” she scoffs, “Like the rest of us are.”
“True.” you stand and stretch your spine until there’s a soft crack. The clock above ticks just over the next hour, “I’m going to spin round the perimeter and grab a coffee.”
Trinity saddles up into the desk chair you had resided in for the last fifteen minutes and gives you a two-finger salute as you walk away.
There’s a release of breath that escapes you once you turn down the corridor toward the coffee station besides Pedes. The news breaking that Robby’s sudden one-eighty into an optimistic nature following some questionable behaviours for a male edging into his fifties, was being highlighted amongst the gamblers of the Pitt; and that was enough to have your pulse quicken.
It wouldn’t be such a crime to be unearthed by your co-workers. At some point, honesty would be the best policy and you weren’t so sure that the on-call rendezvous would go under the radar for much longer. However, it would feel similar to a humiliation ritual if your situation were to be exposed through sticky notes on the whiteboard in the staff room and a lump sum at the end of it.
When you think about it, you take the mental note to take a leisurely stroll toward the dispatch room to try sneak a glance at the betting pool exclusionary toward one Chief Attending.
The slop of coffee sputters into the white styrofoam cup with you patiently waiting with a yawn to encapsulate the low energy levels from spending the night at Robby’s, that had finally caught up to you mid-shift. You slow blink as the liquid fills to the brim of the cup, adding your preferences to the sorry excuse of a caffeine hit.
You press the lid around the rim until it gives a soft pop.
By some hideous trick of unfortunate timings and coincidental placement, when you bring the steaming hot coffee to your lips, Robby zooms into your periphery and swipes it out of your hand in hurried passing. He plants it at the coffee station as he ushers you with urgency with a hand to your back.
The touch would have sent your stomach swirling—especially if it had been hours since the last—if it weren’t for your open mourning over the loss of caffeine searing your taste buds.
You let out a longing whine, “My coffee.”
“Will be reheated. By me, personally.” he swings the door from North into Central and manoeuvres you toward the South bays. “Right now, we need you in 15 with an AFib cardioversion.”
“We?” you repeat, “Am I the guest of honour for this cardiovert?”
Robby backs into the door of 15 with his hands already slathered in sanitiser. He tilts his chin, exuding healthy amounts of cockiness. “This is a teaching hospital, regardless of a more senior role. Let me teach you,” he croons.
You chew back a snarky remark about Robby getting a new hobby instead of ‘peacocking’ around you for some telepathic praise. Instead, you find yourself opposite Robby as he snaps the latex gloves up to his wrists and observes the patient whilst Mel, beside you, presents the case to him.
The patient is within your age range. Sort of handsome if you thought about it for too long. He looks up at you, his eyes glazed in awe. It was as if the white lighting overhead had created a halo effect around your head and he was witnessing the presence of an angel in real time.
He gives you a lovesick, dopey smile. (You get that a lot.)
Which, considering his circumstances, was a good sign in the grand scheme of things.
“They hire from heaven or somethin’?” his question is met with a blanket of silence. His chest rises and falls at an unsteady pace—part of you wonders if it’s his condition or if it’s down to the fact that he is quite taken with you.
Mel glances between the pair of you as she preps the propofol.
The monitor beeps behind Robby, who silently tilts his head to see how you approach the compliment.
“Oh.” your eyes drift to Robby who scrunches one eye shut, his lips pressing into a thin line as you hesitate. You give an airy chuckle, “Delivered especially for you, Mr…” you look to Mel who mouths the patient’s surname, “King—Quinn.”
Robby glares at you, each wrinkle in his forehead lined with judgement that makes your skin prickle. “Mel, what is the safe window for cardioversion?”
“Uh, twelve hours.”
Brown eyes find you again. “What happens after that?”
“Increased risk of embolic stroke from left atrial blood clot,” you say, eyes following Robby’s direction to the monitor as he encourages you to continue the diagnosis, “…Which he doesn’t have.”
“Good,” he mutters softly. (You give him a warning glance to end the praise there.)
Mr. Quinn is in an immediate state of sedation with a successful cardioversion that sends him into a sinus rhythm that will need a few hours of monitoring. Something you don’t jump at the chance to do to lessen the work load that was quickly piling up on your shoulders.
You exit the room with Robby in tow.
He walks a few paces behind you, head on a swivel whilst he takes a headcount of fresh faced med-students roaming around the department. Once you’re out of earshot from nearby gossips—Princess and Perlah—Robby bends slightly to talk into your ear.
“I think you should give patients similar to your age, a wide-birth.” his tone is playful in its emphasis at the very least.
You tut, “Why encourage patient negligence? I’m clearly a crowd favourite.”
“Tell that to the grey hairs you give me.” Robby pinches your wrist as he takes over you, heading in the direction of Pedes. Presumably to the coffee station, where your abandoned coffee remains—you hope anyway. “Reheated coffee coming right up. I’ll come find you.”
“You seem to be doing that a lot today,” you call back to him. He doesn’t respond.
You decide to double back toward dispatch, to cash in the mental note of placing a bet on the secret betting pool on Robby’s newfound happiness. As always, you find Ahmad standing at the door with his thumbs tucked into his belt loops whilst he scopes his surroundings.
He looks bored. So, you give him something to be excited about.
“Do my ears deceive me, or is there some exclusionary betting pool going on that I wasn’t aware about, Ahmad?” you sing as you approach him.
Ahmad instantly brightens, “Maybe.”
“What have the wagers been so far?”
“$40 on new motorcycle, $20 on a pay rise, another $20 on pussycat.” Ahmad glances at you with a knowing smirk, “Santos submitted that one.”
“Go figure,” you mumble.
“Are you in, doc?”
You nod and reach into your scrub pocket, “Sure, why not. I’ll put…$20 on a mid-life crisis.”
Ahmad smothers his laughter behind his fist. “That’s heartless. Alright. $20 on mid-life crisis.” he takes the bills from your grasp, “You’re lucky he ain’t part of this bet. That recommendation you need after your residency? Dust, if Robby knew.”
“It can be our little secret until then.” you tap at your nose.
“What can?”
The timing of Michael Robinavitch was impeccably vexing. As the eyes and ears of the ED, most of you began to fear that he was presenting evidence of omnipresence. He appears, he soaks up the happenings, and then he dissolves into the chaos.
If you wanted to be the one to water the reasoning down, it would be the fact that Robby was slowly becoming the South Pole magnet to your North Pole magnet and you just happened to create such a forceful magnetic field across the department, that it was near impossible to not drag himself toward you when he got the chance.
He’d just call it grabbing you a well-earned coffee.
You don’t bat an eyelid as you speak.
“That would defeat the purpose of secrets, Dr. Robinavitch.” you take the coffee from his grasp, fingers intentionally overlapping, you don’t flinch when you feel the card that had been conveniently placed on the underside of the cup—your fingers curling to conceal it from Ahmad’s view.
Robby steps back and gives you a subtle nod.
On-call room. Fifteen minutes.
Ahmad holds his hands up in surrender, “I’m out on this one.”
He manoeuvres himself out of the situation with ease, leaving Robby and you exactly where you wanted to be. Out of earshot and each other’s company.
You take a sip of your coffee, kissing your teeth at the bitterness. “You need to be a little more subtle.”
“That…is what the on-call room card is for.”
The next thing you knew, you were slipping into the on-call room five minutes after Robby. He meets you in the middle of the room with a face melting into unfiltered fondness, tugging you in by the crook of your elbow, his fingers featherlight against your arm as he envelops you into a warm embrace.
This was one of the very few places where CCTV couldn’t capture grainy footage of your bond. So, you soak it up when you can.
With your ear against his chest, you can hear the low rumble he lets out from being content where he is. You tilt your chin upward and he’s quick to catch your lips in a chaste kiss—greedily taking a second.
Being deprived of affection all day, you relish in his undivided attention.
Robby is staring deeply into your eyes, swaying you both. He decides to take a leap of faith, “Stay tonight?”
“Two nights in a row?”
“Yes…” Robby grumbles in a warning.
A smile creeps onto your face. “I think this could be a healthier habit for you to adopt. No reason for me to say no.”
Crows-feet prominent, Robby smiles and dips to kiss you again. You pull away and begin to pick at the bobbling on the fleece he wears. He keeps you in the warmth of his arms, tucking his chin to watch you busy yourself.
After a couple of seconds, he brings up a relevant topic of discussion.
“You want to tell me what that was about with Ahmad?” he coos.
You give him an innocent expression, “No idea what you’re talking about. We were just having a discussion.”
“Ah.” Robby draws his brows together, “Nothing to do with the wages being placed against the reasoning behind my…” he takes a deep breath, “upbeat tempo these days?”
“Don’t make a snitch out of me, Robinavitch.” you nudge his chest in disbelief, “How’d you know about it?”
“Well. This is my department. I know the inner workings of the entire ecosystem, sweetheart,” he croons before adding, “Plus, Abbot was ecstatic to be the one to tell me.”
You scoff at the revelation. It just had to be Jack Abbot.
“Are you mad?”
“Oh, I think I’ll survive the outside noise for a little while longer.” Robby traces your cheekbone with the pad of his thumb, in a way that feels less along the lines of no strings attached. “What did you put your money on?”
“Something not relating to your sexual deviance.” you tease and Robby brings his fingers up to tug at your earlobe. You moisten your lips and bare your teeth in a sickly sweet smile to soften the blow, “I put $20 on mid-life crisis.”
Robby’s brows shoot to his hairline, squeezing his eyes shut as he gives his head a wobble to digest your words. There was a conversation that needed to be had somewhere in there; just much, much further down the line.
And outside of the PTMC. To preserve both of your sanities.
You find yourself trailing the palms of your hands down Robby’s forearms—half covered by the rolled up sleeves of his fleece—to soothe his outward reaction of immediate discontent at the accusation you haphazardly flung out.
A fucking mid-life crisis.
“You…give me a headache,” he says earnestly.
“I know. But you like it.” (Correction: he loves it.)
Robby draws back with little time left before your co-workers begin to put two and two together due to the convenient disappearance of you both.
“I suppose I’ll take it on the chin.” he shoots you a playful look, his eyes glinting with mischief, “I put in an anonymous wager in myself two nights ago. Perks of being the last one to leave this fucking place.”
“Oh yeah?” your interest piques.
He reaches for the handle of the door, scratching at the coarseness of his beard with his other hand, “Yeah. I think I have a good shot at winning,” he chirps.
“Okay.” you nod your head in amusement as he walks away from you, “What did you even wage on? New motorcycle?”
The door buzzes open and Robby swings it open with his face filling with mirth. He leaves you in the On-call room with a singular word uttered; sending you into a frozen shock.
Request - Hilli! If possible, do you think you could do a cute one where maybe they're married and working together, and you keep getting pulled away and kept busy and he's busy too so he barely sees you? I just have this visual in my head of Robby stood there all grumpy like 'where is my wife?' and then becomes a clingy husband till the end of shift? 🫶🫶
The emergency department was already loud by seven in the morning. Monitors chirped from every direction, phones rang relentlessly at the nurses’ station, and the automatic doors at the ambulance bay seemed determined to open every thirty seconds. The Pitt thrived in chaos, and on most days, Dr. Michael Robinavich wore it like a second skin.
Today, however, he was annoyed. Robby stood at the central desk, coffee in one hand and a patient chart in the other, his dark eyes lifting every few seconds toward the doors.
“You know if you keep glaring at the entrance like that, it’s not going to make her appear any faster.”
Dana didn’t even look up from her tablet.
“I’m not glaring.”
“You are absolutely glaring.”
Robby frowned at her.
“I’m waiting.”
Dana finally looked up, entirely unimpressed.
“For your wife.”
“I’m waiting for one of my attendings.”
“Who also happens to be your wife.”
Robby took a sip of his coffee.
“You’re insufferable this early in the morning.”
“And you’re grumpy because she isn’t here.”
“I’m not grumpy.”
Dana snorted.
“Sure.”
Before he could answer, Princess approached.
“Dr. Robby? EMS is bringing in a seventy-two-year-old male. Possible stroke. Five minutes out.”
Robby nodded immediately.
“CT’s ready?”
“Already called.”
“Good.”
Princess hurried off. Dana watched him for another moment before smiling.
“What time did she leave this morning?”
He looked at her.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Robby sighed.
“Six-thirty.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And you’ve been here since six-fifty and she isn’t.”
He exhaled through his nose.
“She said she’d be down here early.”
“There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The pouting.”
“I do not pout.”
Dana’s smile widened. “You’ve looked at those doors every thirty seconds since I got here.”
“I have not.”
“You have.”
Before he could argue further, the doors to the Pitt slid open. Both of them looked up. A respiratory therapist walked in. Dana burst out laughing. Robby glared at her.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
He didn’t. Mostly because she was right. You had texted him nearly an hour ago.
Leaving now. Save me coffee.
That was it. No follow-up text. No appearance in the Pitt. Nothing. Which was odd. You usually found him first thing in the morning, even if only for five minutes. You’d steal his coffee, lean against his shoulder while you looked over the board, kiss his cheek if nobody was paying attention, and then disappear to start your own shift.
It was stupid. Five minutes. That was all it usually was. But it was your five minutes. And apparently, he missed it.
“You should call her.”
He looked at Dana.
“I am not calling my wife because she’s late to work.”
“You’re worried.”
“I’m not worried.”
“You’re wondering where she is.”
He opened his mouth. Then closed it. Dana’s smile became unbearably smug.
“You are so in love with that woman.”
He rolled his eyes. Before he could say another word, a voice echoed from behind him.
“Dr. Robinavich?”
He turned. Mel King looked apologetic staring up at him.
“Radiology needs an attending for a contrast reaction.”
“Where’s Dr. R?”
Mel blinked.
“She got pulled up there twenty minutes ago.”
Robby’s entire expression changed. Dana looked delighted.
“Oh, mystery solved.”
He ignored her.
“She’s still in radiology?”
“Apparently.” Mel nodded. “They’ve had a rough morning.”
Robby looked toward the elevators. Then back at the Mel. Then toward the elevators again. Dana folded her arms.
“Go on.”
“I’m not going to radiology.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I absolutely was.”
“I have a stroke patient coming in.”
“And your wife is upstairs.”
He looked at her. She grinned.
“You miss her.”
“I saw her last night.”
“You’ve been awake for an hour without seeing her and you’re acting like someone stole your favorite toy.”
Robby looked offended.
“My wife is not a toy.”
“You know what I mean.”
The ambulance doors burst open then, and the incoming stroke patient rolled through. The entire department moved. Robby was instantly all business.
“What’s his last known well?”
“Forty minutes.”
“Deficits?”
“Left-sided weakness and slurred speech.”
“Get him to CT.”
He moved with the stretcher, barking orders and scanning the patient. The morning swallowed him whole. For nearly an hour, he didn’t stop. By the time the patient was stabilized and admitted, he finally exhaled.
He turned toward the desk. And immediately looked toward the elevators. Dana, who noticed everything, nearly laughed.
“You are unbelievable.”
He frowned.
“What?”
“You just did it again.”
“Did what?”
“Looked for your wife.”
“I wasn’t—“
“You were.”
He sighed.
“I was just wondering if she was back.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You make everything sound ridiculous.”
“Because it is ridiculous. She’s been gone for an hour.”
“I know.”
“She’s in the same building.”
“I know.”
“And you’ll probably see her in ten minutes.”
“I know.”
Dana smiled softly this time.
“But you miss her anyway.”
Robby didn’t answer. Because unfortunately…Yes. He did. As if the universe had decided to reward him, the elevator doors opened. His head lifted immediately.
You stepped out, hair already slipping from your bun, a stack of charts in your arms and your ID badge twisted backward. He smiled before he could stop himself. Then you looked up and spotted him. Your entire face softened.
You started walking toward him. He actually took a step forward.
“Dr. R!”
Both of you looked. Jesse was jogging toward you.
“The ICU attending needs you upstairs right now.”
You stopped. Looked at Jesse. Looked at Robby. And then sighed.
“Make Langdon go.”
Jesse looked confused.
“They specifically asked for you.”
You closed your eyes. Robby laughed softly. You pointed at him.
“I haven’t even said hello to my husband.”
Jesse looked genuinely apologetic.
“I’m sorry.”
You groaned. Robby’s smile widened. You walked the remaining few feet toward him anyway, stopping directly in front of him.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
You looked exhausted. He looked unfairly handsome, as always. You smiled.
“I missed our coffee.”
“I noticed.”
Your eyebrows lifted.
“You noticed?”
Dana snorted from behind the desk. Robby ignored her. You looked between them.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.” Robby barked.
Dana looked horrified.
“Nothing? You spent the last hour asking where your wife was.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
You blinked. Then looked at your husband. And smiled.
“Oh.”
Robby immediately knew that smile.
“No.”
“Oh, sweetheart.”
“Don’t.”
“You missed me.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I really didn’t.”
You grinned.
“I’ve been in the hospital for an hour.”
“I know.”
“And you’ve seen me for approximately thirty seconds.”
“I know.”
“And you’re grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy.”
You laughed. The sound hit him right in the chest. Jesse cleared his throat. You sighed dramatically.
“I have to go.”
“You do.”
You looked at him for another moment. Then reached up and smoothed his scrub collar. A habit. One you’d done for years.
“There.”
He smiled a little.
“Thanks.”
You leaned in and kissed his cheek quickly.
“Try not to miss me too much.”
Behind him, Dana choked on a laugh. Robby glared at her. You smiled brightly. Then you were gone again. Disappearing toward the elevators. The doors closed. Silence.
Dana looked at him. He looked at the elevators. Then back at Dana. She folded her arms.
“Don’t.”
“You are absolutely grumpy.”
“I’m not.”
“You’ve seen your wife for one minute and she’s gone again.”
He sighed.
“I hate this shift.”
Dana laughed. And despite himself, so did he.
******
By eleven o’clock, the emergency department had officially descended into madness. There was a three-car pileup on the interstate, the waiting room was overflowing, two nurses had called in sick, and one of the residents had accidentally ordered the wrong imaging study and was now avoiding Robby’s line of sight entirely.
He hadn’t sat down once. He also hadn’t seen his wife. Again. Not that he was counting.
He was absolutely counting.
“Pressure’s dropping.”
Robby looked up from the ultrasound screen.
“Start another liter and page surgery.”
Whitaker nodded quickly. Perlah approached from the opposite side.
“Room twelve is asking for pain medication again.”
“I’ll be there in five.”
“Psych consult is here.”
“Tell them I’ll sign the paperwork in ten.”
Emma appeared.
“Can you take a look at this ECG?”
He took the paper from her. And the. He heard it. A laugh. Your laugh. Somewhere down the hall.
His head snapped up. The nurses all noticed. The residents noticed. The patient on the stretcher probably noticed.
Robby was already looking toward the corridor. He caught the briefest glimpse of you through the crowd. Your hair was a complete mess now, your red jacket was hanging off one shoulder, and you were smiling at something one of the nurses had said. Then you disappeared around the corner. Again. Robby frowned.
“You should probably read the ECG.”
He blinked and looked back at the Emma.
“What?”
She held the paper up.
“The ECG.”
“Right.”
He took it. Emma grinned.
“You know, she’s not going anywhere.”
He looked up.
“What?”
“Dr. R.”
He stared at her.
“You’re looking at her like she’s about to move to another country.”
“I was not.”
“You were.”
He sighed.
“Can everyone please stop commenting on my marriage today?”
Emma laughed and walked away. Twenty minutes later, he was finally making his way toward the staff lounge for his first cup of fresh coffee when he saw you. At the end of the hallway. Walking toward him.
For once. No pagers. No nurses chasing you. No phone in your hand. Just you. You looked tired, but you smiled the second you saw him.
“There you are.” His entire mood improved.
“Here I am.”
You walked closer.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you all day.”
“You haven’t.” You smiled. “You look grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy.”
“You definitely are.”
“I’ve had six consults.”
“I’ve had eight.”
“I hate everyone.”
You laughed softly.
“There he is.”
“What?”
“My husband.”
“I was never gone.”
“You get all growly when you’re tired.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
You stopped in front of him. Close enough that he could smell your shampoo beneath the antiseptic and coffee and hospital smell that clung to both of you. He hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to see you until you were standing there.
“Have you eaten?” he asked.
You made a face.
“No.”
“Of course not.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“So have I.”
You smiled.
“I know.”
There was something soft in your expression. Something fond. As though you knew exactly what he was doing.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“That look means something.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It absolutely does.”
You smiled wider.
“You missed me.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“I’ve been working.”
“Uh-huh.”
You reached up and straightened his badge. Apparently, today was a day for fixing his clothes. He let you.
“You’ve looked for me at least six times today, haven’t you?”
He looked offended.
“I have not.”
“You have.”
“I haven’t.”
“You have.”
“I really haven’t.”
You just smiled.
“Dr. R!”
Both of you closed your eyes. Jesse hurried toward you.
“Trauma two needs you.”
You looked at him. Then at Robby. Then back at Jesse.
“Right now?”
“They’re asking specifically for you.”
You sighed. Robby actually laughed. You pointed at him.
“Stop enjoying my suffering.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You smiled.”
“I absolutely smiled.”
You looked horrified.
“My husband is turning against me.”
“I’ve been abandoned all day. This feels like justice.”
You gasped softly.
“Justice?”
He grinned. Jesse looked between the two of you like he was watching a tennis match. You narrowed your eyes.
“You know what? Fine.”
You started backing away.
“I’ll remember this.”
“Will you?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“You’ll forget in ten minutes.”
“I’ll never forget.”
“You absolutely will.”
You kept walking backward.
“I can’t believe I married you.”
“You love me.”
Unfortunately, you looked entirely too pleased by that.
“I really do.”
You disappeared into Trauma Two. And he was smiling. Again.
“You are ridiculous.”
He looked over. Langdon was standing a few feet away, carrying a chart.
“What?”
“You’ve seen her for approximately two minutes and you’re smiling like a teenager.”
Robby rolled his eyes.
“I’m not smiling.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I hate this place.”
“No, you don’t.”
Langdon moved beside him.
“How long have you been married now?”
“Twelve years.”
“And you still act like this?”
“What does that mean?”
“It means if I don’t see my wife for a few hours, I assume she’s busy.”
Robby looked at him.
“I assumed she was busy.”
“You’ve been asking where she is all day.”
“I have not.”
Langdon blinked.
“Mel has a tally going.”
Robby stared at him.
“A what?”
“A tally.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because every time someone mentions your wife, you ask where she is.”
Robby looked appalled.
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
A voice suddenly called from behind them.
“Twenty-three times.”
Both men turned. Mel King was standing at the nurses’ station. Robby frowned.
“What?”
Mel smiled.
“You’ve asked where your wife is twenty-three times.”
“I have not.”
“You have.”
“I really haven’t.”
“You really have.”
Langdon burst out laughing. Robby looked horrified.
“You’re counting?”
“Oh, all of us are counting.”
“What do you mean all of us?”
Dana looked up from her tablet.
“We started around nine.”
He stared at her.
“You started a pool?”
She looked entirely unashamed.
“I had thirty by lunch.”
“You people are insane.”
“No,” Langdon said, grinning. “You’re clingy.”
“I am not clingy.”
The entire nurses’ station erupted into laughter.
“What’s the joke?.”
Your voice. He turned immediately. Of course he did. You were standing a few feet away, looking entirely too amused. You had clearly heard enough.
“Oh, this is wonderful.” You grinned.
“It isn’t.” Robby frowned.
“You’ve asked where I am twenty-three times?”
“I haven’t.”
“Apparently you have.”
“I really haven’t.”
You smiled.
“Oh, honey.”
He hated that smile. You walked closer.
“Do you miss me?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“You seem very worried about where I am.”
“I’m not.”
“You seem very interested in my location.”
“I’m really not.”
You looked delighted. Then you reached up and cupped his cheek. The entire nurses’ station immediately went quiet.
“You are so cute.”
“I am not cute.”
“You are.”
“I am fifty years old.”
“And adorable.”
“Stop.”
You laughed. Then kissed his cheek. A chorus of noises erupted behind you. Someone actually whistled. Robby closed his eyes.
“I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Dana said.
You smiled again.
“Unfortunately for you, I have another consult.”
He looked at you.
“No.”
You laughed.
“Oh my God.,” you smiled. “You just said no.”
“Because you’ve been here for thirty seconds.”
You looked positively radiant.
“He’s back.”
“What?”
“My clingy husband.”
“I am not clingy.”
You looked behind you.
“Guys, is he clingy?”
A dozen voices answered at once.
“YES.”
You laughed so hard you nearly doubled over. Robby looked personally betrayed. Then your pager went off. You sighed. He sighed. You looked at each other. And then both of you started laughing.
“This day hates us,” you said.
“It really does.”
You stepped closer and squeezed his hand.
“I’ll find you later.”
“You promise?”
The words slipped out before he could stop them. You blinked. Then your entire expression softened.
“I promise.”
You squeezed his hand again. Then you were gone. Again. Robby watched you disappear down the hallway. A beat of silence passed.
“Twenty-four.”
He looked at Mel.
“What?”
“You just looked after her.”
“I hate every single one of you.”
The laughter that followed him all the way back to the trauma bay suggested nobody believed him for a second.
******
By four in the afternoon, the entire emergency department was running on caffeine, stubbornness, and sheer spite. Robby had removed his green jacket hours ago, rolled his sleeves to his forearms, and was currently dictating notes while simultaneously listening to a resident present a case.
He was tired. The kind of tired that settled deep in his bones and made the bright lights of the Pitt feel a little too harsh. But more than that, he was annoyed. Because somehow, impossibly, he had still barely seen his wife.
He’d caught glimpses. You walking into an elevator. You disappearing down a hallway. You laughing with a nurse. You stealing a granola bar from the physician lounge.
Every single time he’d managed to get within ten feet of you, someone had dragged one of you away. It was becoming personal.
“You know, if you keep sighing like that, people are going to think something’s wrong.”
Robby looked up from his chart. Dana was standing beside him with her arms crossed.
“I wasn’t sighing.”
“You absolutely were.”
“I exhaled.”
“You sighed.”
He ignored her. She smiled.
“You still haven’t seen your wife.”
“I saw her.”
“You spoke to her for approximately four minutes.”
“It was at least five.”
Dana’s smile widened.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“You counted.”
“I did not count.”
“You absolutely counted.”
He set his chart down.
“I have actual work to do.”
“And I have actual work to avoid.”
He glared at her.
“You’re irritating.”
“And you’re pathetic.”
Before he could answer, Mel approached.
“You know she’s in Trauma Three, right?”
Robby looked up so quickly that both of them burst into laughter.
“You two are children.”
“We’re helping,” Mel said.
“I didn’t ask.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I wasn’t looking for her.”
“You looked up before I even finished the sentence.”
Robby pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I regret hiring all of you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Unfortunately, he didn’t. A trauma alert sounded overhead. Everyone moved. A construction worker with a crush injury. Another hour vanished. Then another. And by the time the patient was stabilized and admitted, the sun had begun to dip lower outside the ambulance bay windows.
Robby scrubbed a hand over his face. He was exhausted. The Pitt had finally begun to settle into the strange lull that existed between the day shift chaos and the night shift storm.
A few nurses sat at the station charting. Someone had ordered food. Santos looked half asleep while typing notes. And for the first time all day…
There was nothing actively on fire. He leaned against the desk and took a sip of now-cold coffee. Then the elevator doors opened. You stepped out.
He looked up immediately. Of course he did. You looked absolutely exhausted. Your hair was completely out of its bun now, hanging around your shoulders. Your red jacket was draped over one arm, and there was a small smear of something on your cheek.
You looked around. Found him. And smiled. His entire chest loosened.
“There you are.”
You walked toward him slowly.
“Here I am.” He smiled. “You look awful.”
You laughed softly.
“Thank you so much.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
You stopped in front of him.
“You don’t look much better.”
“I’ve had a long day.”
“So have I.”
For a moment, neither of you said anything. You were just there. Finally. In front of him. Not walking away. Not being called to another floor. Not disappearing around a corner. Just…there. You looked up at him.
“Hi.”
His expression softened.
“Hi, baby.”
You smiled.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you all day.”
You laughed. “I’ve seen you.”
“No, you’ve been sightings.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I caught glimpses of you.”
You laughed again. He loved that sound.
“You’ve had a hard day without me.”
“No.”
“Robby.”
“No.”
You stepped closer.
“You missed me.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I was busy.”
“You were grumpy.”
“I was not.”
“You absolutely were.”
He sighed. You smiled triumphantly.
“I don’t know why I tell you anything.”
“You don’t have to. Your face does it for you.”
You reached up and brushed the smear from his cheek. He frowned.
“What?”
“You had blood on your face.”
“Oh.”
You smiled softly.
“You need a shower.”
“So do you.”
You looked down at yourself.
“Fair.”
Then your pager suddenly beeped. Both of you froze. Silence. You slowly pulled it from your pocket. Looked at the screen. And then looked back up at him.
“No.”
He laughed.
“No?”
“No.”
“That’s very professional of you.”
“I don’t care.”
You shoved the pager back into your pocket.
“If they need me, they’ll call again.”
He looked genuinely surprised. You took another step toward him.
“I’m tired.”
“I know.”
“I miss my husband.”
Something warm spread through his chest.
“I miss my wife.”
You smiled. And then, because apparently twelve years of marriage had changed neither of you, you simply leaned forward and rested your forehead against his chest. He wrapped his arms around you immediately. A soft sigh escaped you.
The entire nurses’ station went quiet. Dana looked up from her tablet. Mel looked up from her notes. Langdon froze with a cup of coffee halfway to his mouth. Nobody moved.
Because there was something so quietly intimate about it. You, exhausted beyond words, simply standing in your husband’s arms. And him holding you like he’d been waiting all day to do exactly this. Your voice came out muffled.
“I think my feet hurt.”
He smiled.
“I know they do.”
“I haven’t sat down since breakfast.”
“I haven’t either.”
“I hate everyone.”
He laughed softly.
“There she is.”
You smiled against his chest. Then another voice broke the moment.
“There they are.”
You both looked up. Cassie McKay was grinning.
“Oh, this is disgusting.”
You laughed. Robby rolled his eyes.
“We’re standing.”
“You’re cuddling.”
“We’re not cuddling.”
“You absolutely are.”
The entire nurses’ station suddenly found something very interesting to listen to. You looked up at your husband.
“We’re cuddling.”
“We’re not.”
You smiled.
“We definitely are.”
He sighed. You looked entirely too pleased with yourself. Then Cassie folded her arms.
“You know, this explains your mood all day.
Robby frowned.
“What mood?”
“The one where you’ve been asking where your wife is every ten minutes.”
“I have not.”
“You have.”
“I really haven’t.”
“You really have.”
You looked at him.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
He groaned.
“No.”
“You’ve been looking for me all day?”
“I wasn’t looking for you.”
“You asked where I was twenty-four times.”
“It was not twenty-four.”
Mel looked up.
“Twenty-seven.”
Robby looked horrified.
“What?”
“We kept counting.”
“You people need hobbies.”
“We have hobbies.”
“Apparently, one of them is harassing me.”
You started laughing. The sound was warm and bright and completely unrestrained. He couldn’t help smiling.
“There it is!” Dana pointed at him. “The smile!”
“I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t,” several voices answered.
You laughed harder. Then you looked back at him.
“You really missed me.”
He looked down at you. You were smiling at him like he’d hung the moon. Twelve years later, and somehow you still looked at him like that. He sighed. A long, defeated sigh.
And finally said, “Maybe a little.”
Your eyes widened. The entire nurses’ station erupted.
“I KNEW IT!”
“Oh my God!”
“Pay up!”
“You owe me twenty bucks!”
Robby blinked.
“What?”
Dana grinned.
“We had a pool.”
“You bet on me missing my wife?”
“You made it very easy.”
He looked genuinely offended. You were laughing so hard you had tears in your eyes. Then you reached up and cupped his face.
“You are so cute.”
“I am not cute.”
“You are.”
“I am fifty.”
“And clingy.”
“I am not clingy.”
You grinned.
“Sure, honey.”
Then your pager went off again. Both of you looked at it. Silence. You looked at him. He looked at you. Then you turned the pager over and shoved it back into your pocket. He blinked.
“You ignored it.”
“I did.”
“What if it’s important?”
You shrugged.
“I’m off in fifteen minutes.”
You smiled softly.
“And I’d rather spend those fifteen minutes with my husband.”
His expression changed entirely. All the teasing and irritation from the day simply melted away.
You saw it happen. Your own smile softened.
Then, very quietly, you asked, “Can we go home soon?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you against his side. You went willingly. As though there was nowhere else in the world you’d rather be. He kissed your temple.
“Yeah, sweetheart.”
You sighed happily.
“Good.”
Then you looked up at him.
“I think I need a shower.”
He smiled.
“I think I do too.”
You yawned.
“And food.”
“We can do food.”
“And bed.”
“We can definitely do bed.”
You nodded.
“Perfect.”
For a long moment, neither of you moved. You simply stood there together while the department buzzed softly around you. Finally. After an entire day of missing each other. Together. And when Dana looked over and saw the two of you still standing there, she smiled to herself.
Because for all of Dr. Michael Robinavich’s reputation—the sharp tongue, the intimidating stare, the chief attending everyone feared—there was one undeniable truth. The man was completely and utterly gone for his wife. And judging by the way you were practically asleep against his shoulder…
You were just as gone for him.
******
By the time you pulled into the driveway, you could barely remember the drive home. The kind of exhaustion that settled over you after a long shift wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. Heavy. It sat in your muscles and behind your eyes and made even simple things feel monumental.
Taking off your shoes felt monumental. Unlocking the front door felt monumental. You dropped your bag by the entryway and stood there for a moment in the dim, quiet house. Silence.
No monitors. No pagers. No overhead announcements. Just…home.
You sighed softly. You knew Robby would be another twenty or thirty minutes. He had stayed behind to finish notes and make sure one of the residents wasn’t drowning in admissions. You loved him for that. You also knew he would come home exhausted. Probably with another headache. Probably with blood somewhere on his scrubs that he hadn’t noticed.
You smiled to yourself. Then you made your way upstairs. By the time you stepped into the bathroom, every inch of you ached. You turned on the shower and waited for the water to warm, slowly pulling your hair free from its tangled ponytail.
Your wedding and engagement rings came off and settled beside the sink in the tiny plate. Then your scrubs. Your socks. The day. You stepped under the spray and immediately let out a soft sigh.
Hot water. Heaven. You closed your eyes and tipped your head back, letting the water run over your face. For a few moments, you didn’t move. You simply stood there and breathed. The day slowly began to wash away.
You thought about the little old woman you’d admitted who reminded you of your grandmother. The little boy with the broken arm who had proudly shown you his dinosaur socks. The endless consults. The running. The exhaustion. And, somehow, in between all of it…
Your husband looking for you all day. You laughed softly to yourself. You could still hear Dana’s voice.
You asked where your wife was twenty-seven times.
A few moments later, you heard the front door downstairs. Then footsteps. Then the familiar sound of a bag being dropped. A small smile spread across your face. A minute later, the bathroom door opened. You didn’t turn around.
You didn’t have to. You knew every sound he made. The rustle of fabric. The heavy exhale. The soft thud of shoes hitting the floor. The shower door opened. Warm air shifted.
A second later, strong arms slid around your waist from behind. You melted immediately.
“There you are,” he murmured.
You smiled.
“Here I am.”
He pressed a kiss to your damp shoulder.
“I missed you.”
You laughed softly.
“You saw me fifteen minutes ago.”
“I know.”
“And an hour before that.”
“I know.”
You turned in his arms. He looked exhausted. Hair damp from the humidity in the bathroom, dark eyes tired, stubble a little more pronounced than it had been that morning. And still the most handsome man you’d ever seen.
“You look tired.”
He huffed out a laugh.
“I am tired.”
You reached up and touched his cheek.
“So am I.”
For a long moment, neither of you said anything. The water ran over both of you. Then he leaned forward and rested his forehead against yours. You sighed softly.
“Long day?”
He smiled a little.
“You know the answer to that.”
You did. You lifted your hand and smoothed your fingers through the gray at his temple. His eyes fluttered briefly. He always liked when you touched his hair.
“You have a line right here.”
You touched between his brows.
“You’ve been frowning all day.”
“You disappeared all day.”
You laughed softly.
“There you are.”
“What?”
“My grumpy husband.”
He slid his hands around your back.
“I wasn’t grumpy.”
“You absolutely were.”
“I was concerned.”
You grinned.
“Concerned.”
“Yes.”
“I was in the same building.”
“I know.”
“You could have texted.”
He looked offended.
“I shouldn’t have to text my wife to know where she is.”
You laughed.
“There he is.”
He smiled despite himself. Then his hand came up and gently brushed damp hair away from your face.
“You look exhausted.”
“I am exhausted.”
“You’ve got circles under your eyes.”
“So do you.”
“I know.”
You smiled softly.
“You know what I wanted all day?”
“What?”
You stepped a little closer.
“This.”
He looked at you.
“This?”
You nodded.
“Just…this.”
His expression softened completely. You reached for the soap and squeezed some into your hand.
“Come here.”
He smiled.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking care of my husband.”
He laughed softly but stepped closer anyway. You began rubbing the soap over his chest and shoulders, your hands slow and gentle. You weren’t rushing. There was nowhere to be. Nowhere else to go. You smoothed your hands over his arms, washing away the day. The smell of hospital. The dried blood he hadn’t noticed. The exhaustion. He watched you the entire time.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” You rinsed his shoulder. “I want to.”
Something warm crossed his face. Then he took the soap from your hand.
“Turn around.”
You smiled.
“Bossy.”
“Turn around.”
Laughing softly, you obeyed. His hands were large and warm as they settled on your shoulders. Then he began washing your hair. Slowly. Carefully. His fingers worked through the strands with practiced ease. You nearly melted.
“Oh.”
He smiled.
“What?”
“That feels really nice.”
“I know.”
“You’ve done this before.”
“Once or twice.”
You closed your eyes. His fingers moved against your scalp, gentle and thorough. Every bit of tension in your body seemed to slowly unwind. You sighed.
“I like that.”
“What?”
“That happy little sigh.”
You smiled.
“I think I might live here now.”
He laughed softly. The sound vibrated through his chest. He tipped your head back gently to rinse your hair, his hand supporting your neck. The care in the gesture made something in your chest ache. You turned back around. He looked just as tired as you felt. You reached up and touched his face again.
“You took care of everybody today.”
“So did you.”
“But who took care of you?”
He looked at you for a long moment. Then he smiled softly.
“You are.”
Your eyes immediately softened.
“Oh.”
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Then another to your temple. Then one to your cheek. Not rushed. Not passionate. Just…loving. You smiled.
“You really did miss me.”
“I really did.”
The admission came easily now. You wrapped your arms around his waist.
“I missed you too.”
He exhaled softly. Then his arms came around you and pulled you close. You simply stood there. Water cascading around you. His chin resting on the top of your head. Your cheek against his chest. His hand slowly rubbing up and down your back.
After a while, you murmured, “I don’t think I’ve sat down all day.”
He laughed quietly.
“I know I haven’t.”
“My feet hurt.”
“I know they do.”
“My back hurts.”
“I know.”
You smiled.
“You always know.”
“I’ve been married to you for twelve years.”
“That’s fair.”
He kissed the top of your head. Then your forehead. Then your damp hair. As though he simply couldn’t stop touching you now that he finally had you to himself. You looked up at him.
“I love you.”
His expression softened immediately.
“I love you too.”
You smiled. Then reached up and touched his cheek again.
“And for the record…”
“Hm?”
“I think it’s cute that you missed me.”
He groaned.
“Oh, don’t start.”
You laughed.
“I do.”
“You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“Absolutely not.”
He shook his head. Then he smiled. Because of course he did. You leaned up and kissed him softly. Just once. A slow, tired kiss. Then you rested your forehead against his again.
Neither of you moved. Neither of you needed to. The day had been loud. Demanding. Chaotic. But here?
Here there was only warm water and soft touches and your husband holding you like he’d finally gotten something back he’d been missing all day. And for a long while, you simply stayed there. Cleaning each other. Holding each other. Loving each other. Until the water began to cool and your fingers had wrinkled and the day, at long last, finally felt over.
******
The house was dark by the time you finished getting ready for bed. Not completely dark. The small lamp on Robby’s nightstand cast a warm glow across the room, and the television downstairs was still faintly audible, though neither of you had really watched it while eating leftovers in the kitchen.
You had simply sat across from each other. Bare feet. Damp hair. Quiet smiles. The kind of silence that only came after years together. The kind that didn’t need to be filled.
Now, however, you were officially done. Done with the day. Done with people. Done with making decisions. You climbed into bed with a relieved sigh and practically melted into the mattress.
“Oh, thank God.”
Robby looked up from where he was putting his watch on the dresser.
“Tired?”
You turned your head slowly.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been more tired in my entire life.”
“You said that last week.”
“And I meant it then too.”
He laughed softly. You pulled the blankets up to your chin and sighed. Your hair was still slightly damp, your skin warm from the shower, and every muscle in your body felt pleasantly heavy. You watched him move around the room. Tall. Broad shoulders. T-shirt and sleep pants. A little more gray in his beard than there had been a few years ago. A little more tired around the eyes.
Still the most handsome man you’d ever seen. You smiled to yourself.
“What?”
You blinked.
“What?”
“You’re looking at me.”
“So?”
“You’ve got that look.”
You smiled wider.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I think my husband is handsome.”
He huffed a laugh.
“You’ve been married to me for twelve years.”
“And?”
“You know exactly what I look like.”
You grinned.
“I still like looking.”
The faint pink that touched his ears made you smile even more. The man who could stare down a trauma room without blinking and somehow still get shy when you complimented him.
“Cute.”
“I am not cute.”
“You are.”
“I am fifty years old.”
“And adorable.”
He shook his head and turned off the lamp on his side of the bed. The room dimmed. Then he walked around the mattress. You expected him to slide under his blankets.
Instead the mattress dipped heavily beside you. Then shifted. And suddenly there was an alarming amount of husband climbing into your personal space. You laughed.
“Michael.”
No answer. He simply kept going. One large arm wrapped around your waist. A leg tangled with yours. His chest pressed against your side. Then his face disappeared into your neck. You blinked. Then laughed again.
“Sir.”
Still nothing.
“Are you comfortable?”
A muffled sound came from your neck. You smiled.
“I can’t understand you.”
Another muffled noise. You laughed harder. Finally, he lifted his head just enough to look at you.
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
You smiled.
“Then why are you laying on top of me?”
He looked entirely serious.
“I’ve got my wife back.”
Your entire expression softened.
“Oh.”
He rested his head back against your shoulder. You brought your hand up and ran your fingers through his damp hair. He sighed. A long, contented sigh.
“You’re right…that is nice.”
He looked up.
“What?”
“That happy little sigh.”
He smiled. Then buried his face in your neck again. You couldn’t stop smiling.
“You really had a hard day without me.”
“I did not.”
“Michael.”
“You kept disappearing.”
You laughed softly.
“I was working.”
“I know.”
“I was in the same building.”
“I know.”
“You saw me several times.”
“I know.”
You smiled into the darkness.
“And you still missed me.”
Silence.
“Maybe.”
You laughed.
“Maybe?”
“I don’t like it.”
“What?”
“Not seeing you.”
Your hand slowed in his hair. You looked down at him. Even in the dim light, you could see the exhaustion on his face. The vulnerability too. You softened completely.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
He sighed.
“I know it’s ridiculous.”
“It isn’t.”
“I know we’re both busy.”
“We are”
“I know we work in the same hospital and that I can technically walk upstairs whenever I want.”
You smiled.
“But?”
“But I like seeing you.”
Your chest squeezed. He looked up at you then. Dark eyes. Soft expression. Entirely too honest.
“I like our mornings.”
You smiled.
“Our coffee?”
“Our coffee.”
“I like our lunches.”
“We never actually get lunch.”
“Still.”
You laughed.
“I like hearing your laugh in the hallway.”
Your smile grew.
“I like knowing where you are.”
“Twenty-seven times worth?”
He groaned.
“Oh my God.”
You laughed.
“I am never letting that go.”
“I know.”
You brushed your fingers through the gray at his temple.
“I think it’s sweet.”
“It was embarrassing.”
“It was adorable.”
“It was not.”
“It really was.”
He shook his head. Then he shifted closer somehow, which you honestly didn’t think was possible. You laughed softly.
“This side of you is great.”
“What?”
“My clingy husband.”
“I am not clingy.”
“You are currently wearing me like a blanket.”
“I’m comfortable.”
“You literally said you weren’t.”
He looked up at you.
“I’m emotionally comfortable.”
You stared at him. Then burst out laughing. The sound filled the room. And to his great offense, you laughed so hard tears gathered in your eyes.
“Emotionally comfortable?”
“Stop laughing.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re very mean.”
You laughed harder. He tried not to smile. Failed completely. You cupped his cheek.
“Oh, honey.”
“I regret saying anything.”
“No, you don’t.”
Unfortunately…No, he didn’t. You smiled softly and leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Then another. Then one to his temple. He closed his eyes.
“That feels nice.”
You smiled.
“You’ve had a long day.”
“So have you.”
“I know.”
You kept stroking your fingers through his hair. After a few moments, he spoke again.
“Do you know my favorite part of the day?”
You looked down at him.
“What?”
“This.”
You blinked. He lifted one hand and gently touched your cheek.
“Coming home.”
Your expression softened.
“Getting to be with you.”
You smiled.
“Not being chief attending?”
“No.”
“Not trauma medicine?”
“No.”
“Not the emergency department?”
“Absolutely not.”
You laughed softly. He smiled.
“This.”
You leaned down and kissed him. The kind of kiss that came after twelve years of marriage and still somehow felt like coming home. When you pulled back, he was smiling.
“You know,” you said softly, “I missed you too.”
He looked up at you.
“I know.”
“No, I really did.”
You touched his cheek.
“I kept thinking all day that I wanted this.”
You ran your hand through his hair again.
“Just us.”
He looked at you for a long moment. Then he reached up and covered your hand with his.
“Got us now.”
You smiled.
“Yeah.”
Silence settled around you. Comfortable. Warm. Outside, the world kept moving. Cars drove by. Somewhere in the distance, a siren sounded. The hospital would still be there tomorrow. Patients. Consults. Traumas. Chaos.
But none of it mattered right now. Because your husband was draped over you like a very affectionate weighted blanket. And honestly? You wouldn’t have had it any other way. A few minutes passed.
“You know what?”
“Hm?”
“I’m glad I married you.”
He smiled without opening his eyes.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
You laughed softly.
“That’s all I get?”
He finally looked up. Then he smiled. That soft smile. The one that belonged only to you.
“I’d marry you again tomorrow.”
Your breath caught.
“Oh.”
“And the next day.”
You swallowed.
“And the day after that.”
Your eyes stung unexpectedly. You smiled.
“That’s very unfair of you.”
“What?”
“Making me emotional when I’m tired.”
He laughed softly. Then he lifted himself just enough to kiss your forehead.
“I love you.”
You wrapped your arms around him.
“I love you too.”
He settled back down, head against your chest. You kept your hand in his hair. Eventually his breathing slowed. Then slowed some more. You smiled into the darkness.
“Michael?”
A sleepy sound.
“Hm?”
“You know I’m coming home with you tomorrow too, right?”
A long pause. Then his arm tightened around your waist.
“I know.”
You smiled.
“But I still don’t like sharing you with the rest of the hospital.”
You laughed softly. Then you kissed the top of his head.
“Go to sleep, clingy husband.”
Another sleepy noise.
“Only with you.”
Your heart melted. And sometime later, with nearly two hundred pounds of chief attending draped warmly across you, his hand resting over your heart and your fingers still tangled in his hair…the two of you finally fell asleep. Together. Exactly where you’d both wanted to be all day.
