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[kenkozkmg]

Have you guys ever wondered why Remus is quieter than Sirius or James? I think it's because every full moon, when he transforms into a werewolf, he's loud—howling and destroying everything around him. Maybe he tries to compensate for that by being calm and reserved the rest of the time.

Just a theory, guys!

[docrobinavitch]

THE FAWN.

dr robby x f!pathologist!reader | read on ao3

wc: 22.5k content: 18+ mdni, sexually explicit content, no age gap, reader in her mid to late forties, rivals to lovers, med student flash backs, parental death, suicide, suicidal ideation, cat dad!robby, sabbatical!robby, biker!robby, motorcycle accident (minor injuries), whump, angst with happy ending, hurt/comfort, so much domestic fluff, discussions of mental health, complicated parental relationship, like literally so much domesticity it's sickening, robby nicknamed reader bambi back in med school, mostly used in flashbacks, reader has a tattoo synopsis: michael robinavitch was practically your sworn enemy in med school. your sworn enemy that you'd slept with, regretably, once. then twenty years passed and back in pittsburgh, you see one michael robinavitch on hinge. ever the hopeless romantic, you can't help the curiosity that leads you to match with him. unfortunately for you, he doesn't remember you. a/n: this one is for all my fellow hopeless romantics. it's so romantic and dramatic it borders on cringe but whatever. i had a ton of fun writing all my deepest romantic and domestic fantasies. welcome to my dream house, i tried to paint it as cozy as possible. <3 -syd

Your favorite part of being called in to the hospital on a Saturday was the peace and quiet of the lab. Doubly so today, because you were called in during the night shift.

Pathology didn't really have "night shifts" or even weekend shifts so the lab was completely empty when you arrived. Immediately, you set up your space, your speaker, pulled out the iced coffee you'd made at home, unscrewing the cap on the Ball jar.

Originally, you'd planned to spend the night on the couch with your tabby cat, Brutus (named in such a way so when he inevitably destroyed your furniture or knocked your favorite mug off the table you could at least find some whimsy in crying "Et tu, Brute?" theatrically), and a movie that you'd heard would make you cry. You'd been meaning to cry for a while now, but hadn't been able to find the time. You supposed you could push it to another night, depending on how long you ended up being in the hospital tonight.

You hummed along to the playlist you'd started on your speaker as you prepared a blood smear from the sample you'd been called in for.

Jack Abbot was the attending on shift in the ED this evening. You had only met him in person once or twice, but you were glad it was him and not Michael. Or, Robby, it seemed he was going by these days. You hadn't yet run into him since being back at PTMC, but you were not eager to reminisce with him, especially since it was becoming more and more clear that he had no recollection of you.

It shouldn't have bothered you so much. It had been two med school rotations and one extremely disappointing hookup when you'd both gotten too drunk after shift. But he had been instrumental in you picking pathology for residency. At the time, the decision had been full of complicated emotions, resentment, a complete misunderstanding of who you were and what you wanted. But now, well, you thought maybe you owed him your gratitude.

Your phone pinged while you were prepping your slides and you eyed it and found it was a notification from Hinge.

From Robby.

You inhaled slowly and looked away as your screen went dark. You had no idea what the fuck you were doing, chatting with Robby on a dating site. You told yourself you just were curious when your thumb tapped the heart on his profile. Middle aged looked really really good on him, you wouldn't deny that, but you still saw the baby faced, skinny rod of a med student when you looked at him. And when he'd first initiated the chat, you realized very quickly he didn't remember you.

You found yourself preening under his attention, how he complimented your photos and your mind through conversations. The both of you established early on that you didn't want to discuss work beyond confirming that you were both doctors working in PTMC. But you repeatedly dodged his attempts to meet up and grab a drink. You weren't sure how long you could keep it all up without admitting that you knew him already. Intimately, even.

You suspected soon enough, he'd get tired of trying to get you to meet up with him and move on to the next thing. But thus far, he'd been persistent, going on weeks now.

But you didn't have time for him right now so you turned your attention back to your slides. Slipping one beneath the microscope, you focused the knobs slowly, letting your world narrow to the blood sample, the blood cells.

This was why you loved your job. How easy it was to slip outside yourself and into whatever sample you were looking at. There was always a clear answer hiding in the shape of the cells, just beneath the surface. There was always a clear path to diagnosis, to treatment, to healing. Everything made perfect sense under the light of a microscope.

And this sample, as always, made perfect sense after just a few minutes. You sighed, "Shit."

You couldn't risk just sending this back via the online portal for whenever the doctor deigned to check the chart next so you picked up the phone. It rang and rang and rang.

You shook your head and put the phone back on the receiver. As quickly as possible, you documented the chart, still trying to get ahold of someone, but no one was picking up the phone. What the fuck was going on down there?

Impatient, you decided to head down yourself after saving your changes in the chart. You walked briskly towards the elevators, rocked on your heels as you waited.

The second the elevator doors opened you were knocked practically on your ass by the noise and the chaos of the ED. It was rare you came down here at all and every time you did it felt like being thrown back to med school rotations. Suddenly you were again the floundering med student constantly being expected to be on the lookout for the daggers of the other students as well as practice medicine efficiently.

But you were an adult now, not the twenty year old naive kid genius walking around on wobbly legs. Pushing your shoulders back, you shook it off and headed for the hub. Luckily, Dr. Abbot was right there.

"Your phones not working down here or something?" You asked without preamble, hands on your hips.

Abbot looked up at you slowly and then over to the phone. You followed his gaze and saw that the phone was lying off the receiver, "Ah, shit, sorry." He put the receiver back on the hook, "What could be so urgent it coaxes path from the comforts of the cave upstairs?"

You smirked, "Your patient has TTP."

He sighed and picked up an iPad, "Fuck," he muttered when he pulled up the chart you'd just updated, "Okay, um," He shook his head, "I don't think we have the resources down here to start TPE."

You frowned, "Okay… Admit to ICU, then."

He laughed, "Yeah, right. Good luck getting the charge to agree to admit a patient on a Saturday night."

You bit your lip, and then sighed, "Alright, give me… fifteen minutes and I'll be back down here with an apheresis machine, I'll run it."

He raised his eyebrows, "Really? You'd do that?"

You shrugged, "I could run apheresis in my sleep."

Slowly Abbot nodded and smirked at you, "Alright, great. Thank you."

Later, you sat in the hub of the emergency department after setting up the patient for TPE and finally opened your messages from Michael—Robby, you corrected yourself.

What's my favorite homebody up to this evening? Any way I can convince you to grab a drink?

You stifled a smirk and typed back, I'm on call tonight. Sorry, cowboy.

"Hey," You looked up to see Abbot leaning over the counter to look at you, "Seriously, thank you for staying."

"No problem," You eyed the chaos around you, "Seemed like you guys could use the help."

"Always." He laughed and nodded, "Listen, some of us in the ED are getting together for a poker night next Friday, would you… be interested in coming?"

You blinked up at him, unsure of what to make of the offer. Was he flirting or just being nice? You'd heard that Jack Abbot flirted with everyone, so likely he didn't mean anything by it at all. While you were trying to figure it out, your phone pinged again. Robby. You flipped your phone facedown on the workstation desk.

"Why not?" You said and smiled up at him.

"Great," He unlocked his phone and handed it to you, "Here, put your number in and I'll text you the details."

Having entered your information, you returned his phone to him and then he was off. Sighing, you turned back to your phone to open Robby's latest message.

They're working you too hard. I thought path was supposed to be easy?

You rolled your eyes at this, but were unsurprised. For as much as you remembered him complaining about surgeons during your rotations, that they had a superiority complex, he had the same issues. And so had you, once upon a time, but you had grown out of it.

Having a work-life balance doesn't make the whole specialty "easy."

Almost immediately, a reply was on your phone: Sorry, I didn't mean to diminish your specialty. The ED would cease to function without collaboration from path, I know that. And your diagnoses have saved our asses on multiple occasions when we were busy chasing zebras.

Well. That was new. An apology without hesitation that seemed to drip through with humility and sincerity.

Though, it also was not lost on you that he had incentive to be nicer to you in the context of a dating app considering he'd been trying to fuck you for the last few weeks.

Apology accepted, you texted back, I know your true frustration lies with the inability to have your way with me tonight. You stifled a smile after hitting send. It reminded you of being in college, the casual flirtation. You hadn't had time for this sort of thing in med school or residency, doing your best to just survive. Then, when you were finally an attending, you were so burnt out you remembered practically sleep walking through the first couple of years. By the time that was all over, you felt so out of practice you'd mostly isolated yourself until now.

You'd had a few one night stands since creating a Hinge profile, but since you and Robby had begun chatting he had taken up all of your mental space. This irritated you greatly on top of the fact that he didn't seem to remember you.

And here I thought I was doing an excellent job at concealing my desperation.

You huffed a laugh and shook your head, Could you show me just how desperate you are for me?

You fidgeted with your fingers anxiously as you waited for his response, wondering for just a few moments if you had been too brazen, too forward—The phone pinged.

You slid open your phone and felt lightheaded as you took in the photo he'd sent you. His fist was wrapped around the considerable length of his very erect cock, dark tufts of hair at the base of his fist. You had both been pretty drunk the time you'd hooked up in the darkness of Robby's messy studio apartment and as he'd had trouble maintaining an erection that night, you'd never gotten a good look at it. Not like this.

There was a lump in your throat and you swallowed hard as another message came through: The photos you sent in that pretty lingerie set will have to do for tonight.

You felt your cheeks heat and blinked the steamy feeling from your eyes. Locking your phone, you placed it face down in front of you and stared off into the distance for a while.

And after a minute or so of this, when your galloping heart slowed and lucid thinking began to ease its way behind your eyes again, you had only a single thought:

Oh, no.

***

An unseasonable heat wave had domed around Pittsburgh the last couple of days and so when Robby headed to Jack's place for poker night that Friday, the sun had gone down, but the residual heat warmed him enough that he didn't need a jacket.

He had been waffling back and forth on whether or not to skip the night all together. The week had been crushing him, slowly, a boulder rolling incremently into a brick wall, an unstoppable force.

There had been a few patients they'd lost that really stuck with him this week. They'd been short on residents which meant he'd had to do a bit more hands on care than usual.

And more and more when he found things growing particularly dark, he'd reach for you. You, with your gorgeous smile and silly cat and constant, almost oppressive optimism.

He'd tease you about it, but really he admired it. How no matter how bleak of a day you had, he had, you'd find a way to turn it on its head.

Sure, you'd had to stage the breast cancer of a woman in her thirties and the news wasn't good, but you'd gotten to hold her hand and tell her about all the ground breaking treatment that was available to her. Sure, you'd cried about her for days later, but she'd sent you a card the next week thanking you for the simple act of holding her hand. Of showing her kindness. And maybe you'd get to see her through to remission as you'd done for countless others.

That was your favorite part, you'd tell him. Diagnosing sucked, but treatment plans and seeing people through to the other side, sliding biopsies under your microscope to see healthy tissue. Remission.

"That's why you're so miserable down there," You'd told him, "You mostly see people on their worst days, you don't get to celebrate with them when they make it to recovery. You don't get to see the returns."

He craved your perspective, wanted desperately to have it himself. But he wasn't sure it was possible for him the way it was for you. With your nine to five and weekends off and time to date—though apparently, not time for him.

He had thought at first that you were simply waiting him out, waiting to see if he'd lose interest. You'd been open about the fact that your time on dating apps had largely led you to become disillusioned with the possibility of a real, fulfilling relationship. He felt the same, mostly. The only thing the apps had ever been good for was a night or two to fill the oppressive silence of his house.

But he continued trying with you, which had led to the two of you sexting and him being as open as he could remember being in recent years about how badly he wanted someone. Still, you avoided him.

He'd texted you earlier to see if you were around tonight and you had left him on read, so begrudgingly, he'd be going to poker night instead. Anything other than being alone with his thoughts tonight after they'd lost a woman with eclampsia and her baby.

But when he walked into Jack's living room, a beer in hand, he was stunned to see you sitting on the couch, immersed in conversation with Mckay and Al Hashimi.

Your eyes darted to his and then quickly away, but he saw the way your eyes widened and your chest swelled. You didn't know he was going to be there.

"Hey man, you made it," Jack clapped Robby on the shoulder, "Glad you came."

But Robby couldn't tear his eyes off you, "You invited path?"

Jack followed his gaze, "Oh, yeah, she helped us out last weekend with a TTP patient. Figured it was only polite. Honestly, I didn't think she'd come. Why, do you know her?"

With effort, Robby tore his eyes away from you, "Wha—? Oh, no. No more than you do, you know, the rare occasion path comes down."

Jack narrowed his eyes at Robby, "Right," he said slowly, "Okay. Well, can I interest you in a round of Blackjack?"

Robby chuckled and shook his head, "No thank you, learned my lesson years ago not to play cards with you."

Jack smirked and watched as Robby's gaze flitted back to you, "I think she's too well adjusted for you."

Robby's head whipped back around, a hot flush crawling up his neck, "Excuse me?" He said through nervous laughter.

Jack shrugged, "I'm just saying, she seems like she wouldn't tolerate your bullshit and you'd probably get bored at how… normal she is."

Robby blinked at him, "Who said I'm interested?"

Jack rolled his eyes, "Please, don't insult me, brother. The last time I saw you look at a woman like that was the first time you met Heather. And you'll recall she also was unwilling to put up with your bullshit."

He knew Jack was mostly being playful, but it stung nonetheless, the thought that someone else besides himself thought he was incapable of being in a healthy and loving relationship. That no one in their right mind could want to stay with him.

For just a second he was eight years old again wondering if he was such a terrible, rotten son that it'd pushed his mother to end her own life—The thought rushed up against the dam in his brain and just as quickly receded. He wouldn't think about that. Not now. Not here.

He forced a smile for Jack, "You don't need to remind me. I remember."

After a moment Jack squeezed his shoulders, "But what do I know, hm? Go shoot your shot."

Robby rolled his eyes, "You have far too many Gen Z staff on your shift."

But still, Robby wandered over to you eventually, surprised to find that he was a bit nervous, "Is this why you didn't answer my text earlier?" He asked quietly as he sat down.

You turned just a bit towards him, "I didn't think you'd be here, honestly. It doesn't seem like your scene."

He laughed, "Meaning?"

"Meaning it's too… jovial," You teased.

He ran a hand over the back of his head, "Well, I'm glad I came. It's nice to finally meet you in person."

You grimaced, "Yeah, we've met before, Michael."

He frowned and turned fully to you, "What're you—? No we haven't."

You nodded slowly, "We have, yeah. We went to med school together. Did rotations together."

For a moment he paused and tilted his head, turned your name over in his head, "No… No, you're too young to have gone to med school with me—" His eyes caught on your wrist as your fingers tapped lightly against the glass of your beer bottle. A tattoo in looping scroll that read As you wish. With a dagger beneath the words. The feeling of nostalgia almost violently overtook him. There was only one other woman he'd ever met who had that tattoo of a quote from The Princess Bride in that exact spot.

"Bambi?" He asked, sounding almost breathless.

You wrinkled your nose and turned away from him, "I always hated that nickname."

But Robby couldn't tear his eyes off you. There were a million thoughts running through his head as suddenly images flashed behind his eyes, the two of you twenty years younger and constantly at each other's throats, desperate to prove you were better than the other. But the first thought that he blurted out of his mouth was, "You went into pathology?"

You laughed and shook your head, "I knew you didn't mean it when you said you respected my specialty—"

"That's not what I meant—"

"What else could you have meant by the condescension dripping from your tone right now?"

He opened and closed his mouth before hanging his head, "I'm just… Surprised, is all. You were… a force in the ER. You could have had your pick of any emergency medicine residency in the country, surely."

You stared ahead for a few moments, tightlipped and eyes glossy, "Emergency medicine nearly burned me out just at rotations, I imagine I would have been… a shell of myself had I stayed. And at the time, you certainly agreed."

He huffed in indignation, "That is categorically false, I thought you were brilliant."

"Well you sure had a funny way of showing it. Talking over me, talking down to me in front of attendings, basically celebrating every mistake I made—"

"Everyone else practically worshiped you. I was just trying to make sure I wasn't overlooked. You know how cutthroat it was down there—"

"Exactly," You nodded, "Which is why I'm actually grateful for the way you treated me. It wore me down enough that I knew if I couldn't get through even a rotation or two, there was no way I'd make it through a residency. Not in that environment."

He pressed his lips together and looked down at his hands, "Look, I'm… I apologize… For how I spoke to you back then, I was a stupid kid, I was just trying to survive as best I knew how. It's not an excuse, I just. I'm sorry."

You didn't seem upset as you looked at him, eyes gently passing over his face. You lifted the beer bottle to your lips and he watched the lights refract off the glass.

"It's fine," You said eventually, "You were far from the only reason I went into path."

"Why didn't you say anything? When we—When we started talking? Why didn't you tell me?"

You shrugged, "I thought maybe you'd forgotten me altogether. Or worse, that remembering me would mean you'd no longer be interested."

You carefully avoided looking at him when you said this, but screwed your mouth down to the side as you chewed your cheek.

Robby sat back and took a sip from his own beer, "It seems like I should have been the one to worry about that. Since I was the one who treated you so horribly."

You cleared your throat and turned back towards him. He was struck again by a sense of nostalgia at the intensity in your gaze. He had nicknamed you Bambi all those years ago because of your skittishness, the way that everything seemed to terrify you. Despite how smart you were and how clearly gifted a doctor you would become, you were easily startled and easily overwhelmed by the din of the emergency room. It hadn't been all that uncommon to find you in the ambulance bay after a hard case, slouched on the ground against the wall, hands trembling as they cradled your face.

But it had also been the intensity in your eyes, how every emotion was always so clearly reflected in their glossy pools, that had been the real inspiration behind the nickname. He had never intended it to be cruel, though it appeared that's how you'd interpreted it. It was something he had admired about you, the ease with which you'd connected with your patients because the empathy was so clear on your face. Of course, he had never told you that. Afraid to let on to any perceived weakness around you.

He suspected, though, that you hated the nickname because he had also used it as a weapon against your naivete. He remembered the ways he'd called attention to your age and when the Bambi nickname had spread there had been no way for you to escape it.

Now, though, your eyes were glossy again and he felt bowled over by the way you stared at him, a wistfulness in your expression, "Are you actually sorry or is it just that you think I'm hot now?"

He was so surprised by your question, he gave out a short laugh, "Please, I thought you were hot then, too."

You snorted, "Well, now I know you're lying."

"The nickname Bambi, if nothing else, implies that I found you adorable at the very least."

You rolled your eyes, "Even if I agreed with that assessment—which I don't—it was very clear from that one time we slept together that you were uninterested—"

"Woah—woah—woah— back up. When we slept together?"

You looked at him blankly for a few moments, "Oh my God," You said quickly, seemingly embarrassed as you looked away from him, "You don't remember. It was so bad you don't even remember."

Robby's brain was still working overtime to catch up with you, "Hold on—I would remember sleeping with you."

You stood up from the couch, and he remembered this about you—You had been spooked, you were about to dart back into the woods, never to be seen again. But he stood at the same time, towering above you, "Don't go," he said quietly, "whatever happened was twenty something years ago, it doesn't mean anything—"

"It does to me." You said firmly, "Excuse me," And you forced your way past him.

Robby watched you walk away for a moment, then turned his head to see Jack shaking his head, a slight smirk on his face. A very blatant I told you so if Robby'd ever seen one.

"Shit," Robby muttered under his breath and hung his head.

***

TWENTY SOMETHING YEARS AGO

Michael was being very touchy that evening and overly kind, paying for your drinks and wrapping an arm around you in the booth. It was making you shy. Despite the way he talked to you, at you, over you, there were cases every now and then when you caught him looking at you with what looked like awe or reverence. But just as quickly, it'd dissipate and you'd be left wondering if you'd imagined it.

"Let me walk you home," he said, slurring only a little, his words just slightly stumbling into one another like dominos. He wrapped your jacket around your shoulders as he spoke.

"I'm fine," You smiled at him, "I think you're the one who needs to be walked home."

He held up his hands in mock surrender, a boyish grin on his face, "You got me. I do need to be chaperoned home if you would be so kind."

You rolled your eyes, but secretly you were pleased. You wanted to be his friend, wanted him to respect you so you didn't have to keep having panic attacks alone in the bathroom. You were still very much like a scared little kid in that way, just wanting at least one other person to just see you, truly.

So you allowed Michael to swing his arm around your shoulders as he directed you towards his place. It was just a couple of blocks from the hospital, but when you got to the building, a rundown, brutalist slab of concrete, you frowned, "You live here?"

"Now, don't sound so disgusted, princess," he teased and pulled you along behind him inside the building, "Not all of us have wealthy parents to fund our gorgeous apartments in buildings that have doormen."

You felt your cheeks heat, "That's not—That's not entirely true." He looked at you dubiously, eyebrows raised, and you furrowed yours, "I pay for my utilities," You grumbled.

He chuckled and ran a hand over his jaw before sliding his key into his door.

"If it's not too revolting to you," He said softly as he pushed the door open, "You're welcome to come inside for a drink."

Something changed in the tone of his voice and as you tried to place it, you saw the way his eyes roved down your body.

You had never had sex with anyone before, had never had the time. You were in college by the time you were fifteen and because you were so young no one really wanted to hang out with you. You didn't get invited to parties or study sessions (unless someone was trying to inadvertently get you to do their homework). Once you got to medical school, you were still only seventeen, still too young for any of your peers to show much interest.

When you turned twenty one, the shift had been subtle. But suddenly, you were being included to go out for drinks. Then people raised their eyebrows less when you said you were in med school. The stares lingered longer and traveled farther.

And now Michael was looking at you like that, too.

Maybe you should've thought it over more, said goodnight and gone straight home. But you were so painfully lonely. You should've hated him for the way he'd treated you, but it only spurred you on. You were used to having to compete for scraps of love from people who seemed to not like you much. Had been doing it since you learned to talk.

So you followed him inside.

It was freezing inside his apartment. So cold, in fact, your breath was beginning to cloud in front of you.

"Jesus Christ, Michael, is your heat broken or something?"

"Uh, no," He said from the kitchen. You heard the sound of glasses and bottles clinking before he reappeared, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and two glasses in the other, "Just… trying to conserve. But we can turn the heat on for you, princess." He said with a wink.

You sat on his couch with your arms crossed and felt your lip jut out in a pout, "I'm not spoiled, you know. I just—It's just as cold outside as it is in here. Can't be good for you. Or the pipes."

"Many of us," He said as he poured you each a glass, amber liquid sloshing up the sides, "Had to learn to live without. I didn't grow up in a mansion like you."

You scoffed, "I'm not the sort of rich you think I am, I grew up in the suburbs. My parents still have to work for a living. Yes, it was comfortable, but we're not fucking millionaires. We don't have, like, a fucking second house in the Hamptons."

He nodded, "Still seems pretty rich to me."

You rolled your eyes, "Well, what do your parents do then?"

That insufferable smirk finally fell from his face and for a second you felt vindicated.

"If you must know," He started, staring intently at the liquor in his glass, "I don't know who my father is, never met him. And my mother killed herself when I was eight. I found her swinging from the rafters one day when I got home from school."

You stared at him, stunned, while he knocked back the rest of his whiskey and poured himself another, "My grandparents took me in after that and then when I was sixteen, my grandfather died. When I was twenty, my grandmother joined him. So now it's just me."

He raised his glass, forced smile on his face, "May their memories be a blessing." He said, and tossed back the entirety of his drink in one go.

"Michael," you said softly, reaching for him when he began to pour more whiskey, "I'm sorry, I didn't—"

Not unkindly, he pushed your hand away, "You know, I've been thinking that I want people to start calling me Robby."

You frowned, thrown by the change in subject, "What?"

"Yeah, I just, people have trouble with Robinavitch. And Adamson asked me, if he could call me Robby. And I—I really like him and I want him to like me so I think—I think I'm just gonna have everyone call me Robby. It sounds friendlier, don't you think? Once I become a doctor? Doctor Robby."

You felt a sort of tenderness towards him now, after he'd revealed so much of himself to you. You had the distinct urge to hold him, cradle him to you, tell him it was all going to be okay.

"I like Michael," You said quietly, "If it's alright with you."

Finally he met your gaze again and his eyes softened just slightly. Slowly, as if afraid to scare you off, he reached a hand out to cup your cheek. When you leaned into his palm, he stroked his thumb against your cheek bone.

"Sure, Bambi. You can still call me Michael."

You couldn't say which of you closed the distance first, just that the next thing you remembered, his warm, wet mouth was on yours.

At first, the kisses were slow and hesitant. You remembered it was you who deepened it, a whine clamoring out of your throat and into his mouth.

Before you knew it, you had climbed into his lap and pushed him down into the couch. You felt him harden against you and it felt instinctual, the way your hips ground down against him, chasing the friction.

"Fuck," he breathed into your mouth, his hand cradling the back of your neck, "This good?"

You nodded fervently, "Do you have a condom?"

He raised his eyebrows, "Are you sure?"

You nodded again and so he pushed his hand between you, pushing his hand into the pocket of his jeans to pull out a foil packet.

You blinked, "Were you… planning this?"

"No," He said and teared the packet open with his teeth, "But I like to be prepared just in case."

Rolling your eyes, you pulled back to allow him to push his jeans and boxers down. His cock sprung up between you and you felt your breaths grow shallow as you watched him work the condom on.

Carefully, you hiked your dress up to your hips, hoping he didn't notice the way your hands shook. His eyes stayed on yours as you shifted your underwear to the side and slowly lowered yourself onto him.

"Oh, God." He sighed, sounding just a breathless as you felt at the stretch of him. It burned for just a moment, almost pleasantly, "Look at me," He said and your eyes locked back on his.

You leaned your forehead against his as you slowly moved your hips along the length of him, "Is this—Is it good?" You asked, your voice small and uncertain.

"Yeah," He said quickly, pushed his mouth up into yours, "So good," he whispered into your mouth.

But less than a minute later, the sensation changed. It was difficult to move against him, in fact, you weren't even sure he was inside you anymore, "Did you—I mean—Are you—soft?" You could hear your own panic and desperation in your voice as your hips slowed.

A scarlet flush was creeping up his throat and he squeezed his eyes shut, as if to avoid your gaze, "Yeah, I—I think so. S'probably whiskey dick." He finally opened his eyes and maybe sensed your impending humiliation, "Hey—hey—it's not you," He cupped your cheeks with both hands, "It's not you, I swear, you're perfect."

He pulled your face down to his again and you allowed yourself to get lost in the taste of him again, "It's me," he murmured between kisses, "I'm fuckin' defective, it's my fault."

"Michael—"

"Come up here, sit on my face," He said abruptly.

You raised your eyebrows, "Wh—what?"

"Please," He said, sounding desperate, "Please, I wanna taste you. Lemme take care of you."

You sighed and hid your face in your hands, "You don't have to, like, make it up to me—"

"I want to," he said again, "If you do, too. Please."

You couldn't deny that the idea of it had embers of arousal stirring in your belly. You hadn't prepared for the possibility of someone's mouth on you like that, but you didn't want to admit that to him. You didn't want to have to explain the depth of your inexperience lest it kill whatever remained of his desire.

So, you swallowed and moved your way up his body, let him position you, his arms wrapped around your thighs and pulling you to his mouth.

You were immediately overwhelmed by the sensation, gasping and whimpering when he moaned against you, your whole body twitching as it reverberated through your core.

But again, it wasn't long before things slowed, and then—stopped completely. Blinking, you looked down and saw that Michael had fallen asleep.

No, he couldn't have—could he? You leaned in a bit closer, leaning back to fully pull yourself off his face. Oh my God, was that drool on the corner of his mouth?

Mortified, and at a loss for what else to do, you carefully and quietly climbed off him, grabbed your things, and slipped out of his apartment. Heels in hand, you paused outside of his door and exhaled in relief.

You left his apartment feeling even more conflicted about him than before and also feeling a bit dejected. This was the guy who had once tripped you up in a trauma and then said "Don't worry Bambi, it's normal to be a bit wobbly on your legs when you're still just a fawn."

It shouldn't have surprised you at all that he found you unattractive, that obviously he had only allowed you to initiate because you were sat in front of him, willing and able. Like an idiot. Like the naive little kid he had told everyone you were.

You felt stupid and humiliated. And God knew you didn't believe in the fucking patriarchal construct of virginity, but you couldn't deny it made you feel a bit bitter that you had wasted it on Michael Robinavitch. You wouldn't make such an idiotic decision ever again.

He could say a lot about you, but you'd never made the same mistake twice. You didn't intend to start now.

***

Robby watched you through the glass, leaned over Jack's balcony with your arms wrapped around yourself.

This had to be a new record of how quickly he could fuck things up with a potential romantic partner. Once he'd recognized you, he'd felt stupid that he hadn't recognized you immediately when he saw your profile. And maybe there had been some familiarity there, something he'd mistaken for instant attraction and chemistry.

That said, he had wracked his brain and the two of you sleeping together he was near positive had never happened. Or at least, for the life of him, he couldn't remember it. And yes it was true he'd always given you a hard time, but he had also always been enamored by you. Honestly, he'd thought it'd been obvious, especially towards the end of M4.

So he found it hard to believe that he wouldn't remember that. But he also didn't think that you were a liar.

Carefully, he slid the glass door open and stepped outside. The night had cooled significantly since his arrival and as he got closer to you, he saw goosebumps along your arms. You didn't startle when he came up next to you and positioned himself at such an angle as to shield you from the breeze.

"I'm sorry that I don't remember," He said softly after a few moments, "But I'd like you to tell me about it, if you're up for it."

You shook your head, "It's not your fault. It was really horrible, I don't blame you for not remembering."

He groaned, "You know, you could say a lot of shit about me and I wouldn't blink, but hearing I'm bad in bed is a new one for me and I'm not a fan."

You laughed and turned to him, "Oh yeah? You've become something of a casanova in your old age?"

He winced, "Not that old."

You hummed and turned back towards the treeline, "What was it? That made you finally remember me tonight?"

"The Princess Bride tattoo."

You looked at your wrist, "Huh. I would've thought this was one of the things you picked on me for behind my back. Called it childish."

He shook his head, "Nah, The Princess Bride's a classic. I actually always really liked it, thought it was romantic."

You rolled your eyes at that, as if you didn't quite believe him, but didn't comment further. After a moment you sighed, "It was during MS4. We were almost done with our last rotation in the ER and some of the residents invited us out for drinks."

"Oh," Robby said, frowning, "I do remember that. I got really drunk and you walked me back to my apartment."

You nodded, "Right."

"But we didn't… I invited you in for a drink and…" He trailed off. He was drawing a blank, "Did you come inside? I just thought… You never liked me, I thought for sure you declined. I don't remember anything after that."

You narrowed your eyes at him and then sighed, "Well, you did down something like three fingers of whiskey in quick succession once we got in your apartment so I guess it's possible you blacked out."

"You always made me nervous so it's no surprise I drank so much."

You opened and closed your mouth for a moment, but then shook your head quickly, "Yeah, I guess that was it."

"Then what happened?"

You sighed, "We really don't have to rehash this—"

"Please," he pushed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, "I want to know."

You shook your head and then shrugged, "Fine. About a minute after you put it in, I was riding you and you went soft. So then you… you asked me to sit on your face instead. Which I did. And a minute or two later you… fell asleep."

Robby was silent for a moment as he processed what you'd said. You were deliberately looking away from him, running a hand nervously over the back of your neck.

"Wow," He said finally, "And you still liked my Hinge profile decades later?"

You gave a short laugh, "I was curious if anything had changed, I guess."

He hummed, "A lot has changed, I would say." He ran a finger lightly over the back of your arm and watched as goosebumps spread—But you didn't move away, not even when he bent to your ear and said lowly, "I'd like a chance to make it up to you."

You swallowed and then turned to face him, your faces impossibly close, "Have you ever been married, Michael?"

He frowned and pulled away marginally, "Um… no? Have you?"

You shook your head and looked off into the distance over his shoulder, wistfully, "I got close, once." You sighed, "Listen, I'm too old to be doing this… friends with benefits, situationship, whatever, bullshit. Sex is great, but I have plenty of vibrators that do the job just fine and without the emotional turmoil. So I'm not interested in casual sex. I'm looking for a partner, not a dildo. If you want me you'll have to romance me and mean it."

Robby's eyes roved over your face. Maybe it was your shared memories or the fact that you knew him before he was broken beyond repair, but he felt a tender ache in his chest looking into your eyes. Just as warm and inviting as he remembered.

There were few people these days who could entice him to commit to anything. A real relationship meant having to open himself up to someone else. Allowing them to see the ugliest parts of himself and hope they didn't leave. It usually ended in him lashing out instead so at least he had some semblence of control over the end of the relationship.

Or at least, that was the hypothesis of his last therapist, who he still wasn't entirely sure wasn't full of shit.

But either way, when he thought about pursuing a real, full relationship with you, he didn't feel his usual urge to run. Instead, he felt a curiosity. The need to take you apart, to learn you like he would a medical procedure.

Maybe he wasn't broken after all. Maybe he could have full, healthy relationships like everyone else.

He brought one of his hands up to your neck, watched how you tried to stifle the urge to lean into his touch—Good, you were touch starved, just like him—and his thumb lightly toyed with one of the hoops hanging from your ear.

"'As you wish'." He said softly, a smirk on his face. You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth tugged upward.

"What? You don't believe me?" He tilted his head downward to force eye contact with you, "I've been the one begging you to go on a date with me for weeks."

"A date?" You raised your eyebrows, "They're calling a drink at the bar before taking someone to bed a date now, are they?"

He scoffed, "What, so you want a string quartet and a night out at the ballet?"

You furrowed your brow, "And so what if I did?"

He stared at you for a moment and then chuckled, "Then I'd tell you to wear your favorite dress."

You narrowed your eyes, but then shook your head, "Just dinner would be more than enough."

He nodded, "I can do that. Would you allow me to cook for you?"

You smirked and ran your hands up his forearms, "Sure, but it has to be at my place."

He grinned, ran his thumb back and forth across the skin just below your ear, "Friday night?"

You tilted your head a bit, "You're serious about this?"

"Yeah," He said softly, eyes heavy lidded from both alcohol and desire as he looked into your face, "Are you?"

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips as your eyes darted back and forth between his eyes, assessing. You still didn't quite believe him, he could tell. You had always been distrustful, convinced everyone was out to hurt you to a nearly paranoid level. The decades it seemed had done nothing to smooth that over.

But still, you nodded and leaned forward, pressing a warm kiss to his cheek, "See you Friday, Michael."

He watched as you walked back inside, conscious of the heat that pulsed against the skin where your lips had been just moments before.

***

"What do you think, Brutus?" You asked, your cat sidling between your legs as you looked at yourself in your floor length mirror. You had chosen form fitting, but simple clothes. A ribbed black sweater and your favorite pair of jeans. "Do you think he'll like it?"

Brutus trilled and stood up on his hind legs, stretching his front paws against your legs, a very clear request to be picked up. You looked down at him and smirked, "You're gonna get cat hair all over my sweater."

He mewled again, claws gently pricking at your jeans before quickly receding. You sighed, already defeated. You could never say no to him. You bent to scoop him up to your chest, pressing your nose into his face as he immediately began purring, "I know you don't like guests, but you have to be on your best behavior tonight, okay? No knocking glassware over if I'm not paying attention to you," You peppered kisses all over his head, "It's not polite."

The doorbell rang and you quickly lowered Brutus back down, running your hands over your sweater in an attempt to brush off the cat hair.

Sliding across the hardwood in your socked feet, you took one deep breath before pulling your front door open.

There in your doorway stood Michael Robinavitch in a button down and jeans, one hand holding a thermal bag you assumed was full of groceries, the other a bottle of wine.

He grinned when you opened the door, his eyes trailing lazily down your body, giving you a once over before meeting your eyes again.

"Hi," You said and stepped to the side, "Come in."

You watched him take in your home as he walked in, kicking off his shoes by the door without you having to ask.

Without a partner to appease or children you'd spent a lot of time creating a calming, beautiful space just for yourself. It resulted in a lot of warm lighting and soothing colors. Lots of windows and cozy nooks. The kitchen was big and open with huge bay windows looking into your backyard behind the sink. As you padded gently behind Robby, you watched him take stock of the sun setting through those windows.

"This is gorgeous." He said, eyes on the fresh tulips that sat in a vase on the island.

"Thank you," You said, and took the wine bottle from his hand, "It's my favorite place in the whole world."

He smirked as he placed the groceries on the counter, "Now I understand why it's so hard to get you to leave."

You took wine glasses down from your cabinet and opened the wine he'd brought, pouring you each a glass and bringing his over to him as he began unpacking the groceries he'd brought.

"What're you making?"

He pulled out a loaf of Challah bread and offered you a piece as he spread everything else out in front of him, "Um, some salad, roast chicken, and potato kugel."

You hummed, "Where'd you learn that?"

He began prepping the veggies and you watched his hands. You remembered from med school you had always been enamored by watching skilled hands at work, especially in the ED. Watching him now you had that same feeling as the wine began to warm you from the inside out.

"They're my grandma's recipes. She used to make this every Friday for Shabbos dinner."

Your mouth fell open slightly in surprise and immediately, you felt touched, "That's… really lovely, Michael. I'm honored that you'd share them with me."

He looked up at you for a moment, smiling, but shrugged his shoulders, "It's the only meal I really know how to cook well because she taught me. I don't do much cooking these days."

You tried not to let his dismissiveness disappoint you, "Do you still… I mean, are you observing Shabbos this weekend?"

He shook his head, "No, no, if I was I'd already have broken the rules," He jerked his head towards the bay windows, where the sky was beginning to bruise, "No cooking after sundown. I don't really practice anymore, but I sometimes go to synagogue on High Holidays."

You let a few moments pass in silence before speaking again, "Can I help?"

He shook his head, "No, you just sit there and look pretty."

The two of you made small talk about work, discussing funny patients or over eager med students, until he put his dishes in the oven.

"Do you want to sit on the porch?" You asked as he washed his hands.

"That sounds lovely," He said, drying his hands on your dish towel before following you outside with his glass of wine.

You tucked your legs underneath yourself as you sat on the love seat, the chill of the spring night had you reaching for the throw blanket. But Robby got there first, gently draping it over your legs and then his own lap. You pretended not to be flustered when he pulled your feet into his lap, tenderly kneading his fingers into the arch of your foot as he sipped his wine.

Over the years, you'd brought men to your place many times. You'd even had the occasional relationship that grew to the point of your partner moving into your place, because it was a nonstarter for any partner to suggest you sell your house, something you were always clear about at the start of the relationship. Maybe it would be the reason you never had a lifelong partner, but you had put an enormous amount of work into this house to create a sanctuary of sorts. It was where you were happiest. You had no desire to live anywhere else. You doubted you'd ever love anyone as much as you loved this house.

But Robby being here, it felt different than it had felt with all others. It felt natural to have him here, like this, cooking dinner in your kitchen, sitting on the porch with you while you told him about the study you'd just been awarded a grant to start. After residency, you'd sworn off dating doctors all together. But there was something refreshing about discussing renal cell carcinoma with Robby and him asking follow up questions that were more complex than "what's a renal cell?"

It felt like he fit here with you, like he could slot into your life effortlessly. But you supposed that could just be the forlorn romantic in you desperate for anyone to desire you again.

"Where'd you go for your residency?" Robby asked.

"Chicago," You said, "Northwestern Memorial. What about you?"

"New Orleans. Big Charity Hospital."

You opened and closed your mouth, thinking silently for a few moments. Trying to remember what years the two of you had gone off to residency and when you would have finished. And the realization of when had your stomach slowly sinking. "Wasn't… Wasn't Katrina during residency?"

He wasn't looking at you, staring off into the darkness of the trees behind your house. His face was partially lit by the candles you'd brought outside. When he nodded, you couldn't get a good read on his expression, but it suddenly felt very cold around you. As if the ghosts had lowered around his shoulders.

"That must have sucked," You said softly, "I'm sorry."

He cleared his throat and looked down at his wine glass, "It was a long time ago."

One thing that had changed about Robby was his openness. Years ago, in med school, you only needed to get him a single beer deep before he was pouring out his most intimate thoughts. Obviously, the time you'd slept together, that had been the most he'd ever revealed to you. About his parents and grandparents. But even before that, he'd opened up to you about his insecurities as a doctor and even when he was having trouble with significant others.

Now, he seemed to be dismissive of his troubles. Never wanting the focus on him for too long. He used to be what your mother would call a peacock, charming to an almost offensive degree. He was impossible to dislike and had everyone thinking they were his best friend. That had all changed. You could feel the barrier he'd put up between you. What had happened to him between then and now to have changed him so drastically?

Likely, you supposed, it started with Katrina.

Another reason you had decided against going into emergency medicine had been that you knew you were too soft for it. Just the rotations had been so detrimental to your well being. You had thought you loved it while you were in it, but the second you were out of it, you realized you had been in survival mode the entire time. Outside of it, you cried for weeks straight, grieving every person you'd watched die and especially the ones that had died on your watch. The heaviness of that responsibility was too much. A lifetime of it would've broken you.

It would break anyone, you imagined. And as you watched Robby curiously, you realized for the first time since reuniting with him just how haunted he had become. You had thought with his easy charm and smile that he was still the same kid, but he had changed. The years had slowly eroded him, smoothed some edges and sharpened others.

A timer went off a few moments later and Robby flashed you a quick smile, carefully removing your feet from his lap, "You hungry?"

"Starved," You said, allowing him to take your hand and gently pull you to standing.

The food was delicious. You caught Robby staring at you more than once over the candles when you licked your fingers or groaned in pleasure, mischief in his eyes.

You had to fight him to let you do the dishes, insisting it was only fair since he had cooked. He protested for a bit until you sternly repeated that you'd be doing the dishes and since he was a guest here, you demanded he relax on the couch while you cleaned up. Eventually, he gave up, sighing heavily and pressing a sweet kiss to your cheek, "Thank you," he murmured, sounding bone tired.

When the last dish was loaded in the dish washer, the cookware washed, the counters wiped down, you found Robby nearly fast asleep, stretched out on your couch. Brutus had come out for the first time since he'd arrived and was now hesitantly sniffing at his hand which hung over the edge of the couch.

"What d'you think, Brutus?" You whispered, "Is he good enough to eat?"

A chuckle rumbled deep in Robby's chest and Brutus scampered off, sufficiently frightened by the sudden movement. Robby cracked an eye open to look up at you, reaching with both arms towards you, "C'mere before I eat you."

You hesitated for just a moment before crawling over him, sighing contentedly as his arms wrapped tightly around you, your ear pressed to his chest.

You were reminded again of that one night with him decades ago, you atop him not unlike this, trying to warm yourself with his body in the frigid apartment.

"It's strange," you said softly, "I don't really know you anymore, but I feel like I understand you more now than I did then."

He hummed, "That's funny. You're still just as much a mystery to me as you were twenty years ago."

You lifted your head from his chest so you could see his face and felt his breath fan your cheeks, "I'm an open book, you just have to ask."

"Why pathology?"

You pursed your lips, brow furrowed in thought, "I liked the simplicity of it. That there were rules and structures and always a correct answer. There's always a clear path to and from diagnosis."

He shook his head, "I know you applied to the emergency medicine residency at Big Charity. I was the second choice, they wanted you."

You felt your cheeks heat, "I—It was so long ago, it doesn't matter—"

"No, you're right, it doesn't matter anymore," He ran a soothing hand down the back of your head to your neck, "It certainly mattered to me then. I was so pissed off at you those first few weeks of intern year when I found out. I tried calling every emergency medicine department in the country I could think of to find you."

You smirked, "You looked for me?"

He nodded, "Never crossed my mind that you would've gone into a different specialty. And pathology even? I never would have guessed. You were so good in the emergency room. A natural. I bet if I threw you in my ED now you'd do just as good as most of my residents."

You gave a short laugh, "Absolutely not, I don't even remember most of my rotations. Honestly, they were so hard for me I think part of my brain blacked it out."

He narrowed his eyes, "Yeah, they're hard for everyone, it's the emergency department."

You nodded, "I know. And I didn't want the rest of my life to look like that."

"Look like what?"

You opened your mouth for a moment and then sighed, "Like I was struggling to stay afloat in a sea of constant compounding grief."

He shook his head slowly, "I remember those rotations, you helped save a lot of people."

You nodded, "At the expense of my sanity, yeah."

"You don't think it would be worth it?"

You tilted your head slightly, "To martyr myself? Do you?"

He sighed and looked away from you, "I used to think so, yeah."

Robby used to come alive in the emergency department, as you recalled it. You knew he was empathetic and had his own struggles because he'd told you on occasion and because you'd seen it. Maybe he hadn't broken down visibly as often as you, but you recalled finding him at least a couple of times out in the ambulance bay, eyes red rimmed and wet.

But you had never doubted that he would thrive in the emergency room. You had been so busy feeling like an imposter yourself and he had made everything look so easy, it had never crossed your mind that maybe he had been struggling the same as you. He just hid it better, even from himself.

"You've lost a lot," You said softly, "the last twenty years, haven't you? Not just patients."

His eyes floated slowly back to yours and it didn't matter what he said, it was sitting there in his eyes as he looked at you. All the ghosts that haunted him, clawing to get out just behind his eyes. He looked tired. He looked shattered.

After a few moments he brought a hand up to your face, brushed the backs of his knuckles across your cheek, "I don't want to talk about that tonight." When he spoke, his voice hitched just slightly, but you politely acted as if you hadn't noticed.

It was a first date, after all. He didn't need to crack open his chest for you tonight, though part of you wished he would. You had never been one for small talk and you were always all in long before anyone else was. You were used to this, being the one kept at the perimeter, debating whether to ignore the Beware of Dog sign and hop the fence.

But he looked so tired and sad. You could be patient for now. Maybe befriend the dog while you waited, tossing treats through the hole in the fence, whistling gently on the wind.

"Okay," You pushed yourself up so your face was closer to his, "We don't have to talk."

A moment passed, two. Your eyes stared longingly at his mouth until his hand slipped to the back of your neck and pulled you to him, mouths crashing together.

You sighed at the feel of his lips on yours, simultaneously soft and rough from the scratch of his beard. It chafed against your chin, but still you pushed yourself closer, the new, but still somehow familiar taste of him intoxicating.

He still kissed the same, teeth digging desperately into your lower lip, tongue stroking against yours almost sweetly. But it was more refined, somehow. Like he'd perfected the art of kissing over the decades.

You'd had many lovers over the years, but few who would make out with you like this for very long without it quickly escalating. Robby's hands, hot and needy, worked their way beneath your shirt, thumbs stroking just below your breasts. Then, one of his hands slid down until it was on your ass, squeezing and groping over your jeans. It was at this point that he whimpered into your mouth and you felt yourself clench instinctually around nothing at the sound.

It had been a long time since you'd been touched like this and longer since you had enjoyed it this much. Usually, it was other partners that acted impatient, that were already tugging at your pants when you were nowhere near warmed up yet, but now it was you who had started grinding on his thigh, searching for friction. You who was frantically pulling at the buttons on his shirt, trying to get it off. You who was now fumbling for his belt when Robby finally stopped you.

"Mmm—Hold on—Wait." Easily, he secured your wrists in his hands and pinned them to his chest which was rising and falling rapidly as you both attempted to catch your breath.

"Are you—Are you sure? I don't want you to think—I'm happy to just end the night like this. I can go home right now—"

You pressed your mouth to his again, kissing him deeply before playfully nipping at his lip, "Do I seem unsure to you?" You asked, nudging your nose against his.

He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, "No," He said and kissed you again, fervently.

"Do I… need to beg you to fuck me?" You asked, sucking lightly on his neck as you spoke, "Because I can do that."

Robby sighed and gripped your ass tighter, "Fuck."

You dragged your center across his thigh, "Not an answer."

His hand gripped the back of your neck, forcing you to meet his gaze, "You would beg for me?"

You weren't exactly thinking straight as you looked at him, wild with want. You would have done anything he asked in that moment, you were sure of it. But still, looking at him now, you were dragged back twenty years to his icy apartment. To the way he'd opened up to you and then swiftly rejected you. He denied it now, chalked it up to alcohol, but somewhere in you was still that dejected girl, begging for any scrap of affection.

It'd been a while since you felt her, small and weak, at the edges of your consciousness. She'd been shortsighted and easy, pan handling for love on the side of the road. You still loathed her, felt she was pathetic. Robby could still pull her out of you. It felt easy to slip into her and her wants. You remembered insisting to yourself after that night with him that you'd never let him that close again.

And yet you found yourself tangled in him yet again. You were different, you assured yourself, lied to yourself. In reality, he already had you wrapped around his fingers. He could break you with a single word, a change of expression.

You pushed all that out of your mind, suffocating it with your mouth on his, his all consuming taste in your mouth, "Is that what you want?"

"I want," He said, hand still firm on your neck, kissing you between his words, "Whatever you want. Just want to make you feel good."

You sighed, "Then take me to bed."

Quickly, he sat up, keeping you in his lap. He kissed up the column of your throat to your earlobe, sending chills down your spine, "Lead the way, sweetheart."

On your bed, he undressed you carefully, taking his time in a way you weren't used to. After the way you'd been talking over texts and swapping photos back and forth, you thought he'd be ravenous. And he was, you could tell from his groans and whimpers, but still, he remained steady and patient.

Once you were topless, both of you kneeling across from each other on the bed, you reached to unbuckle his pants before he could get to yours. Robby had been competitive as you remembered it, but in bed it seemed he was fine with handing over the reins. He watched you with heat in his eyes as you spat in your hand and reached down his pants to fist his cock.

As your hand stroked his shaft down to his balls, his eyes rolled back and he swore. You were on fire watching him, his desire seemingly contagious.

"Please," He whimpered after a minute of so of this, "Please, can I… Can I suck on your tits?"

Your belly somersaulted at the thought and immediately you were nodding, scooting closer to him.

As his lips puckered and pulled at your nipple, he was whining more loudly than you were with each stroke of your hand. He muttered praises and pleas into your breasts, heat bubbling up at the sound from your belly to your chest to your neck.

Looking down at his cock in your hand, you noticed the small amount of precum beginning to leak. You leaned down to lick it off, but Robby stopped you before you could.

"No—Wait. Need to take care of you. Please." He was breathless and flushed pink. Needy and desperate to please. You weren't sure that anyone had ever been this desperate to please you.

You gave him a short nod and released him. Immediately, he kissed you, the momentum pushing you flat against the mattress.

As he crawled over you, you opened your eyes to look up at him. There had been times when you were students that he had been vulnerable with you, but that had only been under the heavy influence of alcohol. Mostly, he had been very guarded. And still, earlier this evening you'd sensed the same guard up, though it had been reinforced throughout the decades.

But now he was looking at you with a gentle, almost tender look on his face. Before you could fully digest what that meant, he had leaned back down to kiss along your jaw, rough fingers gently grasping your chin to kiss down your neck.

He kissed all the way down your body, looking up at you occasionally through heavy lids whenever you made a noise he particularly liked.

Down at your waist now, he carefully unbuttoned your jeans and wriggled them down, you lifting up your hips to assist.

In just your panties now, you watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he looked at you, ran his rough hands over your soft thighs, kissing and nipping gently at your hips, "So, so pretty for me." He murmured into your skin.

The man in front of you now so at odds with the boy you had imagined was revolted by you. Now he worshiped your body with lips and tongue and teeth. He kissed you now over the fabric of your panties, slowly and methodically, until you felt the fabric begin to soak, both from his saliva and your arousal.

You whined and tried to lift your hips, but he quickly braces an arm over your thighs, "Michael, please." You whimpered.

He groaned against your cunt, sending shockwaves through your body.

"Sorry, baby," He murmured and began tugging your panties down your hips as well, "You need my mouth on you properly, is that it? Need my tongue inside you?"

You nodded, a burning in your eyes from embarrassment or pure desperation, you weren't sure.

Panties out of the way, he ran a finger down your slick folds to separate them. As he sighed, your eyes rolled back, jaw going slack.

"Gorgeous," he murmured, fingers running slowly and gently around your entrance.

It didn't feel like teasing, but admiring. Your hips jumped when he pressed a chase kiss to your puffy clit. You had barely begun to whine again when he licked, long and slow, from the bottom of your entrance up to circle your clit.

The sensation was dizzying as he continued to repeat the motion, moving faster and applying slightly more pressure each time.

"Okay, sweetheart," He said breathlessly, your juices glistening all over his beard, slowly, he slipped his middle finger inside you, stroking the spot deep inside you that had your abdomen tightening in anticipation, "Think you can finish for me?"

Unable to form coherent words, you writhed against him, whining until he relented and lowered his mouth back down to your clit.

It was over quickly after that, though his tongue kept working you until you lightly tugged at his hair, pulling him off you. He wiped his mouth on the back of his forearm and crawled back up to you, pressing kisses all over your sweaty face.

Without preamble, you reached for his cock with the intention of lining it up with your entrance, but he pulled away, "Not yet." He said mildly, propped up on one elbow as he looked at you, his free hand stroking the backs of his knuckles gently against your cheek, "I'm not done with you yet."

You were still a bit dumb from the aftershocks of your orgasm and you blinked blankly at him, "What?"

"I figure I owe you at least three orgasms before I get to cum, that should wipe the previous horrendous encounter from your memory, no?"

A slow, sleepy smile spread across your face and he traced his thumb across your lips, "It's gonna take a while for me to cum again, never mind twice more."

He nodded, "That's why I'm giving you a break, sweet girl."

Flustered, you looked away from him. Who would have thought one man had the potential to be both your best and worst sex?

***

TWENTY SOMETHING YEARS AGO

Your eyelid was twitching as you sat at central, a phone receiver pressed to your ear as you listened to your mother drone on. As she spoke, your eyes drifted to a fresh blood stain on your white sneakers from the man who'd died maybe an hour or two ago from several gunshot wounds to the chest.

"I hear you, I just—" You tried and failed to scrub the bloodstain out with a wet wipe from behind the desk. The grueling twelve hour shift had ended something like forty five minutes ago with you crying into your hands in the ambulance bay. You were exhausted. "I just don't think now is the time for this conversation—"

"Well," Your mother huffed, "Maybe if you ever answered your phone at home we wouldn't need to have this discussion now."

You ground your teeth together, "I appreciate all the support you and dad have given me—"

"You know, I don't think you do. We clawed our way through law school with no help from our families, started our own firm, saved thousands just so you could be as educated as you wanted without having to struggle like we did—"

"—And I'm immensely grateful for that privilege—"

"Then why would you throw it back in our faces by choosing pathology, essentially a glorified lab technician—"

"That's not what it is at all—"

"You should be in neurosurgery."

You had had this argument what felt like a thousand times over the last few weeks when you had first admitted interest in applying to path residencies. Your mother's insistent argument that she knew best and neurosurgery would provide you with the best career and would utilize your strengths—an excruciating attention to detail and laser-like focus—in a way no other specialty could.

But you disagreed. And what you could never admit to your mother was that your emergency medicine rotations had proven to you that you would crumble under that sort of pressure.

"Hey, Bambi," Michael leaned over your desk, "Get off the phone and glove up, incoming MVA in two minutes."

You gave him an incredulous look, "Our shift ended almost an hour ago."

"Okay…" He said slowly, pulling on a clean pair of gloves, "So you're gonna let me just take this one myself? What if it requires intubation? You're gonna pass up that opportunity? You still haven't done one by yourself."

You were so burnt out and frustrated and once again on the verge of bursting into tears, you didn't have the energy for this, "So, what, you're keeping tabs on my procedure log now?"

He pretended to think about it, furrow between his brow, "Yeah, guess I am."

Neither of you had spoken about the night you'd slept together—if you could even call it that—and Michael had been acting like it never happened. Occasionally he'd reference the night it happened, but always before you went home with him. This was fine with you, it saved you from the embarrassment. Though, sometimes, it had you wondering if maybe you'd somehow hallucinated the entire thing.

"Who are you talking to?" Came your mom's tinny voice in your ear.

You hurriedly said that you had to go and hung up the phone, knowing it would lead to more phone calls later, but you had taken to leaving your phone off the hook when she began calling repeatedly like that. Which was often. It was the only way to ensure you got enough sleep.

Normally, you would jump at any opportunity to try to show up Michael in a trauma, but you were barely holding it together right now. The thought of watching another person die on the table today had you fighting back the instinct to dry heave.

You rested your elbows on the table in front of you and kneaded lightly at your temples, "You can have the MVA, I'm going home."

"That your mom on the phone?" Michael asked, leaning forward and apparently ignoring what you'd just said, "Is she waiting at home for you with a fresh meal and a warm bath?" He taunted, "Bambi needs to be pampered? The ER is too rough for the princess?"

Slowly, you tilted your face up to look at him, "You jealous that I still have a mother who takes care of me, Robinavitch?"

If you weren't as tired, you wouldn't have said it. As it was, your stomach churned when the smile melted off his face. Yes, he had taunted you and teased you and tortured you for most of both MS3 and 4, but you shouldn't have sank to his level. Really, you had sunk below his level, you thought. Even with how cruel he could be, he'd never mocked you when he found you crying out in the ambulance bay. On occasion he'd actually silently stood next to you or offered you a cigarette.

Your relationship was strange as he could be downright abusive in front of attendings or other colleagues, but when it was just the two of you it was like being on hallowed ground. He had only ever been nice to you when it was just the two of you with no one else around to hear. Something you struggled to reconcile. And now you had weaponized one of the only times he had opened up to you.

He shook his head, but otherwise didn't say anything, ducking away from you, "Michael—Wait—"

"It's fine, Bambi," He called over his shoulder, "Go home. As you've so astutely pointed out, not all of us have one of those."

Later, after you'd crawled into bed and couldn't sleep despite your exhaustion for the guilt that wracked you, you picked up the phone next to your bed and dialed Michael.

It rang for a while and you thought he might let it go to voicemail, but when he finally picked up his voice was rough with sleep.

"Hello?"

You hesitated, then breathed softly, "Hi."

A moment of silence passed, "Bambi?"

"Yeah."

"It's… late."

You sighed, "Yeah, um, sorry. Did I wake you?"

You heard him stifle a yawn, "You did, yeah." Silence again, but for the sound of both your breathing, "Um, did you need something?"

"I—Yeah, I, um… I couldn't sleep."

"Okay," He drew out the word, long and smooth, "Have you tried… Counting sheep?"

You huffed a laugh, "No, I—I can't sleep because I feel horrible about what I said to you earlier. About—about your mom. I'm so, so sorry, Michael. It was awful and—and it was unacceptable and unprofessional."

He was quiet for a moment, then, "It's alright, Bambi. I've said worse to you. You didn't know about—It was just a lucky shot."

Your mouth fell open slightly, confusion clouding your brain, "What?"

"You—What you said earlier hit a nerve, but you couldn't have known. I've—I've never spoken about my mother to anyone."

You stared at the popcorn ceiling of your apartment, mouth still agape. Did he not remember?

And you were nothing if not a coward, so you kept quiet. Didn't correct him. The fact was, what you said was so much worse knowing what you knew. And he didn't even know you knew.

"Right," You said, swallowing, "Well either way, it was a really shitty thing for me to say. So I'm sorry."

"I appreciate it and I'm sorry for pushing you earlier."

You exhaled slowly and closed your eyes, "Thank you."

"Think you can sleep now, princess?" Despite the nickname, his tone was playful, almost gentle in your ear. You had the insane thought that you'd like to hear him talk you to sleep.

"Yeah. Goodnight, Michael."

"Goodnight, Bambi."

***

Robby shot up in bed, his skin tacky with sweat and his chest heaving, lungs struggling to fill. Nightmares were common for him, but what was so disorienting this night was that at first, he wasn't sure where he was. The bed sheets were unfamiliar to him where they stuck to his skin. They felt more expensive than what he had at home, reminded him of hotel sheets. The mattress was softer as well.

And then there was the soft sigh the came from the pillow next to him. His eyes followed the noise and he saw you laying beside him, fast asleep. At the sight of you, his panic began to recede just slightly. He was in your bed. Had shared a lovely dinner with you and slept with you and spoke in hushed whispers across pillows until you'd fallen asleep.

When he had nightmares at home, he would often get out of bed, crack open a beer or smoke a cigarette, unable to properly fall back asleep. But looking down at you, he feared he'd wake you if he did that. The last however many hours he'd spent with you had been the most at peace he'd felt in recent memory. Even with the nightmare, he already felt his heart rate slowing, just watching the even rise and fall of your chest.

He sank back down into the mattress and laid his head down on the pillow, his forehead nearly touching yours.

Unable to help himself, he rested his hand against your neck and ran his thumb over your cheekbone. You mewled and then your eyes began to blink open.

"Sorry," He said immediately when your eyes opened into his, "Didn't mean to wake you."

You gave him a sleepy smile and nudged your nose against his, "S'okay… It's almost nice to wake up in the middle of the night when there's someone else here."

Lying close to you, he allowed himself to believe that he deserved love like this. That he deserved a life like this. That you could love him and stay despite the ugly parts of him he'd try like hell to keep from you.

He kissed you then, to avoid thinking about all the ways in which he was bound to disappoint you if this continued. And you kissed him back, pulled him closer, your hand at the nape of his neck and he catalogued it—the feeling of your gentle fingers stroking the back of his head.

"Mmm," You hummed and pulled away from him slightly, your brow furrowed, "Is it raining?"

Sure enough, as both of you stilled, there was the sound of rain tapping against the windows, "Sounds like it."

You grinned at him, "Would you like to drink tea and watch the rain from the porch?"

You seemed already giddy by the idea so he couldn't say no, not that he wanted to. It was so simple, really, the act of watching the rain. But you stood outside wrapped in a throw blanket, your hands warming a mug of tea, and looking out into your yard with awe as the sun started to stretch over the horizon, lighting up the storm clouds from behind.

He wanted to see the world like that. To be enamored by simple pleasures, the way you were.

"You seem so happy," He said into your ear.

You hummed, "I am."

"Is this what it's like being you? In this stunning house? Just a cup of tea while it rains can bring joy?"

You turned slightly in his arms to see his face and he recognized it when you scanned his face: You were trying to gauge if he was making fun of you. Old habits died hard, he supposed.

Seemingly satisfied that he wasn't mocking you, you turned back toward the rain, "It's a lot nicer when there's someone to share it all with."

You said it casually, but he heard the note of sadness in your tone, "You've been alone for a while?" You nodded, "What about family? Your parents?"

You stiffened in his embrace and he almost regretted it. He knew what happened when you got like this, if someone moved too quickly or suddenly—you bolted.

But after a moment, you softened, "We don't really talk much anymore."

"Oh," He said softly in surprise, "Sorry, I thought—You always seemed close when we were in school."

"You mistook financial support as love. And even if it was, they promptly cut that off the second I moved to Chicago."

He frowned, "You haven't spoken since residency? Why?" In the silence that followed, he sensed your hesitancy, "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"I don't mind," You said softly, "I just haven't thought about it in a while. We have talked since, but sporadically. It's mostly just happy birthday texts now." You sighed heavily, "The short answer is that they wanted me to go into neurosurgery and treated me going into pathology as some personal affront to them. It felt like they only ever saw me as some sort of investment instead of their kid."

Robby had been guilty of assuming that you had it all. After thinking it over more, he'd come to the conclusion the way he treated you had had more to do with jealousy than anything else. You always seemed so put off by talking to your parents, your parents who took care of everything for you. What he would have done to have anyone like that in his corner when he was in his twenties. He felt you were ungrateful.

But now, having done a lot of growing up himself and watching residents with all sorts of parental issues come and go through his ER, he understood that just throwing money at a kid was no way to raise them.

"I'm sorry," He said again and leaned down slightly to kiss the back of your neck, "You deserved better than that."

You turned in his arms to face him, "Do you really believe that? That what I do is just as important as what you do? Or neurosurgery?"

"Yes," He said immediately, "If it was me I might be… bored out of my mind, but we need pathologists. The ED needs them, surgery needs them, oncology needs them, hematology needs them, you're absolutely vital to all of us. But that's not what I meant. I meant that you deserved better parents."

Though you had changed over the years, not so skittish and quiet, there were things about you that remained. Your anxious state, bordering on paranoia the way you worried that others would betray you. Your quiet but desperate need of approval—of love. Your empathy, the way you felt everything so deeply and openly, even when you tried to hide it.

Right now, you were scared. Of him, of his ability to hurt you. He was also scared of his ability to hurt you. Terrified, really.

But still, you swallowed and looked away from him, "Thank you," you said quietly and tugged his arms tighter around you.

Bambi—his fawn—now stable on your own two feet. It'd be you that would have to keep him steady now, keep him from running.

***

When Robby was at work now, when the shifts got bad, he excused himself for just a moment and closed his eyes. He'd conjure your home in his head, your cat Brutus, the sound of your laugh, watching rain from your covered porch while drinking coffee, waking up to the smell of your shampoo on the pillow, movie nights on your couch, long showers and your hands on his skin.

It had been weeks now since your first date and things had moved quickly. It hadn't been discussed explicitly, but Robby spent most nights at your house now. The simple domesticity of it, of having someone to come home to, had felt nearly life changing. You often asked if he wanted you to stay at his place for a change to which he always turned down.

He loved everything about your place, from the way it always smelt like something delicious, to the fact that Brutus was always there, to just how lived in it felt. Just last weekend the two of you had spent entire days digging up the garden beds so you could start planting vegetables and fruits and herbs. You talked about cucumber salads and fresh baked pies and it all felt so… domestic. Mundane. And it was the only place he felt peace.

Today's shift had been horrible. And so after calling time of death on a patient that he'd worked on for far longer than was clinically appropriate, he told Dana he'd be outside for a few minutes. In the ambulance bay, with silent tears streaming down his cheeks, he tried to slow his breathing. In through his nose, out through his mouth.

Closing his eyes, he willed the images of the woman away, of her child. Instead, he pictured you, the sleepy smile on your face when he woke up first in the morning, whispered in your ear that he was going to make pancakes. He pictured you fast asleep on your couch, a paperback abandoned in your hand and Brutus snuggled up on your chest. He pictured you spinning around your backyard in the rain, green rain boots up to your knees and your wild laughter.

As his breathing slowed, the sound of the ambulance bay doors sliding open had him turning his attention to the doors to see Abbot walking toward him.

Silently, Jack stood next to Robby and crossed his arms, "Your girlfriend's down here looking for you."

Robby sighed and ran his hand over the back of his neck, "She's not my girlfriend."

"Sorry, your pathologist."

Robby huffed a laugh, "I guess she is sort of my girlfriend."

"Well, you better watch out because I hear all the nurses warning her about your… 'seven week itch' I think they're calling it."

He shook his head, "She's not the type to listen to rumors."

Jack hummed, "She might start if you keep her waiting much longer."

"Alright, alright," He sighed and pushed himself off the wall, "I'll go find her."

"'Atta boy," Jack said and clapped him over the shoulder, the two of them walking back into the Pitt.

Robby's eyes found you almost immediately, talking to Dana, and you, as if sensing his gaze, looked up to meet his. There was concern all over your face and Robby didn't even have the time to properly wonder if Dana had filled you in about the terrible shift they'd had before you were marching over to him.

You were apparently so intently focused on him, you didn't notice the puddle of water on the floor and before Robby could warn you, you'd slipped.

Your feet went up over your head and your back hit the ground—hard.

Instantly, Robby was there, a hand on your shoulder to stop you as you tried to sit up— "Hey, don't move, don't move."

"Ow," you groaned and tried to push him out of your way, "I'm fine, Michael."

"Did you hit your head?" His penlight was already out, ready to assess.

You sighed, "I don't know, I don't think so."

"Dana," he called over his shoulder, "What's open?"

"Central 11."

"I just wanna go home," You said softly, "I'm fine, I swear."

But seeing you fall like that after the shift he'd had, he couldn't seem to slow the spiral he was beginning to fall down. What if you had a concussion? A brain bleed? Untreated one could lead to irreparable brain damage and the other, death.

"It'll be quick," He said, "Promise. Just… Please, it'll make me feel better."

You tilted your head slightly, doe eyes out in full force. Like you were concerned about him. But you nodded anyway, conceded to him, even when he insisted on a wheelchair to transport you.

When it was just the two of you and he had started your exam, you continued to watch him carefully.

"Did something happen today?" You asked softly, "During shift?"

He hummed in question, gently turning your head this way and that, "What d'you mean?"

"You're being… hypervigilant. I'm just wondering if something happened today to trigger that."

The two of you had discussed covid and Adamson. You had been back in Pittsburgh at that point, but at Westbridge. Robby had felt a pang of resentment at first, thinking that you likely hadn't had to be on the front lines like he had.

But then you told him about the autopsies. How there were so many bodies that you, who had built a career off studying cancers and blood, had had to assist with autopsies. You told him how you hadn't really done an autopsy since residency, but now with how many you'd had to do during the pandemic, you could do them with your eyes closed.

"It fucked with me," You'd told him, "I saw those bodies everywhere, even if I wasn't in the hospital. I could smell them no matter how many candles I lit at home. I dreamt about them for weeks after. I cried for months."

And when you'd divulged that, the flood gates had opened for him. He told you everything, from covid to PittFest. When he got choked up, he found himself instinctually reaching for your hand, needing you to anchor him. Without hesitation, you practically pulled him into your lap, cradled his head to your chest and whispered soothing words in his ear.

So then it shouldn't have surprised him that you would catch on so quickly. For being so young when you went through med school, he had assumed upon first meeting you that you'd have no idea about anything. But it had struck him immediately how emotionally intelligent you were, how you had from the very beginning been able to read even the most closed off of patients.

Still, he felt himself recoil at your assessment, "You fell," He said, "I'm just making sure you're alright."

"Well I'm also a doctor and I'm telling you, I'm fine. There's no tenderness at the back of my head, no nausea, no dizziness—"

"I'm ordering you a head CT."

Your mouth fell open, indignation in the tug of your lips. After a moment, you scoffed, "I don't want that so please get me the AMA forms to sign, if you don't mind."

He raised his eyebrows and finally met your eyes, "Really?"

"You're exposing me to unnecessary radiation when I have zero symptoms—"

"You don't remember if you hit your head—"

"Robby?" He whipped his head around to see Dana in the doorway, "The cops are here, they wanna talk to you about the boy and his mother who—"

"Yeah, okay, I'll be there in a minute."

Dana left and he hung his head, braced his hands against his legs, hoping they didn't shake, "I would really appreciate it… if you could please stay for a CT."

He felt your gaze even as he avoided it, "Why are the cops here?"

He sighed, "A kid's here with no parental guardian."

There was a pause, then, "What happened to his mother?"

"I really can't talk about this right now—"

"Then I'd like the AMA forms, please."

He made an exasperated groan and looked up at you, tried pleading with his eyes, but you stayed firm, expectant, until he sighed, "A woman was brought in today with her ten year old son who'd found her unresponsive in the bathtub when he came home from school today. She'd slashed her own wrists. We couldn't get a pulse back." He ran a hand along the back of his neck, "The kid doesn't have anyone else."

In a moment, you were on your knees in front of him, his hands clasped in yours, "You worked the resuscitation?"

He nodded, and to his surprise salty tears fell onto your clasped hands. Embarrassed, he tried for nonchalant as he spoke, "It's uh—It's been a long day, but that happened almost first thing this morning. I don't know why I can't shake it."

"Well… That's unsurprising." You said slowly, "Considering your childhood."

His entire body stiffened and he pulled away, "What'd you say?"

You opened and closed your mouth, still lowered to the ground in front of him. He watched as you seemed to calculate your misstep too late and then rush to correct, "I just, um, I remember you telling me once that… that your parents weren't really… present in your life."

Robby shook his head, "I never told you about that."

You bit your lip for a moment and then shrugged, "You told me… everything, Michael. The night we slept together in med school. You were very drunk."

He bristled and scoffed, "Right, we got drunk, I told you that my mother killed herself, and then we fucked?"

It seemed absurd. The truth that he was so ashamed of, that he'd held so close to his chest, that he hadn't allowed anyone to know, he had told you. His grandparents had been the only other people to know and when they died they took it with them. He had assumed he would do the same. But here you were, this contradiction to the one fundamental truth he'd had. That no one would ever need to know the ugly truth that the single person on this Earth who was supposed to love him unconditionally had abandoned him with such violent permanence.

You seemed a bit embarrassed at his hostility, lifting yourself back up to your feet again, "Look, you don't have to try to humiliate me just because you don't believe me. I'm sorry I brought it up, I was just trying to let you know that I understand why that case was difficult for you."

"Yeah, well, it's not your fucking place."

He thought he saw you flinch, but just as quickly, you became stoic, "I think it's time for me to go and I'd prefer it if you stayed at your own place tonight."

You left without waiting for him to respond and immediately, the anger left him in a rush, replaced with shame. When he walked back towards central, you were gone, Dana looking at him now with a question in her eyes, "Your girl left in a rush, I thought you were leaving with her?"

He sighed, ran both hands over his face, "Where's the kid?"

"BH1," She said and leaned closer to him, "It's her birthday today and you let her leave here without you?"

Fuck. "It's her birthday?"

Dana nodded, "You don't know your own girl's birthday?"

"She's not—How do you know it's her birthday?"

"She told me about ten minutes ago."

Unbelievable.

"Well," He said, fingers interlaced at the back of his neck, "I don't think she'll want to spend it with me now."

Dana watched him for a moment, "Tell you what, Baran's still here, I'm sure she wouldn't mind handling the police. You should go. Get her a cake and flowers and apologize. You had a hard day, she'll understand."

You had understood, but he thought you'd likely be heaps and bounds less understanding now.

But hadn't he promised himself, when he first agreed to date you, seriously, that he'd be different this time? That he wouldn't fall back into old habits? That he wouldn't push people away when they got too close?

You already knew the worst of him, apparently. Had known it for decades it seemed and still, you wanted him. And as always, he'd hurt you anyway.

So, he was really prepared to grovel when he finally got to your place, a bouquet of tulips and white bakery box in hand. He knocked gently on the door and waited until he heard the twist of the doorknob, and then saw you. You were in sweats and a tank top and you crossed your arms over your chest when you saw him.

"Hi," he said softly.

"I thought I asked you not to come here tonight."

"I know, and I'll go, I just, Dana mentioned that it was your birthday so I got you a cake and some flowers and I just wanted to say that I'm—I'm really sorry. I just, I've never told… anyone about her, or so I thought, and it just caught me off guard. But, I shouldn't have spoken to you that way, you were only trying to help."

You stared at him for a few moments, mouth twisted to the side and bounced on the balls of your feet, "You got me a birthday cake?"

His mouth twitched into a smirk, but he fought it, "Yeah, but I didn't know what sort of cake you like so I—I got you funfetti cake. It reminded me of you."

Now it was you fighting a smirk, "Funfetti cake reminds you of me?"

He nodded, "Yeah, you're bright, colorful, pretty, happy—You're everything. Funfetti."

You uncrossed your arms and interlocked them behind your back instead, "You can come inside."

Ten minutes later, you both sat on the couch with a slice of cake, "No one's ever gotten me a birthday cake before."

Robby balked, "What?"

You shrugged, "My parents were always too busy to celebrate my birthday. I think they forgot most years. And I didn't have many friends growing up. And then when I got to be an adult I just… stopped telling people when my birthday was. To avoid being disappointed."

He felt an ache in his chest for the child he saw in his head, the kid he used to know. How lonely you must've been. "Why'd you tell Dana?"

"One of my students is a bit of a kiss ass and found out it was my birthday from the internet. Got the whole class to sign a card for me. Dana just happened to see it."

He sighed, "I'm really sorry if I contributed to your day being shitty."

You shook your head, "I really don't even think about it much anymore, truly. And anyway, it sounded like you had a much harder day than I did."

"That's not an excuse."

You put your plate on the coffee table and turned your attention fully to Robby, taking his face gently in your hands, "You came here and you apologized," You said softly, "And I've forgiven you. So enough with the self flagellation, hm?" You stroked your thumbs gently over his cheekbones, "And why don't you tell me about the mother that came in today."

Again, he felt the involuntary raise of his hackles at the suggestion that he discuss today. But there was warmth and tenderness in your eyes. Your fingers ran through his hair and scratched at his scalp gently, and his eyes fluttered closed, hackles falling.

And so the words flowed out of him. He recounted the horror and fear that reverberated through him as the woman was rolled in, her son shaking and sobbing at her side. How difficult it was for him to focus on anything other than this boy, this baby, now alone in the world. It was frightening, really, to come face to face with the boy he used to be. How young he was when his mother had passed, something he'd been unable to appreciate at the time.

He'd done a lot of work to forgive her for leaving. Had studied up on suicidality and bipolar depression. In his career he met many people who reminded him of his mother and his empathy had stretched and grown and while he'd thought he'd forgiven her, there was still just a kernel of bitterness deep in his chest.

He had never been confronted with himself, with the child he used to be, until today. How his heart bled for that child. He could recall every memory of that day, every smell, every sound, every touch. The world had fractured and reassembled for that boy today, much like it had for him so many years ago. And he'd had to listen to his colleagues all day, talk about that boy as if he was the one who had died and it pissed him off. That they could so easily written off that kid's future because of a single day, because of the choices his mother had made.

But then came the small, nagging voice at the back of his head, But wasn't it true? Aren't you broken beyond repair? Isn't that the one truth you've been running from all this time?

"You're not broken," You said softly to him when he'd finished speaking, still holding him tightly to you, now with one hand beneath his shirt and running your nails soothingly up and down his back.

You repeated it to him like a mantra until he leaned up, captured your soft, warm mouth with his. And whenever he opened his eyes to look into yours, he knew you didn't believe your own words. Walls that you had begun to deconstruct over the last few weeks were now built back up. Now, barbed wire adorned the walls like vines.

He had the distinct feeling that you'd never allow him to see over the walls again.

***

"Well I heard from Edith who heard from Sam who sometimes has lunch with Dana that Robby's been staying late and picking up more shifts again, since he bought that motorcycle… You know what that means."

"The seven week itch has struck again. That motorcycle's a breakup motorcycle if I've ever seen one."

You sighed heavily as you adjusted your microscope, "You guys are not being as quiet as you think you are."

Your students giggled at your admonishment, "Sorry, the drama is just way more fascinating in the Pitt than it is up here."

You were silent after that and their whispers died down, but never completely. You had never paid much attention to rumors around the hospital until you and Robby started seeing each other. The women in the hospital loved gossiping about him. And more and more it ate away at you.

Things hadn't been quite right between you since your birthday. You had forgiven him for how he'd acted, but still there was a cold dread in your stomach that seemed to intensify every time you saw him. You felt yourself overcompensating, looking for reassurance. You had convincingly kept up the illusion of confidence, but now it waned.

You had the feeling he had sussed it out, how desperate you were. Before, for any companionship. Now, specifically, for his. You were frightened by the way your heart squeezed when you woke up to him beside you in the morning. The way he had slipped into your routine so effortlessly. Helping you out in the garden on the weekends. Putting the kettle on at exactly 9PM for tea before bed. Trying all your desserts even after insisting he needed to watch what he ate. Recently, he'd began reading your well-worn, tattered copy of The Princess Bride aloud to you, using character voices that got more and more ridiculous until you were crying with laughter. More and more regularly, he fell asleep on the couch, glasses askew and Brutus on his chest.

It was terrifying how easily he slotted into your life. This was what you'd wanted, what you'd always wanted, had wanted so badly at times you'd forced relationships you knew would never work.

And you kept waiting, day after day, for him to leave and not come back. The day he'd been short with you in the ER, you'd been flung back to an earlier relationship. Remembered in vivid details the ugly fights you'd had.

"You're not listening to me!"

"Maybe I just don't like the sound of your voice."

It didn't matter how he apologized after, the words had burrowed deep in your head. They stuck with you from relationship to relationship and you'd heard similar disdain from Robby that day.

So with all of this, you were already struggling before the rumors and before the motorcycle. You felt him pulling away from you inch by inch and you clung to him harder, certain if you just enticed him the correct way he'd want to stay.

And for a while, you thought it was working, until dinner one day on the porch. The vibrant strawberry sky was beginning to bruise with dusk as you each sat in silent after cleaning your plates.

Then Robby cleared his throat, "You know how I've been fixing up the motorcycle with Duke?"

You nodded. You knew the fact that you were jealous of a sixty year old biker spending time with your boyfriend was not healthy. You were glad he had picked up a hobby outside of the ER, it was good for him. And still, you couldn't help the way dread curdled in your gut every time he spoke about it. What it really felt like was an escape plan. No matter how you tried to convince yourself it wasn't, you couldn't stop the constant spirals. The souring of your mood whenever he stated he was going to Duke's or he couldn't make it tonight because he stayed too late at Duke's so he'd just sleep at his own place. You knew he noticed the shift in energy whenever the motorcycle was brought up, but he never commented on it.

"It's finished," He gave you a wry smile, "It's rideable now, in really good shape."

"Oh," You said, "That's… great."

Again, he ignored the uneasiness in your tone. Or maybe he truly was oblivious. Because next he said, "I was thinking about taking some time off from work and doing a cross country ride."

"Oh," You said again, feeling dumb at your sudden lack of vocabulary, "For how long?"

"I don't know," He avoided looking at you as he said, "Three months?"

The pain in your chest was spectacular. Again and again you were reminded of how unlovable you were. You tried so hard and it was never enough, not for your parents, not for friends, not for every other partner who left quickly and quietly. Your eyes burned as you pushed back from the table and picked up your plate, "You don't have to flee across the country to get rid of me, you could just break up with me like a mature, grown man." You said bitterly and walked back inside.

Assumedly shocked at your outburst, it took him a minute before following you back inside, "This is not about us," He said quietly over your shoulder as you dropped the dirty dishes unceremoniously into your sink.

"Frankly, it doesn't matter if it isn't," You said turning to face him, "If you leave for three months our relationship is effectively dead. And you know this."

He scoffed, "Three months is not that long—"

"Three months is not that long when you've been in a relationship for a decade, it's everything when you've barely even been together that long."

He watched you and slowly shook his head, "It doesn't have to be. You could come with me."

You laughed and pushed past him, "What, and bring Brutus as well? Let my garden wither away? You don't really want me to come, you're just offering out of guilt."

"That's not true, I—I want to be here with you, being with you is the only thing that feels right in my life right now. I don't want to lose that."

"Then why are you running away?" You asked, exasperated and humiliated when tears began to blur your vision.

You were sitting on the couch now and he crouched in front of you, looked at you with his big wet, brown cow eyes. Eyes you adored, crow's feet you wished to sink into, freckles you'd counted and memorized over many nights.

"I feel like…" He said slowly, "Like… if I don't get out of that hospital, of this city soon that I'm a ticking time bomb."

You nodded and sniffed, pushed the heels of your hands into your eyes, "And I feel like if you leave I'm never gonna see you again."

He tilted his head to the side, eyebrow furrowed and watery eyes studying you. You waited and waited for him to say it wasn't true, but he obviously couldn't. Instead he cupped your cheeks in his hands and gently brushed away your tears, "C'mon sweetheart, don't cry. It's okay. I've got you."

Leaning in, he gently kissed your forehead, the tops of your cheeks, your nose, then your mouth, his beard scratching the soft skin of your face. Stifling the cries that attempted to crawl up your throat, you kissed him back fiercely, wondering if it would be the last time you got to do so. He matched your fervor, groaning into your mouth as you deepened the kiss—and then his hands were everywhere.

He hoisted you up and around his waist and walked you to the bedroom, a path he knew well at this point, could do it with his eyes closed. He placed you down and then crawled over you, arms bracketing your head as he kissed your lips swollen and raw. The smell of him, the taste of him, had become so comforting to you it was agony to imagine a time when you couldn't have them whenever you wanted. That he would be so far away from you, your house lonely and empty once again. And it was this thought that had you burst promptly into tears.

"Wh—What's wrong? Sweetheart—Do you wanna stop? We can stop—"

"No, no," You said quickly through hiccuping sobs and opened your eyes into his, "Please—Please don't stop, Michael, please—"

"Okay," He kissed all over your face again as your sobs began to quiet, "Okay, baby. I'm right here—" In response to his words, you pulled him closer until his weight was almost fully on you, "I'm right here." He repeated.

When your tears dried, he slowly undressed you, his kisses painfully tender and eyes that melted you. It took everything in you not to rush him along. The need to have him inside you, to fill you up, felt almost primal. You needed to be close to him, as close as you could be. Soon he'd be gone and all you'd have was the ghost of a feeling.

He leaned his forehead against yours as he slowly pushed inside you, both of you sighing into one another, "So perfect," He murmured and kissed you, "Feel so perfect, baby."

"Please," You kept saying over and over as he pushed himself in and out of you. You weren't quite sure what you were begging for, for him to fuck you? For him to stay? For him to love you?

Pulling out of you, he turned you onto your stomach, positioned your hips until you felt him press into you again, his belly against the small of your back and the cold chain around his neck falling against your shoulders, sending a chill down your spine.

The feel of him inside you was exquisite, like nothing else you'd experienced before. He pushed his hand beneath your belly until his fingers found your swollen clit and this coupled with the way he filled you up was too much, the sensation overwhelming. You were coming before you even had the chance to warn him, unraveling as he moaned and kissed the back of your neck when he felt your walls pulse around him.

The pleasure was so overwhelming and the feel of him so stifling, it was almost involuntary when you blurted out, "I love you, Michael, I love you."

With your face partially obscured by the mattress, you hoped he hadn't heard it. But his hips stuttered for a second and panic seized in your chest until— "Oh, God, fuck—" he came inside you.

His skin stuck to yours as he caught his breath, still inside you as he softened. You laid like that for a while in silence, spooning in your bed. The sun had still cast shadows in your room when you first came in here, but now it was nearly pitch black.

"You're still leaving?" You asked, voice steadier than you felt, unwilling to hope.

He was quiet for long enough that you wondered if he'd fallen asleep. But then came the soft, "Yes," in your ear.

You said nothing else that night. Neither of you spoke about what you'd confessed during sex and when you woke in the morning, he had left. There was no trace of him left in the house. He'd taken his toothbrush, his beard trimmer, his duffel of clothes and other toiletries. All gone.

He left a single t-shirt—by accident or not, you couldn't say—draped over your hamper. When you picked it up and brought it to your face, it smelt like him.

You sank to the floor of your closet like a child and cried.

***

Robby saw you everywhere and in everything. He thought about you most mornings when he put on a pair of pants and noticed how they were a bit too snug—Having regular meals most days at your place had meant he'd put on a few pounds while dating you. He thought about you and Brutus whenever Trinity showed him pictures of her new kittens. Whenever he had a cookie or a slice of blueberry pie, he remembered the sweet buttery smell of your house whenever you were baking.

He missed you with a devotion that felt almost religious, but he never picked up the phone. After having made you cry and then hearing you admit that you were in love with him, he'd been absolutely certain he couldn't have you. He'd thought in the beginning, he'd been able to delude himself that he could have someone like you. That he deserved someone like you, so sweet and gentle and loving. But despite his precautions, you'd still crumbled to dust in his hands.

He was terrified that if he didn't leave he'd repeat his mother's mistakes and leave you even more devastated than you were now.

But when you looked at him and said you didn't think you'd ever see him again, he'd wondered if you'd understood. If you'd understood his fears and instead worried that if he did leave he'd become his mother.

He didn't want to think about that and so as he packed up his gear and clothes and whatever else he thought he might need onto his bike, he tried and failed to stop thinking about you.

As he left town, he rode by your house knowing you'd be at work. He rolled slowly, memorized every detail he could of the house, the only place he'd ever felt at home besides his grandparents' house. In a last minute decision, he pulled out his phone and took a quick photo.

This was when he saw Brutus in the window, watching him, tail swishing back and forth. He'd miss that little rascal, too, even if he had broken his favorite mug. He gave a quick salute to Brutus and then he left before he could change his mind.

For a while, being on the road felt as freeing as he hoped it would. Everyone before he left seemed so worried he was about to kill himself, but honestly, with new air in his lungs, he felt great. For around four hundred miles.

He was a few days into the trip, having only driven something like a hundred miles each day, and closing in on Chicago when the fatigue really began to set in. Every part of his body ached. He had been very careful not to let his mind wander to you since he'd left, but it wandered anyhow. Now he thought of the Epsom salt baths you insisted on whenever he had aches and pains. He wished more than anything that you'd be there in Chicago, waiting by the hot bath, pretending to resist when he coaxed you in with him. You'd sit between his legs, back to his chest as you told him about your day as he gently kneaded your shoulders with his thumbs. You'd talk about the study you were working on. Or, since it was a Saturday, maybe you'd spent time in the garden, pulling weeds as you listened to an audiobook for a new mystery novel.

Robby was so immersed in the fantasy, he didn't register the oncoming headlights until it was already too late. Still, as the car crossed the double yellow line into his lane, on instinct, he jerked the bike away from the oncoming collision.

He was able to avoid the car, but lost control of the bike, skidding off the road and into a guardrail. He felt it when the gravel tore through his pants, then his skin, the weight of his bike pinning him to the ground as he came to a complete stop.

Robby was so used to watching other people die, he thought he knew what it'd be like when his time came. Stupidly, he thought he'd made his peace with his own mortality, his inevitable demise. But in the split second it took for him to see the oncoming headlights and jerk his bike out of the way, he understood immediately and with complete clarity that he didn't want to die.

As he felt his skin being torn up and his leg being crushed, time slowed, and he saw your face. Heard your voice tell him you loved him. The sound of your laugh. The smell of your shampoo.

And just as quickly as it happened, it was over, and the pain exploded throughout his body.

Pain, glorious pain, and as he categorized it all he understood it meant he was alive and he laughed, wildly. The paramedics that showed up afterwards and told him how lucky he was likely thought him insane as he laughed and laughed.

He was alive. He was fucking alive. And the realization filled him with indescribable joy. Logically he knew most of this was due to the adrenaline rush, but he couldn't help but feel like this had to have been some divine intervention. And soon enough, as the adrenaline fled him and the pain meds kicked in, he couldn't stop crying.

The nurses and doctors looked at him with sympathy and one nurse, Angela, asked gently, "Is there anyone we can call?"

The only person he wanted to call right now was you. His bike was totaled and he found he didn't even care. He just wanted to go home. He wanted to play chess on your porch while it rained. He wanted to play hide and seek with Brutus while you giggled from the sofa, watching him. He wanted to let you pick a movie for movie night only to have you unceremoniously fall asleep in his arms less than ten minutes in. He wanted to beg your forgiveness. He wanted to tell you he loved you, was in love with you, like he should have before he left. He wanted to go home.

But he shook his head, wiped his eyes and asked if he could have his phone. He would be waiting a while for imaging on his leg. The thought for sure something was broken and based on what he felt when he went down, he concurred with that opinion. He thought it possible he might even need surgery, though they hadn't said as much yet.

Angela returned with his phone and a smile, repeated as he looked at his cracked screen that she'd be happy to call, but he thanked her and waved her off.

His phone seemed to be working fine and he immediately scrolled over to his photo album where he pulled up photos of you. Photos of the two of you together, you making a silly face at the camera and him with a toothy smile on his face as he looked down at you. Happy.

He felt suddenly very stupid for how he'd handled everything. Wished he'd listened to you when you asked him why he seemed to be sabotaging the one good thing in his life.

The answer was that he didn't think he deserved anything good, least of all, you. He was destined to a miserable life and a miserable death and he had no desire to bring you down with him.

But looking at this photo, it was becoming more and more clear to him that you had changed him. He thought he was destined for tragedy, but you'd rewritten his ending. Only he'd been much too stupid to see it.

Eventually, he worked up the courage to call you, not expecting you to answer. As the phone rang he could picture you in your pajama set, sleepytime tea on your nightstand and Brutus curled up in your lap as you stared at the caller ID with rage in your eyes.

But you surprised him. You picked up after just three rings.

"Hello?" You sounded a bit breathless and a lot confused.

"Hi."

"Michael?" He closed his eyes at the sound of his name, always so sweet from your mouth, "What's wrong? Where are you?"

"Why are you assuming something's wrong?"

"Because I haven't heard from you in weeks," You said bitterly, "And I can hear beeping monitors in the background and I know you're not at work because Abbot told me you left for your sabbatical days ago."

"So you've been asking about me?" He said, teasing lilt to his voice.

You sighed, "Michael, so help me, I will hang up this phone—"

"Alright, okay, sorry, sorry, you're right," He ran a hand over his face, "I'm sorry—I—I'm in an emergency room in Chicago and I just wanted to hear your voice."

"Why are you in an emergency room?" He could tell you were fighting to keep your voice level from how slowly you asked the question.

"I totaled the bike," He scratched at his beard, "I was driving too late and I was tired and a car drifted into my lane and I swerved and went into a guardrail."

"Oh my God—Fuck—Are you—Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I have some pretty bad road rash and think maybe my leg's broken—" He heard movement on the other end of the phone, "What're you doing?"

"Packing." You said matter of factly, "If I leave now I should get to Chicago by morning."

He felt his eyes burn immediately. That after everything you'd still go to him without hesitation. Again, he felt that pang in his chest, that overwhelming ache that said he didn't deserve you.

"You shouldn't drive this late," Was all he said, swallowing past the lump in his throat.

"Please," You said dismissively, "Do you need anything from your house? I can stop on my way."

"Sweetheart, I'm—I'm so sorry for leaving. You were right, you're the only thing that matters and I thought I didn't deserve it—Deserve you and so I ran away. I'm a coward. And I don't expect you to forgive me, but I'll beg for it anyway. I love you so much and I just want to be with you, if you'll still have me."

There was silence on the other line and then a soft sigh, "You're on so many drugs right now, aren't you?"

"What? No—Well, yes, but that's not why—"

"We can talk about it in a few days when you're not high out of your mind. Do you need anything from your house?" You repeated it like you were talking to a petulant toddler and he felt stupid again. He hadn't considered what this would look like to you. And yes, his accident had forced him to confront what he was actually doing and feeling, but that didn't make it less true. He'd known he loved you long before he left, long before you even said it. He thought he'd likely been a little bit in love with you since med school.

Your caution was understandable, though, so he wouldn't push.

"No," He said finally, "No, thanks. But would you mind sharing your location with me since you insist on driving through the night? Would make me feel better if I can follow along."

"Sure," you said, and he heard the way your voice softened at his concern, "Goodnight, Michael."

For a moment, time seemed to crunch like an accordian and he was back in med school, your voice in his ear in the middle of the night, asking for his forgiveness. He felt a bit fuzzy at the edges.

"Goodnight, Bambi." He murmured and his phone slipped from his hand.

***

Michael was asleep when you got to the hospital and had been admitted to Ortho upstairs for surgery.

Your emotions were all over the place, but seeing him in a hospital bed, a bit bloodied up and hooked up to monitors, you felt your defenses falling. You wanted to be angry with him, but how could you be? When you had been so close to losing him for good?

As you got closer, you noted that he'd let his beard and hair grow out a bit longer since the last you saw him. It made him appear softer. You had been pleased before he left when his cheeks began to fill out a bit having made him eat properly since you began dating. That weight was still there, if not as obvious as before.

The rush of affection that filled you upon seeing him was nearly suffocating.

As you pulled up a chair to his bedside, he began to wake and you smiled at him with watery eyes, "Hi."

He smiled back and reached a hand out for you which you immediately took and brought to your lips.

"I'm sorry," He said immediately, but you dismissed him with a shake of your head.

"What did the doctor say? Why do you need surgery?"

"It's… shattered. The bike fell on it, crushed my leg. Have to screw it all back together."

You frowned as he grimaced, "Are you in pain? Let me go get a nurse—"

You stood to go, but he wrapped a hand around your wrist, "No, no, don't. I asked them to… take me off the meds."

You stared at him, mouth agape, "Why would you do something like that?"

"So that I could tell you how in love with you I am with a clear head."

You nearly laughed, "Michael Robinavitch, have you lost your goddamn mind?"

"You said we should wait," He shook his head, "I don't want you to go another second thinking that I don't love you."

Your eyes watered, but you shook your head, "It's gonna take a lot longer than you saying it once for me to trust you again."

"I know that," He grimaced again, "I just wanted to say it now."

You brought a hand to his cheek and scratched lightly along his jaw, "Can I go grab a nurse now if you're done with the dramatics?"

He smirked and nodded and you hid a grin as you stood and walked from the room.

It was a day or two after surgery that Robby was finally cleared to go home with you. On the way home, high on pain meds, Robby read The Princess Bride to you in his silly voices to keep you entertained.

At home, you set him up in bed with strict instructions to Brutus to keep him company while you made him food.

And slowly, the two of you settled back into the usual rhthym. He told you he loved you many times a day. Even when he didn't say it, he'd run his fingers over the tattoo on your wrist, or say something just to make you laugh. He watched you with an expression on his face that you'd never seen before and when you asked if something was wrong, he shook his head, said "Everything's perfect."

As he got back on his feet, you took slow walks to and from the park, fed the birds. Robby even downloaded an app on his phone that could identify the birds by thsid song. His face would light up with joy whenever the app told him a bird he didn't recognize was around.

Life was quiet and peaceful and love found a way to fill every crack and crevice in each of your hearts.

A year later, when Robby's leg had healed entirely, when the only pain was used to predict the rain, was when he asked you.

"Sweetheart?" Your head was in his lap on the sofa, you watching TV while he did a crossword. You hummed in response so he knew you were listening, "I've been thinking and I think it's time I put my house up for sale."

You sat up slowly and looked at him. Your eyes instantly scanning for deception.

Robby was a great roommate. He was pretty handy and so could usually fix most minor wear and tear problems without having to call in an expert. He took care of Brutus and the plants. He loved gardening with you. He never let the chores go too long without being done. Always washed the toilet because he knew it was your least favorite chore.

You had no qualms about living with him. But you always assumed, even though most of you had grown to trust him again, that he'd keep his house as a backup plan. It was realistic, you told yourself. Relationships all had expiration dates.

"Really?"

He nodded, "The last year I've only ever gone home to to make sure nobody's broken in. I've moved everything I use here already. My clothes, my toiletries, my tools, my books, my records—everything's here. It's a waste, don't you think?"

You opened and closed your mouth, ran your fingers absently over the tattoo on your wrist, "What if… What if we fight and you want space?"

He shrugged, "I don't think that would happen, but I could always get a hotel for a night. I still have the cabin in the mountains."

You swallowed and looked down at your hands, "If we break up you'll hate me because you sold your house."

You felt the couch shift as he sat up and took your hands, "If we broke up, I could never hate you. Besides, this is my decision. You didn't pressure me into it. I also figured this way it was only fair that I start helping out with the bills here. Now, if me permanently moving in feels like too big of a step to you—"

"No," You said quickly, "No, I want you to. I love having you here, it's been…" You shook your head, "It's been the best year of my life."

He smiled and brought your hands up to his lips, "Mine too."

And as the two of you talked over a bottle of wine about the logistics of moving the remainder of his things into your house and calling realtors and what you should do with the extra money (Should you travel? Put it into retirement?) it was like the final piece of your previously shattered heart was glued back into place.

Before Michael, you often wondered if you were too picky. If your standards were too high as your mother loved to tell you and that's why you'd end up a spinster. Alone and bitter, always denied the one thing you wanted and craved most in the world: love and companionship.

But as you and Michael talked late into the night and fell asleep in each other's arms, you knew you'd been right to wait.

You couldn't rush soulmates and you would've waited forever and a day if it meant you got to know love like this. Luckily for you, you'd only had to wait twenty something years for Robby to realize he was in love with you. In the face of forever, it was a blink of an eye. And for that, you'd thank the sun and the moon and all the stars every day for the rest of your life.

[pucksandpower]

controlled burn (part one)

Dean Di Laurentis x Rozanov!Reader

Summary: you don’t tell him your last name. By the time Dean finds out, he’s too far gone to do anything but brace for impact. Falling for the ice-cold, vodka-drinking Russian freshman is one thing. Falling for Ilya Rozanov’s little sister is a death wish. Dean decides he doesn’t care

Warning: 18+ content

Read part two here

The 2000s hits blasting from the speakers are so loud they rattle the floorboards, but Dean is undeniably bored.

He leans against the doorframe of the living room, a red Solo cup dangling loosely from his fingers. The party is packed, a sweaty sea of grinding bodies, spilled beer, and bad decisions, but it’s the exact same crowd as last weekend. And the weekend before that. Dean is a guy who thrives on variety, and lately, the scenery is getting repetitive. Money is no object, and usually, neither are women. He rarely spends a night alone. But tonight? Nothing is catching his eye.

“You look miserable,” Garrett remarks, bumping Dean’s shoulder as he passes by with a fresh keg of beer.

“I’m not miserable,” Dean corrects him smoothly. “I’m uninspired.”

Logan snorts from his spot on the ratty couch. “Uninspired? You literally took twins home on Tuesday.”

“That was Tuesday, Logan. It’s Friday. I’m a growing boy. I need fresh stimulation.” Dean sighs, pushing off the doorframe. “I’m going to the kitchen to find something stronger than this watered-down piss.”

“Good luck,” Tucker calls out over the music. “I think the football team raided the liquor cabinet an hour ago.”

Dean navigates the crowded hallway with the effortless grace of a guy who owns the place. He dodges a couple making out against the thermostat and sidesteps a puddle of questionable origin. As he rounds the corner into the kitchen, the noise level shifts. It’s less thumping bass and more rowdy, escalating shouts.

A crowd is gathered around the center island. Specifically, a crowd of massive, tank-like senior football players. And right in the middle of them is you.

Dean stops dead in his tracks.

You are perched on one of the barstools, looking entirely out of place and yet completely in control. Your hair falls over your shoulders in messy waves, and you’re wearing a cropped leather jacket over a tight top that leaves exactly the right amount to the imagination. But it isn’t just the way you look — though you are undeniably, breathtakingly stunning. It’s the way you’re holding court.

“You are slowing down, big guy,” you say, your voice carrying over the chanting. It’s smooth, slightly raspy, and laced with a heavy, unmistakable Russian accent.

You push a brimming shot glass of clear liquid toward a guy Dean recognizes as Meathead Mike, a defensive lineman who weighs close to three hundred pounds.

“I’m not slowing down,” Mike grunts, looking slightly green around the gills. “I’m pacing myself.”

“Pacing,” you repeat, a smirk playing on your lips. It’s a wicked, self-assured smirk. You pick up your own shot glass. “In Moscow, pacing is for the weak. We drink, or we go home to sleep. Which one are you doing, Mishka?”

Dean is instantly fascinated.

“I’m drinking,” Mike growls, snatching the glass.

You tap your glass against his. “Na zdarovye.”

You toss the vodka back effortlessly, not even a flinch crossing your features. You set the glass down with a sharp clack against the granite. Mike follows suit, but he gags halfway down, coughing violently into his elbow. His buddies groan and slap his back.

“Alright, alright, he’s done,” one of the other linebackers laughs. “Jesus, girl. What are you made of?”

“Mostly spite,” you reply, your face deadpan, though your eyes gleam with amusement.

You glance over your shoulder at a blonde girl standing nervously by the fridge. Your roommate, Morgan, the quintessential all-American girl next door whom you dragged here because you were bored.

“Morgan,” you say, snapping your fingers lightly. “Pass the bottle. I think the offense wants a turn.”

Morgan looks terrified. “Um, I think maybe we should stop? That’s, like, a lot of vodka.”

“It is barely a warm-up,” you insist, reaching over to grab the handle of Smirnoff yourself. You look at the bottle with a mix of pity and disgust.

Dean watches you, completely captivated. He knows the type of girls who hang around Briar parties. They giggle, they flirt, they bat their eyelashes at the hockey players. You are doing none of that. You look like you could buy and sell everyone in this room, and honestly? You probably could.

Six years younger than Ilya Rozanov, the infamous, cocky Boston Bruins center, you are practically a miniature version of him. Ilya brought you to the United States the second you turned eighteen, pulling you out of Moscow and away from your emotionally abusive father and older brother. He bought you a luxury apartment just off the Briar campus, filled your bank account, and told you to get an education — mostly because, in Ilya’s words, “hockey players are dumb, and we need at least one brain in the family.” Ilya spoils you rotten and guards you like a dragon hoarding gold. But right now, nobody in this kitchen knows that.

Dean takes a step forward, sliding into the gap left by one of the retreating football players.

“I don’t think you should waste your time with the offense,” Dean says, leaning his hip against the counter right next to you. He flashes you his trademark, million-dollar smile — the one that usually has girls melting into puddles. “They drop the ball when it counts.”

You pause, the vodka bottle hovering over a glass. You turn your head slowly, raking your eyes up and down Dean’s frame. You take in his messy blond hair, his sharp jawline, the casual but expensive fit of his casual sweater.

Your expression doesn’t change. You don’t melt. You don’t even blink.

“And who are you?” You ask, your tone bordering on bored. “The waterboy?”

A few of the remaining football players snicker. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. Okay. Not the usual reaction.

“Dean Di Laurentis,” he says, offering his hand. “I live here. Play hockey.”

You look at his hand, then back up to his face. You don’t shake it. “Congratulations on paying rent, Dean Di Laurentis. But as you can see, I am busy.”

Dean lets his hand drop, entirely unbothered. The chase is the best part, and you just handed him a massive head start.

“Busy giving the entire offensive line alcohol poisoning,” Dean notes, glancing at the bottle. “You know, that’s cheap shit. It’ll eat straight through your stomach lining.”

You snort, pouring yourself another shot anyway. “Please. I am Russian. This,” you tap the bottle of Smirnoff, “is practically flavored water.”

“A Russian,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “That explains the accent. What brings you to a sweaty college basement in Massachusetts? Boston isn’t exactly Moscow.”

“Thank God for that,” you mutter under your breath. You pick up the shot glass, twirling it between your fingers. “I go to school here. First semester. Which means I am currently trying to enjoy a party, but people keep talking to me instead of drinking.”

Dean laughs, a genuine, startled sound. “You’re a freshman? Could’ve fooled me. You’re holding court like a senior.”

“Age is a number,” you say dismissively. “Maturity is knowing when a man is trying to hit on you with terrible opening lines.”

“Terrible?” Dean clutches his chest in mock offense. “Ouch. I’ll have you know my opening lines have a very high success rate.”

“Then the women here have very low standards.” You toss the shot back. Again, no chaser. No wince.

Dean shakes his head in amazement. “Okay, color me impressed. You’re completely unbothered by that.”

“I am unbothered by most things,” you reply. You slide off the barstool, landing lightly on your feet. You’re a few inches shorter than Dean, but the way you hold yourself makes you seem taller. You have this undeniable, gravitational pull.

You turn to your roommate. “Morgan. Are we having fun yet, or do you want to go?”

Morgan jumps, startled to be addressed. “Um! I’m having fun! But, uh, maybe no more shots?”

“Fine. No more shots.” You look back at Dean. “See? I am very compromising. A delight to be around.”

“I can tell,” Dean says, his eyes tracking the movement of your mouth. “But you know, you never told me your name.”

“I did not,” you agree.

Dean waits a beat. “Are you going to?”

“No.”

Dean laughs again. He loves this. He is completely, hopelessly intrigued. You are stunning, sharp-tongued, and just the right amount of a bitch. It’s a breath of fresh air. “Come on. Give me something. A fake name? A nickname?”

“You can call me when you have better vodka,” you deadpan. You step around him, your shoulder brushing lightly against his chest. The contact sends a sudden, sharp jolt of electricity straight down Dean’s spine.

“Hey, wait,” Dean says, turning to follow you as you start walking toward the living room. “At least tell me what you’re studying. Let me guess. Business? Political science?”

You don’t stop walking, but you glance back over your shoulder, a patronizing smile on your lips. “Do I look like I want to wear a pantsuit and argue in a boardroom?”

“You look like you’d win every argument,” Dean fires back effortlessly.

“Obviously. But I don’t need a degree for that.” You weave through the crowd with expert precision.

Dean keeps pace, ignoring the people calling his name. “So what is it then? Art history? Bio?”

“You ask too many questions for a hockey player,” you tell him. “Aren’t you supposed to just grunt and hit things?”

Dean grins, stepping directly into your path to force you to stop. “I can do that too, if you’re into it.”

You look up at him, your eyes narrowing slightly. It’s a purely assessing gaze, like you’re weighing his worth on a scale and finding him somewhat lacking, but not entirely useless.

“You are very confident,” you note.

“I have reason to be,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction of an octave, turning rougher, more intimate. “I’m a good guy to know around here. I throw the best parties. I know the best places to eat. I can get you out of that dorm and into places you actually want to be.”

“I do not live in a dorm,” you say smoothly. “And I go wherever I want to go.”

Dean’s grin widens. “An off-campus freshman. Interesting. Who’s funding that? Rich daddy?”

A shadow crosses your face so fast Dean almost misses it. The mention of your father in Moscow hits a nerve, pulling at the dark memories Ilya dragged you away from. Your jaw tightens.

“Not my father,” you say, your voice suddenly cold enough to freeze hell over. “My brother.”

Dean instantly realizes he stepped on a landmine. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it. Just making conversation.”

“You are making assumptions,” you correct him sharply. You take a step back, the playful banter completely evaporating from your posture. You look at Morgan, who is hovering a few feet away. “We are leaving.”

“Wait,” Dean says, reaching out instinctively. He catches your wrist, his fingers wrapping around the warm, soft skin.

You freeze. You look down at his hand on your wrist, and then slowly bring your eyes back up to meet his. The look you give him is so lethally calm it actually makes Dean’s heart skip a beat.

“Remove your hand,” you say softly.

Dean lets go immediately, holding both hands up in surrender. “My bad. I’m sorry. Seriously.”

You brush off your sleeve, even though he barely gripped you. You are Ilya’s sister through and through, you don’t take shit from anyone, especially not pretty-boy athletes who think they own the world.

“Do not touch me again,” you say.

“I won’t,” Dean promises, and he means it. He watches as you turn on your heel and stalk toward the front door, Morgan trailing anxiously behind you.

“Hey!” Dean calls out, unable to help himself. He takes a few steps after you. “Can I at least get your number? To apologize properly?”

You stop at the front door and look back at him. The coldness has receded a bit, replaced by that same haughty, amused superiority from the kitchen.

“You do not need my number, Dean Di Laurentis,” you call back over the thumping bass of the music. “You are clearly used to girls making things easy for you.”

“And you’re not going to?” Dean asks, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

You smile — a full, devastatingly gorgeous smile that hits Dean like a physical blow to the chest.

“I do not make anything easy for anyone,” you say.

With that, you open the front door and step out into the cool September night, pulling it shut behind you.

Dean stands in the hallway for a long, silent moment. The party rages on around him, people bumping into his shoulders, girls laughing in his direction, but he doesn’t notice any of it. He is staring at the closed front door, his mind completely blank except for the echo of your heavy Russian accent and the sharp, burning realization that he needs to see you again.

Garrett appears out of the crowd, clapping a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Hey man, who was that? She completely ghosted you.”

“I don’t know,” Dean murmurs, still staring at the door. “But I’m going to find out.”

Garrett laughs. “Looked like she was about to rip your throat out.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, a slow, entirely genuine smile spreading across his face. He finally turns to look at his teammate, his eyes bright with a sudden, fierce energy. “I think I’m in love.”

***

Outside, the air is crisp, biting at your exposed skin. You pull your leather jacket tighter around yourself as you walk down the sidewalk, the rhythmic click of your boots echoing in the quiet street.

“Oh my god,” Morgan gasps, rushing to keep up with your long strides. “Are you insane? Do you know who that was?”

“Some guy named Dean,” you say dismissively, checking your phone. A text from Ilya sits on the lock screen: Are you home? Drink water. Lock door. Love you.

“Not just some guy!” Morgan insists, practically vibrating with anxiety and awe. “That’s Dean Di Laurentis! He’s, like, Briar hockey royalty. He’s gorgeous, he’s rich, and he literally never gets turned down. You just rejected the hottest guy on campus!”

“He is arrogant,” you reply, typing a quick reply to Ilya: I am fine. Going home now. Do not be annoying.

“Well, yeah, they all are!” Morgan huffs. “But he was so into you! Why did you blow him off?”

You slide your phone back into your pocket and look at Morgan. You like her — she’s sweet and harmless — but she clearly doesn’t understand how the world works. At least, not your world.

“Because, Morgan,” you say patiently, your Russian accent softening in the quiet night air. “Men like that are used to getting what they want the moment they want it. They think the world is a vending machine. You put in a little charm, and a woman falls out.”

“And you’re not a vending machine,” Morgan finishes, nodding slowly.

“Exactly.” You smile, looking ahead down the dimly lit street toward your luxury apartment building. “I am the prize. If he wants me, he is going to have to work for it. And I am going to make him work very, very hard.”

You know exactly what you’re doing. You saw the look in Dean’s eyes when you walked away. The shock, the frustration, the desperate, clawing hunger. It’s the exact reaction you wanted.

Ilya taught you a long time ago that on the ice, you never let the opponent know your next move. You make them chase you. You make them exhaust themselves trying to figure you out, and then, when they’re completely off balance, you strike.

Dean Di Laurentis thinks he’s a player. He thinks this is a game he knows how to win.

But as you walk back to your apartment, a small, triumphant smile playing on your lips, you know one thing for absolute certain.

He has absolutely no idea who he is playing with.

***

The sharp, scraping sound of steel biting into ice is the first thing that actually makes you feel like you can breathe since you landed in America.

You sit in the third row of the arena, the chill of the rink seeping through your designer sweater, and you close your eyes for just a second. The smell of the cold, the faint metallic tang of sweat and Zamboni fumes — it’s universal. It smells like Moscow. It smells like the freezing, dilapidated local rinks where you used to sit huddled in a thick coat next to your mama, her gloved hands wrapped around a paper cup of awful coffee, watching a scrawny, angry little Ilya learn how to check kids twice his size into the boards.

Hockey is in your blood just as much as it is in Ilya’s. Before your mother passed away, the rink was your sanctuary. It was the only place your father didn’t care to go, which meant it was the only place you, Ilya, and your mama were truly safe. Now, there are very few things in this world you genuinely love: Ilya, expensive clothes, fast cars … and this.

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” Morgan complains loudly over the roar of the crowd, pulling you out of your memories. She is shivering beside you, holding a foam finger she bought at the concession stand. “Why are they hitting each other so much? Isn’t the puck over there?”

“It is a forecheck,” you say, not taking your eyes off the ice. “They are establishing physical dominance to force a turnover in the defensive zone. Keep up.”

“I thought we were just here to look at hot guys,” she mutters, taking a sip of her hot chocolate.

“You are here to look at hot guys,” you correct her smoothly. “I am here because I appreciate the sport.”

And you do. But as you watch the Briar Hawks cycle the puck in the offensive zone, your eyes inevitably track back to number sixty-six. Dean Di Laurentis.

You haven’t seen him since the party last weekend. You haven’t texted him, and since you didn’t give him your number, he hasn’t texted you. But on the ice, he is impossible to ignore. For a guy who spends his weekends trying to charm freshmen out of their clothes, he is undeniably lethal on the blue line. He’s a defenseman, playing right side, and his skating is fluid, almost effortless.

“Oh, look,” Morgan gasps, pointing. “It’s Dean! He’s the guy you yelled at!”

“I did not yell at him,” you say calmly. “I simply declined his unsolicited advances. There is a difference.”

“He’s really good, isn’t he?”

You narrow your eyes as Dean receives a pass at the point. He fakes a slap shot, dragging the puck around a sliding defender, and fires a wrist shot through traffic. It clangs hard against the post and deflects out.

“He is decent,” you allow, your voice flat. “But his gap control is inconsistent, and he relies too heavily on his forehand.”

Morgan stares at you blankly. “Is that English?”

“It is hockey,” you reply, leaning back in your seat. “Which is better.”

The buzzer sounds a few minutes later, the scoreboard flashing a 4-3 victory for Briar. The crowd erupts into a deafening cheer, the student section banging on the glass. You offer a polite, golf-clap level of applause. It was a sloppy third period. Briar let up on the gas, allowing two unanswered goals in the final ten minutes. Ilya would have been screaming on the bench if his team played like that.

“Okay, they won! Can we go now?” Morgan begs, teeth chattering. “I can’t feel my toes.”

“We can go,” you agree, standing up and brushing invisible lint off your jeans. “Your toes are weak.”

You navigate the crowded concourse, weaving through the sea of Briar hockey jerseys and drunken college students. You are halfway to the main exit, your mind already jumping ahead to the heated seats in your car, when a voice cuts through the noise.

“Hey! Moscow!”

You don’t stop walking. You know exactly who it is, but you are not a dog to be called.

“Hey, wait up! Come on, I know you hear me!”

Footsteps jog up behind you, and suddenly Dean is stepping right into your path, forcing you to stop or physically walk into his chest.

You pause, looking up at him slowly.

Dean is slightly out of breath, his chest heaving under a crisp, perfectly tailored charcoal suit. His blond hair is still damp from the post-game shower, pushed back casually, and his tie is already loosened at the collar. He looks ridiculously, unfairly handsome, and the smug, triumphant grin on his face tells you he knows it.

“You know,” you say, your accent thick and unbothered, “usually, the players wait until they have left the arena to harass the fans.”

Dean laughs, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “I saw you walking out. Had to run to catch up. I didn’t peg you for a hockey fan.”

“I am full of surprises,” you reply dryly. “Now, if you will excuse me, my friend is freezing to death.”

Morgan, standing a few feet away, gives a tiny, terrified wave. Dean shoots her a dazzling smile that makes her blush furiously, before immediately turning his full attention back to you. The laser-focus in his eyes is intense. It’s the same look he had on the ice.

“So you came to watch me play,” Dean says, his voice dropping into that smooth, confident purr. “I’ve gotta say, I’m flattered. You played hard to get at the party, but you show up to my game? That’s a mixed signal, sweetheart.”

You let out a soft, patronizing laugh. “I came to watch a hockey game, Di Laurentis. You just happened to be on the ice. Do not flatter yourself.”

“Ouch,” Dean says, though his grin doesn’t waver. “You’re killing me here. But hey, we won. You can’t deny we put on a good show.”

“A good show?” You tilt your head, crossing your arms over your chest. You look him up and down, your expression perfectly deadpan. “Is that what you call that third period?”

Dean blinks, the smugness faltering for a fraction of a second. “Uh. Yeah. We got the win.”

“You got lucky,” you correct him seamlessly. “Your team played a neutral zone trap for the first two periods, which was effective against a slower offensive line. But in the third, they adjusted their breakout, and your defense collapsed. You were scrambling.”

Dean is staring at you now. The playful, flirtatious energy completely drains out of him, replaced by genuine, unadulterated shock. “Wait. You actually … you know the systems?”

“I know when a team stops moving their feet,” you say, stepping a fraction closer. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, but the hockey analysis is completely taking over. “Your forwards stopped backchecking, which left you and your partner hung out to dry on odd-man rushes. You were playing on your heels for the last ten minutes.”

Dean’s mouth opens slightly. He looks like he’s just been hit by a truck. “I … yeah. Garrett was pissed on the bench. We gave up the blue line way too easily.”

“You specifically,” you point out, tapping a finger lightly against his expensive suit jacket. “You pinched on the boards with four minutes left. It was a stupid risk. If their winger had been half a second faster, that was a breakaway, and the game goes to overtime.”

Dean swallows hard. He’s looking at you like you just sprouted a second head, but more importantly, he’s looking at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen in his entire life. His eyes track the movement of your finger on his chest, then snap back up to your lips.

“You saw that,” he murmurs, his voice suddenly sounding a lot rougher.

“I have eyes,” you say dismissively. “But the real problem is your transition game. You are fast, I will give you that. But you are predictable.”

“Predictable?” Dean echoes, his competitive streak flaring up. He steps closer, closing the distance between you so that you have to crane your neck slightly to maintain eye contact. “I’m the leading scoring defenseman in the conference.”

“Because you play against college boys,” you fire back, unimpressed. “But you rely entirely on your forehand. Every time you pick up the puck behind the net, you pivot right. Every single time. You never transition to your backhand to make the breakout pass up the left wing.”

“Because my forehand is stronger,” Dean argues, a defensive edge creeping into his tone. “The pass is more accurate.”

“Because your backhand is weak,” you correct him bluntly.

Silence falls between you.

Even the dull roar of the crowd leaving the arena seems to fade into the background. Dean just stares down at you, his green eyes wide, his chest rising and falling visibly under his shirt.

He is completely silent.

For a defenseman who prides himself on his skill, being called out like that should infuriate him. It should make him defensive, angry, or at least dismissive. But you watch as a slow, dark flush creeps up his neck. You watch the way his jaw tightens, and the way his gaze drops to your mouth again, heavy and hot.

Holy shit, Dean thinks. His brain has short-circuited.

He’s spent his entire life surrounded by puck bunnies. Girls who wear his jersey, girls who tell him he played great even when he knows he played like garbage, girls who only care about the post-game parties and the status of hooking up with a Briar hockey player.

And then there is you. Standing in the middle of a crowded lobby, ripping apart his blue-line transitions and calling his backhand weak with a heavy Russian accent and an expression that says you couldn’t care less if you bruised his ego.

He has never been so incredibly turned on in his entire life. It’s actually a little terrifying. His pants suddenly feel uncomfortably tight, a heavy knot of pure lust coiling in his gut.

“My backhand is weak,” Dean repeats slowly, his voice dropping an octave, practically vibrating with tension.

“Very weak,” you confirm, completely oblivious to the internal crisis you are causing him. Or maybe you aren’t oblivious. Maybe you just don’t care. “If you ever make it to the pros, a smart forechecker will notice that in the first period and shut down the right side of the ice. You will be useless in your own zone.”

“Useless,” Dean whispers. He licks his lips, stepping even closer. The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the faint, lingering smell of his body wash hits you. “God, you are brutal.”

“I am honest,” you reply, though your breath catches slightly as he invades your personal space. You hold your ground, refusing to back up. “Do you want me to stroke your ego and tell you that you are perfect, Di Laurentis?”

“No,” Dean says immediately, and he means it. “I want you to tell me everything else I did wrong.”

You pause, caught off guard for the first time. You expected him to get mad. You expected him to puff up his chest and rattle off his stats. You did not expect him to look at you like he wants to drag you into the nearest broom closet and let you dissect his entire life.

“You missed a wide-open pass to Graham on the power play in the second period,” you say, your voice a fraction softer, the air between you suddenly thick and electric.

“Keep going,” Dean murmurs, his eyes dark, his body angled entirely toward you.

“You … you over-commit on the penalty kill.” You feel a flush rising to your own cheeks now, furious at yourself for losing your composure. Why is he looking at you like that? “You chase the puck instead of holding the box.”

“What else?” Dean asks, his voice practically a gravelly whisper. He reaches out, and for a second you think he’s going to touch you, but he just rests his hand on the wall next to your head, leaning in. “Tell me my gap control is shit again.”

You swallow hard. Ilya warned you about American boys. He did not warn you about this.

“Your gap control is shit,” you say, forcing your voice to stay steady. You lift your chin, meeting his intense gaze head-on. “And if you do not fix it, you are going to cost your team the championship.”

Dean lets out a harsh breath, shaking his head slightly as a slow, wicked smile spreads across his face. “Jesus Christ. Who are you?”

“I am the girl who is leaving,” you say, ducking swiftly under his arm.

The spell breaks. You grab Morgan by the sleeve of her coat, practically dragging her toward the glass doors.

“Wait!” Dean spins around, his dress shoes slipping slightly on the tile. “Seriously! What’s your name? I can’t keep calling you Moscow!”

You push through the double doors, the freezing night air hitting you like a physical wall. You don’t stop, but you look over your shoulder one last time. Dean is standing inside the lobby, framed by the bright fluorescent lights, looking after you with a mixture of desperation and awe.

“Fix your backhand, Di Laurentis,” you call back, a smirk finally breaking through your icy exterior. “Maybe then you will earn my name.”

You turn away, letting the doors swing shut behind you.

“Oh my god,” Morgan gasps as you speed-walk toward the parking lot. “What just happened? What was that? Was that flirting? Because it sounded like you were insulting him, but he looked like he wanted to eat you alive.”

“It was hockey analysis,” you say firmly, though your heart is hammering against your ribs in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the sport.

“No, that was … that was aggressive sexual tension disguised as hockey analysis,” Morgan insists, pulling her keys out of her pocket. “Y/N, I am not joking. I think you just broke Dean Di Laurentis.”

You reach your car, leaning against the cold metal door as you wait for Morgan to unlock it. You think about the look in Dean’s eyes when you called out his play. The sudden shift from arrogant playboy to entirely, intensely captivated. You didn’t expect him to care about the sport as much as the glory. You didn’t expect him to listen to you.

And you certainly didn’t expect to feel this sudden, terrifying urge to see him again.

“I did not break him,” you say softly, mostly to yourself as you pull open the passenger door. You stare out at the darkened arena one last time, the cold air biting at your cheeks.

“But I think I might.”

***

Inside the arena lobby, Dean is still standing exactly where you left him.

He feels like he’s just been hit by lightning. His heart is pounding against his ribs, his blood rushing hot and fast through his veins. He replays the last five minutes in his head on a loop. The way your eyes flashed when you criticized his transition game. The heavy, intoxicating purr of your Russian accent. The absolute, unshakeable confidence radiating off you.

Garrett walks out of the locker room hallway a minute later, dressed in his own suit, his gym bag slung over his shoulder. He spots Dean standing completely still in the middle of the empty concourse.

“Hey,” Garrett says, walking over and waving a hand in front of Dean’s face. “Earth to Dean. You good, man? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

Dean slowly turns his head to look at his captain.

“Garrett,” Dean says, his voice totally deadpan.

“Yeah?”

“I need to run drills.”

Garrett frowns, confused. “What? Now? We just played a game, dude. We’re going to Malone’s to celebrate.”

“No,” Dean says, shaking his head. He looks back at the doors you just walked through, that wicked, determined smile returning to his face. He has never wanted a challenge more in his entire life. He has never wanted a girl more in his entire life. “I need ice time. Right now.”

Garrett stares at him. “Are you sick? Are you concussed? What drills do you even need to run?”

Dean adjusts the cuffs of his suit jacket, his eyes gleaming.

“Backhand passing,” Dean says simply. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

***

The Briar University quad is a rare picture of New England perfection today. The sun is shining, the sky is a crisp, cloudless blue, and the temperature is hovering right around seventy degrees — an absolute miracle for early October.

Because of this, half the student body has decided that classes are optional. The sprawling green lawns are covered with students lounging on blankets, throwing Frisbees, and pretending to study.

You are one of the people pretending to study.

You sit on a plaid blanket under the shade of a large oak tree, a heavy microeconomics textbook propped open on your lap, and a pair of oversized, dark sunglasses resting on your nose. You have a highlighter in one hand, but you haven’t marked a single page in twenty minutes.

It is entirely too loud to focus, mostly because of the pickup soccer game happening fifty yards away.

Normally, you would just pack up and go back to the quiet luxury of your off-campus apartment. But there is a reason you are still sitting here, pretending to read about supply and demand curves.

Dean Di Laurentis is playing soccer.

He is running around the makeshift field with his teammates along with a guy you recognize from a party as Beau, the star quarterback of the Briar football team. They are loud, obnoxious, and taking the game far too seriously for a Thursday afternoon.

“Pass it, Di Laurentis, you puck hog!” Beau shouts, jogging backward as Dean weaves the black-and-white ball between his feet.

“It’s a ball, Beau, not a puck,” Dean fires back, his footwork surprisingly nimble for a guy who spends his life on ice skates. “And maybe I’d pass if you knew how to finish a play!”

“I throw seventy-yard bombs for a living,” Beau laughs, trying to steal the ball. “I finish plenty.”

“Yeah, but your footwork is trash,” Logan calls out from across the grass. “Stick to using your hands, golden boy.”

You watch them over the top of your textbook, hidden safely behind the dark lenses of your sunglasses. Dean is wearing a grey Briar Hockey t-shirt and athletic shorts, his blond hair sticking up in sweaty, messy spikes. He is laughing, completely in his element, shouting trash talk at his friends.

And then, he turns around to jog backward, scanning the perimeter of the quad.

His eyes sweep over the crowds of students, past the girls clustered on a nearby blanket who have been practically drooling over him for the last hour, and land squarely on the oak tree.

He stops. He actually trips over the soccer ball, stumbling forward a few steps before catching his balance.

“Hey, watch it!” Tucker yells as he steals the abandoned ball. “Head in the game, Di Laurentis!”

Dean completely ignores him. He is staring straight at you. Even from fifty yards away, you can see the exact moment the cocky, playful grin melts off his face, replaced by that sharp, predatory focus he had in the arena lobby.

You do not wave. You do not smile. You simply flip a page in your textbook, pretending you haven’t noticed him at all.

“Man, it’s hot out here, isn’t it?” You hear Dean say loudly a moment later.

“It’s seventy-two,” Garrett replies, sounding thoroughly confused.

“Scorching,” Dean insists. “Absolutely boiling.”

You glance up just in time to see Dean grab the hem of his grey t-shirt and pull it over his head in one smooth, practiced motion. He tosses the shirt onto the grass, running a hand through his damp hair, and stands there in the dappled sunlight.

He is built exactly the way a Division I athlete should be built. Broad shoulders, a sculpted chest, and a torso lined with sharp, defined abdominal muscles that disappear down into the waistband of his shorts. He looks like a centerfold for a fitness magazine, and he absolutely knows it.

The group of girls on the blanket nearby actually let out a collective gasp.

You, however, slowly raise an eyebrow behind your sunglasses. Really? “What are you doing?” Logan demands, hands on his hips. “Put your shirt back on, nobody wants to see that.”

“I’m cooling down,” Dean says easily, though he is looking directly at you. “Gotta let the skin breathe, right?”

“You’re an idiot,” Garrett mutters.

Dean ignores them. He leaves the soccer game entirely, jogging across the grass at a slow, deliberate pace. He is making sure you have plenty of time to look. You make sure your eyes are glued firmly to the page about market equilibrium.

“Hey there, Moscow,” a smooth, slightly out-of-breath voice says a minute later.

A shadow falls over your textbook. You wait three full seconds before you slowly tilt your head up. Dean is standing at the edge of your blanket, his chest rising and falling from the run, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his stomach. He has his hands planted on his hips, flashing you that million-dollar, dimpled smile.

“You are blocking my light,” you state plainly.

Dean’s smile widens. He drops down onto the grass, sitting directly across from you on the edge of your blanket, completely uninvited.

“You’re studying,” he observes, leaning back on his elbows. He stretches his long legs out, crossing them at the ankles. “Econ. Boring.”

“It is only boring if you lack the intelligence to understand it,” you reply, picking up your highlighter. “Which, I suppose, explains your opinion.”

Dean barks out a laugh, entirely unoffended. “God, I missed you. Where have you been hiding? I’ve been checking the stands at practice every day.”

“I do not hide,” you say smoothly, turning a page. “And I do not attend practices. I have a life.”

“A life that involves sitting on the quad, reading a textbook, and secretly watching me play soccer?”

“I was not watching you.”

“Right. You were just staring intently in my general direction.” Dean shifts closer, the scent of fresh air, grass, and masculine sweat washing over you. It is entirely distracting. “Did you enjoy the show, at least?”

You pause. You look up from the book, sliding your sunglasses down the bridge of your nose so you can look him directly in the eyes. You let your gaze drop down his chest, over his abs, and back up to his face.

“You took your shirt off in seventy-degree weather,” you say dryly. “It was the most obvious display of male ego I have ever witnessed.”

“Did it work, though?” Dean challenges, a teasing spark in his green eyes.

“I am not a fan of theatrics.” You push your sunglasses back up. “Put your shirt on, Di Laurentis. You look ridiculous.”

“You’re lying,” Dean murmurs. His voice drops into that low, gravelly register that he used at the arena, the one that makes the hair on the back of your arms stand up. He leans forward, closing the distance between you. “I saw the way you looked at me just now. You like the theatrics.”

Your breath hitches slightly, but before you can fire back a cutting remark, a sharp, loud ringing cuts through the tension.

Your phone, sitting on the blanket beside your leg, is vibrating. The caller ID flashes brightly in the sunlight.

You let out a soft sigh, breaking eye contact with Dean. “I have to take this.”

“Boyfriend?” Dean asks, his voice suddenly losing its playful edge. His jaw tightens, a flash of genuine territorial annoyance crossing his face.

“None of your business,” you say smoothly. You pick up the phone and swipe to answer, bringing it to your ear.

Dean doesn’t move. He sits right there, completely invading your personal space, watching you intently. He clearly expects you to get up and walk away, or lower your voice.

Instead, you lean back against the trunk of the oak tree and slip effortlessly into your native tongue.

“Hello, Ilyusha,” you say in Russian, your voice softening just a fraction, the sharp consonants and flowing vowels rolling off your tongue perfectly.

Across from you, Dean practically stops breathing.

His eyes widen, locking onto your mouth. He doesn’t understand a single syllable of what you just said, but the sound of it hits him like a physical blow. Your voice is huskier in Russian, deeper, and the cadence is incredibly intimate.

“Y/N. Little bird,” Ilya’s booming voice comes through the speaker, loud enough that you have to pull the phone away from your ear for a second. “Why did it take you three rings to answer? Are you safe? Is someone bothering you?”

You roll your eyes, though a fond smile touches the corner of your lips. “I am sitting on the grass at school, Ilya. I was reading. Nobody is bothering me.”

You glance at Dean. He is staring at you with an intensity that is bordering on feral.

“Well, except maybe one idiot,” you add, a smirk forming.

Dean shifts his weight, leaning closer. “What did you just say?” He whispers, his voice thick. “Are you talking about me?”

You ignore him.

“An idiot?” Ilya demands, his protective instincts instantly flaring. “What kind of idiot? A boy? Do I need to fly back to Massachusetts and break someone’s kneecaps? Because I have a game in Dallas tomorrow, but I can make the flight tonight.”

“Do not be dramatic,” you sigh, switching your phone to the other ear. “It is just a hockey player. He thinks he is charming.”

“A hockey player?” Ilya groans. “God, Y/N. I told you to stay away from them. They are stupid. They only want one thing. Trust me, I know. I am one.”

“I know you are,” you laugh softly. “I am handling it.”

“You better be,” Ilya grumbles. “But listen to me. You are in college. You are beautiful. You are going to have boys chasing you. I do not like it, but I cannot stop it.”

“You are remarkably self-aware today.”

“Shut up and listen,” Ilya says, though there is warmth in his voice. “I am your brother, so it is my job to threaten to kill them. But I am also realistic. If you find a boy you actually like — which is highly unlikely because your standards are terrifying — you have fun. Do you hear me? Have fun. Use protection. Make him buy you dinner.”

You feel a flush creeping up your neck. Having your older brother give you sex-positive dating advice is always a bizarre experience.

“I am hanging up now,” you tell him, embarrassed.

“Wait, wait! Let me finish,” Ilya laughs. “If he crosses a line, you break his heart. If he makes you cry, I break his legs. It is a very simple system.”

“I understand the system, Ilyusha.”

“Good. Give them hell, little bird.”

“I always do. Good luck with the game tomorrow. Love you.”

“Love you too. Call me this weekend.”

You hang up the phone, tossing it back onto the blanket. You let out a breath, centering yourself, and then you turn your attention back to Dean.

You fully expect him to have a smug comment ready. You expect him to ask who you were talking to, or tease you about the foreign language.

Instead, Dean is staring at you like a starving man looking at a feast.

His pupils are blown wide, almost entirely swallowing the green of his irises. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, and there is a dark, heavy flush high on his cheekbones. He is leaning so far forward that his face is only inches from yours.

“Di Laurentis?” You ask, frowning slightly. “Are you having a stroke?”

“What the fuck was that?” Dean asks, his voice so raw and raspy it barely sounds like him.

“It was a phone call.”

“In Russian.”

“Yes,” you say slowly, as if explaining something to a child. “I am Russian. I speak Russian to my family. This is not a new development.”

“You didn’t sound like that when you spoke English,” Dean breathes, his eyes tracking the movement of your lips. “Your voice … it dropped. It was completely different.”

“It is a different language,” you point out. “The inflection changes.”

“Do it again,” he demands softly.

You raise an eyebrow, your heart suddenly giving a hard, erratic thump against your ribs. The sheer, overwhelming wave of lust rolling off him is palpable. It is thick enough to choke on.

“Do what again?” You ask, keeping your tone carefully neutral.

“Speak it,” Dean says. He reaches out, and this time you don’t pull away when his fingers lightly brush against the side of your knee. The touch sends a jolt of pure electricity straight up your thigh. “Say something else. Anything.”

You look at him, really look at him. You see the desperate curiosity, the absolute fascination. But beneath that, you see exactly what he is thinking.

Dean doesn’t just want to hear you speak Russian. He wants to hear you speak it in his bed. He wants to hear you whisper it in his ear when the lights are out. He wants to know what you sound like when you lose that rigid, icy control.

The realization makes the breath catch in your throat. It is intoxicating. The power you hold over this guy right now is absolute, and you both know it.

You lean forward, mirroring his posture. You let your sunglasses slide down your nose slightly, locking eyes with him.

“You are completely out of your mind,” you say in Russian, your voice a soft, husky murmur.

Dean lets out a ragged exhale, his eyes slipping shut for a fraction of a second. “God. I have no idea what you just said, but say it again.”

“No,” you say, slipping back into English. You sit back against the tree, pulling your leg away from his touch. The sudden loss of contact leaves a cold spot on your skin. “The show is over.”

“Come on,” Dean groans, running a hand over his face. He genuinely looks pained. “You can’t do that to a guy and just stop. It’s cruel and unusual punishment.”

“I told you at the party,” you remind him, picking up your highlighter and turning back to your textbook. “I do not make things easy for anyone.”

“I don’t want it to be easy,” Dean says. The playfulness is completely gone from his voice. It is replaced by a quiet, fierce sincerity that makes you look up again.

He is staring at you, not with the smug arrogance of a playboy, but with the focused, unwavering determination of a D1 athlete who has his eyes on the championship.

“I don’t care how hard you make it,” Dean tells you, his voice steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You hold his gaze for a long moment, your pulse hammering a frantic rhythm in your ears. Ilya’s voice echoes in the back of your mind. If you find a boy you actually like … give them hell.

A slow, wicked smirk curves your lips.

“We will see, Di Laurentis,” you murmur.

“Yo, Dean!” Garrett’s voice echoes across the quad, breaking the heavy tension. “Are you playing or are you just going to sit there and bother the girl all day?”

Dean doesn’t take his eyes off you. “I’m busy!” He yells back.

“We’re down a man!” Beau shouts. “Get your ass back over here!”

Dean finally tears his gaze away, looking over his shoulder at his friends. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Duty calls. But this isn’t over.”

“It has not even begun,” you correct him.

Dean smiles. It’s a softer smile this time, smaller and much more dangerous. He pushes himself up off the grass, grabbing his discarded t-shirt. He doesn’t put it back on, much to the delight of the girls on the nearby blanket, but simply slings it over his shoulder.

“Have dinner with me,” Dean says, looking down at you.

It isn’t a question. It is a demand.

“I am busy tonight,” you reply without missing a beat.

“Tomorrow, then.”

“I have plans.”

“Saturday.”

“I study on Saturdays.”

“Sunday night,” Dean counters, refusing to back down. “My treat. Any restaurant in the city. You pick.”

You tap your highlighter against the page of your textbook, pretending to consider it. You are pushing him, testing the limits of his patience. Most guys would have walked away by now, their egos bruised.

Dean just stands there, waiting.

“Sunday,” you finally say, your tone conceding an inch. “But I pick the place, and you pay.”

“Deal,” Dean says instantly, looking like he just won the Stanley Cup. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“You do not know where I live.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Dean promises, taking a step backward toward the soccer game. “See you Sunday, Moscow.”

“Do not call me that,” you call after him.

“Then give me your real name!” He shouts back over his shoulder, jogging backward.

You smile, looking back down at your textbook. You wait until he is halfway across the quad before you answer, your voice carrying easily over the grass.

“It’s Y/N.”

Dean stops. He turns around, a massive, genuine grin breaking across his face. He points a finger at you, backing away toward his friends.

“Y/N,” Dean repeats, testing the sound of it on his tongue. He nods slowly. “Sunday, Y/N. Be ready.”

You watch him turn and jog back to the game, immediately tackling Beau to the ground in a mess of limbs and laughter.

You let out a long, shaky breath, closing your textbook. Studying is officially impossible now. You pull your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on your arms as you watch the group of boys on the grass.

Dean is laughing, shoving Logan out of the way to steal the ball. He looks carefree, happy, and entirely out of your league when it comes to emotional availability. He is exactly the kind of guy Ilya warned you about. A player. A distraction.

But as Dean suddenly looks over his shoulder, catching your eye from across the field and shooting you a quick, blazing wink, you know exactly what is happening.

You are giving him hell.

And you are enjoying every single second of it.

***

The date is, annoyingly, perfect.

You expected Dean to stumble. You picked an upscale, impossibly hard-to-book French-Asian fusion restaurant in the heart of Boston — the kind of place with a six-month waiting list that you only bypassed because Ilya knows the owner. You expected Dean to look out of place, or complain about the portion sizes, or act like the typical, uncouth college athlete he pretends to be.

Instead, he showed up at your apartment building right on time, wearing a tailored black button-down that made his shoulders look impossibly broad, and a pair of dark jeans that hugged his legs in all the right ways. He opened the car door for you. He ordered wine in flawless, unaccented French. He kept up with your sharp, biting banter effortlessly, matching you insult for insult with that constant, devastating smirk on his face.

He didn’t just survive the test. He passed it with flying colors.

“You look annoyed,” Dean observes as he steers his sleek black SUV off the highway, taking the exit back toward the Briar campus.

“I am not annoyed,” you say, looking out the passenger window at the passing streetlights.

“You’re a little annoyed,” he teases, glancing over at you. The dashboard lights cast a warm glow across his sharp jawline. “You thought I was going to embarrass myself. You thought I’d order chicken fingers and ask for ketchup.”

“I thought you would be a hockey player,” you correct him, turning your head to meet his gaze. “Instead, you were surprisingly tolerable.”

Dean laughs, a rich, genuine sound that fills the quiet interior of the car. “Tolerable. Wow. I’ll have to add that to my resume right under top scoring defenseman.”

“Do not let it go to your head.”

“Too late.” Dean reaches across the center console. He doesn’t ask. He just slides his hand over yours where it rests on your thigh, lacing his long, warm fingers through yours.

Your breath catches slightly, but you don’t pull away. His palm is rough with calluses from his hockey stick, a stark contrast to the soft leather of the car seats and the smooth fabric of your slip dress. The casual intimacy of it sends a sudden, sharp jolt of heat straight to your core.

“So,” Dean murmurs, his thumb brushing a lazy circle against your skin. “The date is over. I paid. I was charming. I didn’t embarrass you in front of the waiter.”

“Barely.”

“Where to now, Y/N?” He says your name softly, testing the weight of it. “I can take you back to your ivory tower. Or …”

He lets the sentence hang in the air, thick and heavy with implication.

You look at his hand holding yours, and then up at his profile. You can feel the electric tension radiating off him. You know exactly what he’s asking, and you know exactly what the answer is. You made up your mind somewhere between the second glass of wine and the way his eyes darkened when you laughed at one of his jokes.

“Your house is on the way,” you say, your voice perfectly steady, though your heart is suddenly hammering against your ribs. “It would be inefficient to drive all the way to my apartment.”

The SUV actually swerves a fraction of an inch as Dean’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. He exhales a harsh, shaky breath.

“My house,” he repeats, as if making sure he heard you correctly.

“Unless you are scared your roommates are awake.”

“I don’t give a fuck if my roommates are awake,” Dean says instantly. He hits the turn signal, taking a sharp left onto the residential street that leads to the off-campus hockey house. “My door has a lock.”

The drive takes less than five minutes, but it feels like an eternity. The air in the car is so thick with anticipation you can barely breathe. When Dean finally throws the SUV into park in the driveway, he doesn’t wait for you. He is out of the car in a flash, opening your door and offering you his hand.

The house is surprisingly quiet. The usual thumping bass and smell of stale beer are absent. As Dean unlocks the front door and ushers you inside, you see exactly one person.

Logan is sprawled on the ratty living room couch, a bowl of cereal balanced on his chest, watching SportsCenter on low volume.

He looks up as the door clicks shut. He sees Dean. Then he sees you.

Logan’s spoon freezes halfway to his mouth. His eyes dart between the two of you, taking in Dean’s dark, focused expression and your thoroughly unimpressed, perfectly manicured appearance.

“Di Laurentis,” Logan says slowly, lowering the spoon. “You brought a girl home.”

“Astute observation,” Dean says, not stopping as he guides you toward the stairs by the small of your back.

“No, I mean, you brought a girl home,” Logan insists, sitting up slightly. “Not a puck bunny. Not a sorority girl. You brought an actual woman who looks like she could murder you and hide the body.”

“I will not hide the body,” you tell Logan calmly over your shoulder as you start up the stairs. “I will leave it in the living room for you to clean up.”

Logan’s eyes widen. He looks at Dean with pure, unadulterated respect. “Good luck, man. You’re going to need it.”

“Shut up, Logan,” Dean snaps, though he is smiling as he pushes you gently up the final few steps and down the narrow hallway.

He opens the door at the end of the hall, pulling you inside, and kicks the door shut behind him. The heavy click of the lock sliding into place echoes in the quiet room.

Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly clean. The bed is large and freshly made, there are no clothes on the floor, and the faint scent of his expensive cedar and citrus cologne lingers in the air.

You barely have a second to take it in before Dean is right in front of you.

The playful banter is completely gone. The energy shifts so fast it gives you whiplash. He crowds you against the heavy wooden door, his hands coming up to bracket your head. He looks down at you, his green eyes completely dilated, dark and hungry.

“I’ve been wanting to do this since you yelled at me in the kitchen,” Dean whispers, his voice rough and vibrating with need.

“I did not yell at you,” you breathe.

“Shut up,” he murmurs, and then his mouth crashes down onto yours.

It is a devastating kiss. There is nothing hesitant or gentle about it. It is pure, unfiltered demand. His lips are hot, his tongue immediately parting your lips, tasting the expensive wine and sweeping inside to claim every inch of your mouth.

A sharp, electric shock rips through your body. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your hands flying up to grip the lapels of his black shirt. He lets out a low, guttural groan, sliding his arms around your waist and pulling your hips flush against his.

He is hard. Achingly, brutally hard against your stomach.

The realization sends a thrill of pure power straight to your head. Ilya taught you to never let anyone dictate the pace of the game. You pull your mouth away from his, leaving him chasing your lips with a frustrated sigh.

“My turn,” you say smoothly.

Before Dean can process what you mean, you grab the collar of his shirt and push. He stumbles backward, completely caught off guard. You advance, pushing him again until the back of his knees hit the edge of his mattress, and he falls backward onto the bed with a soft thud.

Dean looks up at you, his chest heaving, his dark hair messy from your hands. He looks completely thoroughly derailed. “What are you doing?”

“Taking control,” you tell him. You step between his spread thighs, looking down at him with a wicked, predatory smile. “You are very used to running the show, Di Laurentis. But you are playing my game now.”

Dean swallows hard. He leans back on his elbows, watching you with wide, fascinated eyes. “Okay. Show me your game, Moscow.”

You climb onto the bed, straddling his hips. He groans instantly at the friction, his hands twitching at his sides, but he doesn’t touch you. He lets you set the pace.

You reach down, your fingers deliberately slow as you start undoing the buttons of his tailored shirt. You watch his face as you work, taking in the rapid pulse at the base of his throat, the way his jaw tightens with every agonizingly slow brush of your knuckles against his bare skin.

Once the shirt is fully unbuttoned, you push it off his shoulders, letting it fall onto the sheets. You run your hands flat over his sculpted chest, feeling the heavy, frantic thud of his heart beneath his ribs.

“You are impatient,” you murmur, leaning down to press a soft, teasing kiss to the center of his chest.

“I’m dying,” Dean corrects roughly. His hands come up, gripping your hips tightly. “Y/N. Please.”

“Please what?” You ask, your voice dropping into a sultry, teasing purr. You shift your weight, grinding down against his hard length right through his jeans.

Dean’s head throws back, his hips automatically bucking up against you to chase the friction. “Fuck,” he gasps. “Take it off. All of it.”

You smile. You reach down, finding the hem of your slip dress, and pull it up over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it to the floor. You are wearing nothing but a matching set of sheer, black lace lingerie.

Dean stares at you. He actually stops breathing for three full seconds.

“Holy shit,” he whispers reverently. “You are … you are perfect.”

“I know,” you say confidently.

You lean down, capturing his lips again. The kiss is deep, wet, and incredibly hot. You move your hips in a slow, rhythmic grind that has Dean cursing into your mouth. He is letting you ride him, letting you dictate the rhythm, his large hands resting on your waist, guiding your movements but not forcing them.

You reach for the buckle of his belt, your fingers completely steady, but before you can even undo the clasp, the dynamic shifts.

Dean’s patience completely snaps.

“Okay. You’ve had your fun,” Dean growls softly against your lips.

Before you can even react, his hands tighten on your waist. He lifts you effortlessly — like you weigh absolutely nothing at all — and in one fluid, powerful motion, he flips you.

You let out a startled gasp as your back hits the mattress. Suddenly, Dean is hovering over you, his broad shoulders blocking out the overhead light. His eyes are entirely black now, the playful, indulgent boy completely gone, replaced by something dark, dominant, and terrifyingly hot.

“You think you’re the only one who likes control?” Dean murmurs, leaning down so his mouth is a breath away from your ear. “You think you can just climb on top of me, grind against me like that, and I’m just going to lay there and take it?”

“You were doing a very good job of it,” you try to say haughtily, but your voice is suddenly a little breathless.

“I was letting you win the first period,” Dean corrects, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your earlobe. “But the game is mine now.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to argue. His hands are everywhere. He unclasps your bra with a single, practiced flick of his fingers, tossing it aside. He takes your mouth again in a bruising, dominant kiss, swallowing your soft gasp as his warm, rough palm cups your breast. His thumb drags firmly over your nipple, and a jolt of pure pleasure shoots straight down to your core.

You arch your back, your hands tangling in his thick blond hair. The icy, untouchable Russian princess act is rapidly melting under the sheer, scorching heat of his attention.

Dean breaks the kiss, moving his mouth down your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. At the same time, his hand slides down your stomach, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your lace panties and pulling them down your legs.

He steps off the bed for exactly three seconds. The sound of his zipper dragging down, his jeans hitting the floor, and the tear of a foil wrapper are deafening in the quiet room.

When he comes back over you, he is completely bare, beautiful, and completely focused. He settles between your thighs, his knees pressing your legs wider.

He reaches down, his fingers finding your slick, aching center. He strokes you once, two fingers pressing deep inside, and you let out a sharp, genuine cry.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” Dean groans, his voice dark with triumph. He leans down, his mouth hovering over yours. “Tell me you want this.”

“I want it,” you breathe, your accent heavy. “Do not make me wait, Dean.”

He doesn’t. He grips your hips, aligning himself with your wet heat, and pushes forward.

He fills you completely in one long, agonizingly slow thrust. You gasp, your nails digging half-moons into the hard muscles of his back as he buries himself to the hilt. It’s incredibly deep, stretching you so perfectly it makes your vision swim.

Dean freezes, a low shuddering groan tearing from his throat. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his jaw clenched tight as he fights for control.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes, his body trembling over yours. “You are so tight. So incredibly tight.”

“Move,” you demand softly, your hips instinctively arching up to take him deeper.

Dean’s eyes snap open. “Yes, ma’am.”

He starts to move. He pulls back almost completely before driving his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you again. The friction is immediate and explosive.

“Oh!” You gasp, your head throwing back against the pillows.

Dean sets a brutal, relentless pace. He isn’t rushing, but he isn’t being gentle either. Every thrust is deep, hard, and perfectly angled. He hits the exact spot that makes your toes curl with every single stroke. The skin-on-skin slap of his hips meeting yours echoes loudly in the quiet room, a dirty, incredibly erotic sound.

“Is this good?” Dean asks, his voice thick, thrusting hard into you. “Is my form okay for you, Moscow?”

“Shut up,” you moan, your hands gripping his shoulders desperately.

“You had a lot of opinions about my performance on the ice,” Dean taunts darkly, dropping his head to bite lightly at your neck as he pounds into you. “Critique this.”

“Dean-”

“Say my name again,” he demands, his grip on your hips tightening. He angles his hips differently, grinding hard against your clit with his pelvis as he thrusts deep inside you.

The sensation is so sharp, so overwhelming, that your brain completely short-circuits. The English language entirely evaporates from your mind.

“Bozhe moy,” you cry out, your voice fracturing.

Dean freezes for a fraction of a second, his head snapping up. His eyes are wide, wild with sudden, explosive heat.

“What did you just say?” He breathes, thrusting back into you with sudden, renewed ferocity.

“Da,” you gasp, completely unable to stop yourself. The pleasure is mounting too fast, spiraling out of control. “Da, pozhaluysta.”

“Russian,” Dean groans, the sound completely animalistic. “Fuck, yes. Keep doing that. Talk to me in Russian.”

He speeds up, his thrusts becoming a rapid, punishing rhythm. You are completely lost in it, clinging to his broad shoulders as the world spins around you.

“Sil’neye,” you beg, your nails scratching down his back. Harder. “I don’t know what that means,” Dean rasps, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your collarbone. “But I fucking love it. Tell me you’re mine. Tell me in Russian.”

“Tvoya,” you sob, the word slipping out as the tension in your core finally snaps. “Ya tvoya.”

The climax hits you like a freight train. You cry out loud, your back bowing off the mattress as wave after wave of intense, blinding pleasure rips through your body. Your inner muscles clamp down hard around his thick length, milking him perfectly.

Dean lets out a loud, raw shout. He drives into you two more times, impossibly deep, and then completely falls apart. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his body shaking uncontrollably as he empties himself inside the condom, completely surrendering to you.

For a long time, the only sound in the room is the ragged, desperate sound of both of you fighting to catch your breath.

Dean’s heavy weight is crushing you into the mattress, but you don’t care. You feel thoroughly, beautifully wrecked.

Slowly, the haze begins to clear. Dean shifts his weight, pulling out of you with a soft, wet sound, and carefully rolls off to the side to dispose of the condom. When he comes back, he drops onto the mattress beside you, throwing one heavy arm and a leg over your body, pulling you flush against his side.

You rest your head on his bare chest, listening to his heart still hammering against his ribs.

“Wow,” Dean breathes into the quiet room.

“Yes,” you agree softly, your voice still a little raspy.

Dean presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, his fingers lazily tracing the curve of your hip. “You completely lost your mind there at the end, didn’t you?”

You feel a flush creeping up your neck. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

“Liar,” Dean laughs softly. “You lost your English entirely. It was the hottest fucking thing I have ever experienced in my entire life.”

You turn your head, resting your chin on his chest so you can look up at him. His eyes are soft now, completely completely devoid of the cocky arrogance he usually wears like armor. He just looks entirely, thoroughly captivated by you.

“You played a good game, Di Laurentis,” you tell him, your accent soft and thick in the quiet room.

Dean smiles, reaching up to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “Good enough for a second round?”

You raise an eyebrow, your old, haughty confidence returning in full force. “Do not flatter yourself. Let us see if you can handle the conditioning drills first.”

Dean throws his head back and laughs, a bright, happy sound that makes something warm and completely foreign bloom in the center of your chest. He pulls you up slightly, capturing your lips in a soft, lazy kiss that tastes like contentment and the promise of a very long night.

“Whatever you want, Moscow,” Dean murmurs against your mouth. “I’m not going anywhere.”

***

The house living room smells like stale pepperoni, cheap beer, and the distinct, aggressive musk of four college athletes who have been yelling at a television for the past two hours.

Dean is sprawled in the worn armchair, a long-necked bottle of Corona resting on his stomach. On the ratty couch, Garrett, Logan, and Tucker are packed shoulder-to-shoulder, their eyes completely glued to the sixty-inch screen mounted on the wall.

It is a Tuesday night, which means the Boston Bruins are playing the Toronto Maple Leafs, and in this house, an NHL game is basically a religious event.

On the screen, Ilya Rozanov, the Bruins’ star center and arguably the most terrifying, arrogant, and talented player in the league, intercepts a pass at center ice. With a burst of speed that defies the laws of physics for a man of his massive size, he blows past two Toronto defensemen, dekes the goalie out of his crease, and casually roofs the puck on his backhand.

The goal horn blares through the TV speakers, shaking the floorboards of the living room.

“Holy shit,” Garrett breathes, leaning forward so fast he almost knocks over his beer. “Did you see that edge work? The guy is an absolute machine.”

“It’s disgusting,” Logan agrees, shaking his head in awe. “He makes NHL defensemen look like Pee-Wee players. It’s physically embarrassing for them.”

“And there are still idiots out there who claim Shane Hollander is a better player,” Tucker snorts, reaching for a slice of cold pizza from the box on the coffee table. “Hollander is great, sure. He’s got the golden boy reputation. But Rozanov? Rozanov is a killer. He has zero conscience on the ice.”

“Hollander has better defensive metrics,” Garrett points out, ever the captain. “But yeah, offensively, Rozanov is in a league of his own. If I ever meet him, I think I’d actually ask him to sign my chest.”

Dean laughs, taking a slow sip of his beer. “You literally have a poster of him in your bedroom, Garrett. It’s creepy. You’re twenty-two years old.”

“It’s not a poster, it’s a framed print,” Garrett corrects defensively. “And it’s about respecting greatness, Di Laurentis. Try it sometime.”

Dean just grins, leaning his head back against the armchair. He feels relaxed. Better than relaxed, actually. He feels completely, terrifyingly anchored. It’s been three weeks since that first date with you, and his life has practically flipped upside down. He spends half his nights sneaking into your luxury apartment, and the other half trying to convince you to stay at his place. You are demanding, brilliant, ruthlessly critical of his defensive zone coverage, and the best thing that has ever happened to him.

He hasn’t looked at another girl since the night you called his backhand weak.

On the TV, the broadcast cuts away from the Bruins’ bench celebrating the goal.

“An unbelievable individual effort from Ilya Rozanov,” the play-by-play commentator announces over the roar of the TD Garden crowd. “His tenth goal of the season already, and we’re not even fully into November.”

“And you know who’s loving it up there?” the color commentator chimes in. “Let’s take a look up at the Bruins’ friends and family suite.”

The camera cuts from the ice to the luxury boxes high above the lower bowl. The shot zooms in on two young women sitting in the plush front-row seats, leaning over the glass barrier to look down at the ice.

Dean’s brain instantly short-circuits.

He stops breathing. The bottle of Corona slips dangerously in his grip.

It’s you.

You are right there on the sixty-inch screen, wearing a flawless black leather jacket over a form-fitting white top. Your hair is styled in perfect waves, and you are currently in the middle of an animated, laughing conversation with the woman sitting next to you.

“Whoa,” Logan says, leaning forward. “Who are they? The one on the left is gorgeous.”

“Shut up, John,” Dean croaks, his voice cracking horribly.

The broadcast graphics flash at the bottom of the screen, highlighting the two of you.

“That’s Svetlana Vetrova on the right,” the commentator explains cheerfully. “Daughter of the legendary Soviet goaltender Sergei Vetrov. She and Rozanov grew up together in Moscow.”

The camera pans slightly, focusing entirely on your face as you laugh at something Svetlana says.

“And with her is Ilya Rozanov’s younger sister,” the broadcaster continues, the words echoing through the dead silent living room like gunshots. “She just moved to Boston this fall to attend university locally. The Rozanov siblings are famously close. Ilya practically raised her, and rumor has it he is incredibly protective.”

The TV screen shows Ilya skating back to the bench. He looks up toward the suite, pointing a gloved finger directly at you. You smile, rolling your eyes affectionately, and give him a small, sarcastic golf clap.

In the house, the silence is so heavy it could shatter glass.

Garrett’s jaw is practically on the floor. He slowly, mechanically turns his head to look at Dean.

Logan and Tucker follow suit, their eyes wide with absolute, unadulterated horror.

Dean is frozen in the armchair. All the blood has rushed out of his face, leaving him pale and dizzy. His heart is hammering a frantic, terrified rhythm against his ribs.

He thinks about the way he pushed you against his bedroom door. He thinks about the sheer, insane volume of highly explicit texts he has sent to your phone in the last forty-eight hours. He thinks about the massive, bruised hickey he left just below your collarbone two days ago — a hickey that Ilya Rozanov could probably see with his naked eye from center ice.

“Dean,” Garrett whispers, his voice trembling slightly. “Is that …”

“Yes,” Dean says hollowly.

“That’s Moscow,” Tucker confirms, sounding like he’s at a funeral. “That’s your girl.”

“She didn’t tell me,” Dean gasps out, clutching the beer bottle like a lifeline. “She told me her brother paid for her apartment! She never said her brother was the most dangerous player in the National Hockey League!”

“You’re sleeping with Ilya Rozanov’s little sister,” Logan says, the reality of the situation finally crashing down on him. A slow, hysterical laugh bubbles up in his chest. “Dean. He is going to literally kill you. He is going to break your legs with his bare hands.”

“I have a poster of her brother in my room,” Garrett says, staring blankly at the wall. “I’ve been in the same room as you two while you were making out, and I have a poster of her brother on my wall.”

“What do I do?” Dean demands, panic finally settling in. He drops the beer onto the side table and runs both hands through his hair, gripping the blond strands tightly. “Do I text her? Do I ask why she didn’t tell me? Do I change my name and move to Mexico?”

“You can’t move,” Tucker says solemnly. “Rozanov has Russian mob connections. He will find you.”

“He does not have mob connections!” Dean yells, though his voice pitches up nervously. “Does he?”

“Dude, he led the league in penalty minutes for three consecutive seasons,” Logan points out, highly unhelpful. “He shattered a guy’s jaw last year just for looking at his goalie wrong. If he finds out you — Briar’s biggest, sluttiest defenseman — are hooking up with his baby sister? You’re dead. They’ll never find your body.”

Dean stares at the television screen. The broadcast has moved on, showing a replay of the goal, but Dean can’t see the puck. All he sees is his own impending doom.

He is so incredibly fucked.

***

Two hours later, you are sitting in a private booth at one of the most exclusive steakhouses in Boston.

The post-game adrenaline is still buzzing in the air. Ilya is sitting across from you, casually dressed in a dark designer sweater that stretches tight across his massive shoulders. He has a faint, purpling bruise on his jaw from a high stick in the second period, but his mood is absolutely electric.

“I told you,” Ilya says, cutting into a massive, rare ribeye steak. “Toronto defense is weak this year. They leave the middle of the ice wide open. It is insulting.”

“You showboated on the breakaway,” you point out, sipping your sparkling water. “You did not need to go to the backhand. The five-hole was open.”

“I am an entertainer, Y/N,” Ilya replies smoothly, chewing his steak. “The fans pay a lot of money to see me play. I must give them a show.”

You roll your eyes, picking at your truffle fries. You love him, but his ego takes up ninety percent of any room he walks into. Still, the dinner is nice. Sibling bonding time is rare during the NHL season, and you cherish the moments when it’s just the two of you, speaking Russian and acting entirely normal.

“Sveta looked well,” you say, changing the subject. “I hear she is thinking of taking a job with the Bruins.”

“She is good,” Ilya nods. “She asks about you. She says you are distracted lately.”

You pause, a fry halfway to your mouth. You lower it back to the plate, keeping your expression completely neutral. “I am not distracted. I am adjusting to a new country and a new curriculum. Economics is demanding.”

Ilya stops chewing. He swallows, rests his forearms on the heavy mahogany table, and pins you with a dark, intensely knowing look.

“Do not lie to me, little bird,” Ilya says softly, his heavy accent wrapping around the Russian words. “You have been living here for months. You were not distracted in September. But the last three weeks? You are checking your phone during the game. You are smiling at your screen.”

“I look at memes,” you lie smoothly.

“You do not understand American memes,” Ilya shoots back without missing a beat. “So, let us skip the part where you insult my intelligence. Who is putting that smirk on your face?”

You let out a slow sigh, leaning back against the leather booth. You knew this conversation was coming. Ilya is overprotective on a good day, and completely tyrannical when it comes to the men in your life. You intentionally haven’t told him about Dean because you wanted to enjoy the early stages without your brother accidentally ending Dean’s hockey career.

“It is nothing serious,” you say carefully, sticking to Russian so the waiter passing by won’t understand. “Just a boy from the university.”

Ilya’s eyes narrow instantly. “A boy. Does this boy play a sport?”

“That is irrelevant.”

“It is highly relevant. If he is a hockey player, I need to know immediately so I can arrange an accident on the ice.”

“Ilya.” You give him a sharp, warning look. “I am nineteen years old. I am allowed to have fun. You told me to have fun.”

“I told you to have fun with respectable men,” Ilya argues, jabbing his steak knife in your direction. “Not college athletes. They are animals. They do not know how to treat a woman.”

“He treats me very well, actually,” you fire back, defending Dean instinctively. The memory of Dean’s complete devotion — both in and out of the bedroom — flashes through your mind. “He takes me to nice places. He is polite.”

“Polite,” Ilya snorts, taking a large gulp of his red wine. “Sure. And what does this polite boy think is happening between you two? Does he know it is casual? Because men like that, they get attached. They get possessive.”

“He knows,” you say smoothly, though a tiny flicker of doubt sparks in your chest. Does Dean know it’s casual? He certainly hasn’t been acting casual lately. He acts like he owns you, and worse, you find yourself letting him.

“He knows,” Ilya repeats sarcastically. He shakes his head, cutting another piece of steak. “I worry about you, Y/N. You play these games, but eventually, someone gets hurt. You cannot just keep things casual forever. Eventually, you have to commit or walk away.”

You stare at your brother. The sheer hypocrisy of his statement actually leaves you speechless for a moment.

You slowly pick up your glass of wine, swirling the dark red liquid. You look at Ilya over the rim of the glass, a slow, lethal smirk curling the corners of your mouth.

“You are giving me advice on commitment?” You ask, your tone dangerously soft.

Ilya pauses, a flicker of unease crossing his features. “I am your older brother. It is my job to give you advice.”

“Interesting,” you note, leaning forward and resting your elbows on the table. “Because as far as I can tell, you have been in a situationship for the last six years, and you still refuse to put a label on it.”

Ilya’s jaw drops slightly. The smug, overprotective older brother act completely shatters. A dark, furious blush creeps up his neck, disappearing into his hairline.

“I do not know what you are talking about,” Ilya says rigidly.

“Oh, please.” You take a sip of your wine, enjoying the sudden shift in power. “How is Jane?”

Ilya actually chokes on his wine. He coughs, grabbing his napkin and pressing it to his mouth, his eyes watering.

You watch him without an ounce of pity. You have known about “Jane” for years. You know exactly who “Jane” is. You know that Jane is not a woman, and you know that Jane happens to be a certain golden boy captain of the Canadian national team who plays in Montreal. You know that Ilya and Shane Hollander have been hooking up in secret hotel rooms across North America for years, wrapped up in a bitter rivalry that is a very thin cover for a desperate, consuming obsession.

Ilya refuses to admit it out loud, but he knows that you know.

“Jane is fine,” Ilya grits out finally, glaring at you across the table.

“Good. Tell her I say hello,” you say pleasantly. “And tell her that if she ever breaks your heart, I will break her legs. That is the system, yes?”

Ilya stares at you. For a long, tense moment, the air between you crackles with unspoken threats and sibling stubbornness.

And then, slowly, the tension breaks.

Ilya lets out a low, rumbling laugh, shaking his head. He wipes his mouth with the napkin, looking at you with a mixture of immense pride and total defeat. You really are his exact replica.

“You are a menace, Y/N,” Ilya says softly.

“I learned from the best,” you reply smoothly.

Ilya sighs, raising his glass of wine toward you in a gesture of surrender. “Fine. You win. I will stop asking about the boy from university. For now. But if he hurts you, Y/N, I am serious. I will end him.”

“He will not hurt me,” you say confidently, clinking your glass against his. “I would never give him the power to do so.”

“Za zdarovye,” Ilya murmurs.

“Za zdarovye.”

You take a sip of the expensive wine, feeling a rush of affection for your brother. You handled him perfectly. He is backed off, your secret is safe, and your casual arrangement with Dean remains uninterrupted.

But as you set your glass down, your phone buzzes in your purse.

You pull it out, glancing at the screen under the table so Ilya can’t see.

It’s a text from Dean.

Actually, it’s six texts from Dean, sent in rapid succession.

Dean: Tell me right now you’re not actually Ilya Rozanov’s sister.

Dean: Holy shit.

Dean: They showed you on the broadcast.

Dean: Garrett is hyperventilating into a paper bag.

Dean: Why didn’t you tell me?

Dean: Are you with him right now? Don’t let him look at your neck.

You stare at the screen. Your carefully constructed, compartmentalized life is suddenly colliding in real-time.

You look up across the table. Ilya is casually cutting into his steak, completely oblivious to the absolute meltdown happening on your phone. He is relaxed, happy, and entirely unaware that his beloved little sister is sleeping with a hockey player.

You look back down at the screen, your thumb hovering over the keyboard.

A tiny, wicked thrill races down your spine. The game just got a lot more interesting.

You: I am having dinner with him now.

You: Do not panic, Di Laurentis. He does not know about you. Yet.

You hit send, slide the phone back into your purse, and pick up your fork, completely unbothered.

Across town, Dean receives the text.

He stares at his phone screen for a full minute, the words burning into his retinas. The terrifying confidence of your reply does nothing to soothe his racing heart.

“Well?” Logan asks nervously from the couch. “What did she say?”

Dean slowly lowers his phone, looking at his three best friends. His expression is completely haunted.

“She told me not to panic,” Dean whispers.

“Oh, you’re dead,” Tucker nods sagely. “That’s exactly what people say right before they execute you.”

“Can I have your signed Marchand stick when you die?” Garrett asks, entirely serious.

Dean ignores them. He falls back against the armchair, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He is terrified. He is absolutely, completely terrified of Ilya Rozanov finding out that Dean has had his hands all over his little sister.

But beneath the terror, beneath the very real threat of physical violence, there is another feeling. A feeling that Dean can’t ignore, no matter how hard he tries.

He thinks about you sitting across from the most intimidating man in the NHL, calmly texting him, completely in control of the situation. He thinks about the way you challenge him, the way you speak Russian against his skin in the dark, the way you make him want to be better, faster, stronger just to earn a shred of your approval.

Dean drops his hands, staring blankly at the ceiling of the hockey house.

He is terrified. But he isn’t going to run.

“I’m keeping her,” Dean says suddenly, his voice quiet but incredibly firm.

The three guys on the couch stop talking. They stare at Dean like he has just lost his mind.

“Dean,” Garrett says slowly. “Did you hear what we just said? Her brother will end your career. He will end your life.”

“I don’t care,” Dean says, sitting forward. The panic is fading, replaced by that fierce, undeniable stubbornness that makes him the best defenseman in the conference. He grabs his beer, taking a long pull. “Let him try. I’m not letting her go.”

Logan sighs, rubbing his temples. “We’re going to need to buy so many deadbolts.”

Read part two here

[pucksandpower]

controlled burn (part two)

Dean Di Laurentis x Rozanov!Reader

Summary: you don’t tell him your last name. By the time Dean finds out, he’s too far gone to do anything but brace for impact. Falling for the ice-cold, vodka-drinking Russian freshman is one thing. Falling for Ilya Rozanov’s little sister is a death wish. Dean decides he doesn’t care

Warning: 18+ content

Read part one here

The last agonizing tremor of your climax finally fades, leaving your body entirely boneless against the tangled sheets of Dean’s bed.

You are staring blindly at the ceiling, your chest heaving as you drag oxygen back into your lungs. Your mind feels completely blank, blissfully scrubbed clean of everything except the heavy, throbbing ache between your thighs and the lingering heat of Dean’s mouth.

Dean shifts his weight at the foot of the bed. He pulls away from your wet center with a soft, indecent sound, resting his cheek against your inner thigh for a long second to catch his own breath. His blond hair is a messy, sweat-dampened halo, and his broad shoulders rise and fall rapidly.

Slowly, he pushes himself up, crawling up the length of the mattress until he is hovering over you.

He looks completely wrecked in the best possible way. His lips are slick and slightly swollen, his green eyes dark and blown wide. He drops down onto the mattress beside you, flopping heavily onto his back and letting out a long, exhausted groan.

He doesn’t give you any space. He immediately rolls onto his side, throwing one heavy arm across your stomach and pulling you flush against his warm, sweat-slicked chest. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, tasting you on his own lips.

“Jesus,” Dean murmurs into the quiet room. “You taste so fucking good, Y/N.”

“You are …” you start, but your voice comes out as a weak, raspy croak. You clear your throat, trying to summon a shred of your usual dignity. “You are very enthusiastic.”

Dean chuckles, the sound vibrating against your ribcage. “Enthusiastic. That’s one word for it. I was going for ’life-changing,’ but I’ll take it.”

You let your eyes slip shut, resting your head against the pillow and enjoying the heavy, comforting weight of his body against yours. The room is quiet, the only sounds the faint hum of the heating vent and the synchronized rhythm of your breathing. It is peaceful. It is perfect.

Which is exactly why your instincts tell you to ruin it.

Ilya’s voice echoes in the back of your mind. Men like that, they get attached. They get possessive. You shift slightly, trying to put an inch of space between you so you can clear your head, but Dean’s arm immediately tightens like a vise around your waist, locking you in place.

“Don’t move,” Dean says quietly. The playful, post-coital banter is suddenly gone from his voice. It is replaced by a low, serious tone that makes your heart give a hard, erratic thump.

“I am sweating,” you complain, though you make no further effort to move. “Your body heat is excessive.”

“Tough. You’re staying right here.” Dean props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you. The dim light from the bedside lamp casts sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the firm, resolute set of his jaw. “We need to talk.”

Your stomach drops. You hate talking. Talking leads to feelings, and feelings lead to a loss of control.

“If this is about your performance on the ice yesterday,” you deflect smoothly, keeping your expression perfectly blank, “I already told you that your gap control was acceptable. Not great, but acceptable.”

“It’s not about hockey, Y/N,” Dean says, refusing to take the bait. He reaches up, brushing a damp strand of hair off your forehead. His touch is incredibly gentle, completely at odds with the intense, unwavering look in his eyes. “It’s about us.”

“There is no us, Di Laurentis,” you remind him, clinging to the rules you established on day one. “This is an arrangement. It is mutually beneficial. It is casual.”

“Right. Casual,” Dean repeats. He lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “I have a toothbrush in your bathroom. I know your coffee order by heart. You know my stats better than my head coach does. And I just spent the last twenty minutes making you scream my name in two different languages.”

He leans down, his face inches from yours. “Tell me again how casual this is.”

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. “Those are just details.”

“Bullshit,” Dean fires back. He isn’t angry, but he is completely uncompromising. “It’s not casual for me. Not anymore. I’m not doing this halfway, Y/N. I want you.”

“You have me,” you point out, gesturing vaguely to your naked body trapped beneath his.

“You know what I mean,” Dean says, his voice dropping an octave, turning raw and gravelly. “I want all of you. I don’t want you going on dates with other guys. I don’t want you looking at anyone else. Hell, I barely want you looking at my teammates.”

“You are being ridiculous.” You push against his chest, finally managing to sit up slightly, though Dean simply shifts his weight to keep you pinned to the mattress. You pull the sheet up to cover your breasts, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed. “I do not go on dates with other men. I do not have the time or the patience.”

“But you could,” Dean presses, his green eyes locking onto yours. “You could walk out of here tomorrow and hook up with some finance bro from Harvard, and I wouldn’t have the right to say a damn thing about it.”

“And you could hook up with a sorority girl,” you counter, lifting your chin. “That is the point of being casual. We are both free to do as we please.”

“I haven’t even looked at another girl since the night you insulted my backhand,” Dean admits bluntly. The raw honesty in his voice actually makes you flinch. He doesn’t hide behind a smirk. He just lays his cards on the table, completely vulnerable. “I don’t want anyone else. I just want you. I want to be your boyfriend.”

The word hangs in the air between you, heavy and terrifying.

You stare at him, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You came to America to escape the suffocating control of the men in your family. You promised yourself you wouldn’t get tied down. You promised yourself you would always hold all the cards.

“Dean,” you say, your voice tight, your Russian accent slipping out heavily. “You do not want this. I am difficult. I am demanding. My brother is a literal psychopath who will probably put you in the hospital when he finds out.”

“I don’t give a fuck about Ilya,” Dean says instantly. “Let him try. I’ll take a beating if it means I get to keep you.”

“It is not just him,” you argue, shaking your head. Your chest aches. You hate how much you want to say yes. “We are entirely different. You are … you are Dean Di Laurentis. You are the party guy. You do not do commitment.”

“I do now,” Dean says simply.

“People do not change that fast.”

“Watch me.”

“I cannot do this,” you say, a genuine edge of panic creeping into your voice. You try to scramble backward against the headboard, desperate to put physical distance between you so you can think straight.

But Dean is faster.

He shifts forward, following you up the bed. Before you can retreat, his hands come up, gripping your wrists firmly but gently, pulling them away from the sheet you are clutching like a shield. He pins your hands flat against the mattress on either side of your head.

“Don’t run away from me,” Dean murmurs, his face hovering just above yours.

“I am not running,” you lie, your breathing turning shallow. “I am simply concluding this conversation.”

“The conversation isn’t over.”

Dean leans down, and instead of kissing your lips, he presses his open mouth against the pulse point just below your jaw.

You let out a sharp, involuntary gasp.

“Dean,” you warn him, though your voice lacks any real authority.

He ignores you. He traces the line of your jaw with his tongue, his breath hot against your skin. “You talk too much when you’re scared, Y/N.”

“I am not scared.”

“Yes, you are,” he whispers against your skin. He trails a line of soft, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, lingering on the sensitive spot right at the base of your throat. “You’re terrified. You like being in control, and right now, you realize you don’t have it. Because you want me just as much as I want you.”

“Arrogant,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut as his teeth lightly scrape against your collarbone. A violent shudder rips through your body.

“Honest,” he corrects.

He shifts his weight, sliding his knee securely between your thighs, forcing your legs apart. You are completely pinned beneath him, completely at his mercy, and the terrifying truth is that you don’t want to be anywhere else.

Dean releases one of your wrists, using his newly freed hand to slowly, deliberately trace a path down your stomach. His rough calluses drag against your soft skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He dips his fingers just below your navel, pressing lightly against your lower abdomen.

You arch your back instinctively, a soft moan escaping your lips. You are still so incredibly sensitive from your earlier climax, and his proximity is short-circuiting your brain.

“Tell me this is casual,” Dean challenges, his voice dark and raspy. He moves his mouth to the swell of your breast, his tongue swirling around the tight peak.

“Dean,” you gasp, your fingers curling into the sheets. “Stop playing fair.”

“I’m playing to win,” he mumbles against your skin, lightly sucking the sensitive flesh into his mouth.

You cry out, your hips bucking up against his thigh. Your defenses are crumbling. They are completely, utterly disintegrating under the sheer, focused intensity of his attention. He knows your body perfectly. He knows exactly how to dismantle you.

He slides his hand lower, his long fingers finding your wet, aching center. He doesn’t enter you. He just traces the slick folds, pressing firmly against your clit with his thumb.

“Look at me,” Dean commands softly.

You force your eyes open. The cocky, easygoing college boy is gone. The man hovering over you is lethal, focused, and entirely devoted to you. His green eyes are burning into yours, completely stripping away every wall you have ever built.

“Be mine,” Dean whispers, his thumb slowly, agonizingly circling your most sensitive spot. “Just mine, Y/N. Say yes.”

“If I say yes,” you grit out, your accent thick, your body trembling under his touch, “you are going to regret it. I will ruin your life.”

Dean smiles. It is a devastating, triumphant smile.

“Ruin it, then,” he says. “But you’re doing it as my girlfriend.”

He presses his thumb down harder, and you shatter.

“Fine!” You gasp out, the word tearing from your throat as pleasure spikes sharply in your core. “Fine, yes. I am yours. We are exclusive.”

Dean stops moving his hand. He freezes, staring down at you, his chest heaving. The triumph in his eyes is so bright it’s almost blinding.

“Say it again,” he breathes.

“Do not push your luck, Di Laurentis,” you groan, turning your head against the pillow to hide the flush creeping up your cheeks.

Dean laughs, a sound of pure joy. He releases your other wrist, using both hands to cup your face, forcing you to look at him. He kisses you — hard, deep, and impossibly sweet. It isn’t a demanding kiss. It is a promise. It tastes like victory and relief.

“My girl,” Dean murmurs against your lips. “God, I love the sound of that.”

“Do not get used to it,” you warn him weakly, though you kiss him back, your hands tangling in his thick blond hair. “If you do anything to annoy me, I am breaking up with you.”

“You can try,” Dean grins, pulling back slightly to look down at you. His eyes darken, the playful energy suddenly shifting back into something entirely carnal. He looks at your flushed skin, your bruised lips, your dark hair spread wildly across his pillows.

“And now,” Dean says, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly purr that makes your stomach clench. “For being such a good girl and finally admitting the truth, I think you deserve a reward.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying to summon your haughty persona, but it’s completely ruined by the way your chest is heaving. “A reward? You think you are training a dog?”

“I think,” Dean says, sliding his hand down your stomach to grip your hip firmly, “I’m going to fuck you so hard you forget how to speak entirely.”

Your breath hitches.

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing a foil packet. He rips it open with his teeth, his eyes never leaving yours, and rolls it on with quick, practiced efficiency.

When he settles back over you, the air in the room feels thick enough to cut with a knife. He hooks his hands under your knees, dragging your legs up high and hooking them over his broad shoulders. The position completely opens you up to him, leaving you entirely exposed and deeply vulnerable.

“Dean,” you whisper, your eyes widening slightly at the intense, predatory look on his face.

“I’ve got you,” he promises softly.

He aligns his hips with yours, the thick, blunt head of his length resting against your slick opening. He doesn’t thrust right away. He just lets you feel the size of him, the heavy, pulsing heat waiting at your entrance.

“Tell me who you belong to,” Dean demands, his voice a low, rough rumble.

“I belong to myself,” you fire back stubbornly, even as your hips instinctively tilt up, silently begging him to enter you.

Dean chuckles darkly. He pushes forward just an inch, stretching your tight entrance, and then pulls back.

You let out a frustrated whine, your hands gripping the sheets. “Dean. Please.”

“Say it,” he insists, repeating the agonizingly slow, teasing motion. “Who are you exclusive with, Y/N?”

“You,” you gasp, your resistance completely snapping. “You. Just you.”

“That’s right.”

Dean grips your hips tight enough to leave bruises and drives forward in one long, brutal thrust, burying himself inside you to the hilt.

You scream, your head throwing back against the mattress. The feeling of him filling you completely, stretching you so deeply, is overwhelming. It is painful and pleasurable and incredibly intense. You are so wet from his mouth earlier that he glides in smoothly, but the sheer size of him makes you completely breathless.

Dean groans, his jaw clenching as he forces himself to hold still for a second, letting your body adjust. His chest is heaving, a sheen of sweat coating his skin.

“Fuck,” he grates out, his eyes squeezed shut. “You are so perfect. So tight.”

“Do not stop,” you beg, your accent thick and heavy. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his chest down flush against yours. You need the friction. You need him.

Dean opens his eyes, looking down at you with a gaze that is pure, unfiltered fire. “I’m not stopping until the sun comes up.”

He starts to move.

The first few thrusts are slow and incredibly deep. He pulls almost all the way out, letting the sensitive head drag against your entrance, before slamming his hips forward and burying himself inside you again. The skin-on-skin slap of his body meeting yours echoes loudly in the quiet room.

You sob out a breath, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Dean … oh my god.”

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice tight with his own strain.

You open your eyes, meeting his intense green gaze. He wants you to see this. He wants you to see exactly what he is doing to you, exactly who is making you feel like this.

He speeds up, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, and more punishing. The angle is devastating. With your legs hooked over his shoulders, every single stroke hits deep, striking that bundle of nerves that sends blinding sparks behind your eyelids.

The room spins. The only things anchoring you to reality are the heavy weight of Dean’s body, the burning heat inside you, and the relentless, driving rhythm of his hips.

“Are you mine?” Dean asks, his voice harsh as he pounds into you.

“Yes,” you gasp, entirely broken down.

“Just mine?” He thrusts harder, the head of the bed frame banging rhythmically against the wall.

“Yes!” You cry out.

“Good.” Dean shifts his grip, sliding one hand under your lower back to angle your hips even higher. The penetration becomes impossibly deeper. “Because I am completely fucking obsessed with you.”

The dirty, possessive words act like a match to a powder keg.

Your entire body goes rigid. The pleasure spikes so sharply it steals your vision. You feel the climax building in the pit of your stomach, tightening like a coiled spring, hot and frantic.

“Dean,” you sob, the syllables fracturing. You try to push back against him, chasing the friction, completely desperate.

“I know,” he rasps, reading your body perfectly. He leans down, capturing your lips in a messy, bruising kiss, swallowing your moans as he increases his pace to a frantic, relentless sprint.

He is relentless. He doesn’t give you a single second to catch your breath. He just keeps driving into you, deep and hard, pushing you higher and higher until you are completely teetering on the edge.

“Pozhaluysta,” you beg wildly against his mouth.

“Come for me, Y/N,” Dean growls, tearing his mouth away to look at your face. “Let it go.”

You shatter.

Your climax rips through you with violent force, a massive, overwhelming wave of pure ecstasy. You scream his name into the quiet room, your inner walls clamping down hard and fast around his thick length.

Dean shouts, a raw, guttural sound of triumph. He drives his hips forward two more times, impossibly deep, and completely falls apart with you. He empties himself inside the condom with heavy, shuddering groans, his entire body trembling as he collapses against you.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his weight crushing you into the mattress. His chest heaves against yours, his heart hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm directly over your own.

For a very long time, neither of you moves. The only sound in the room is the ragged, desperate panting of two people completely wrecked by each other.

Slowly, the adrenaline begins to fade, replaced by a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion.

Dean stirs first. He pulls out of you with a soft sound, disposing of the condom before crawling right back into bed beside you. He doesn’t give you a chance to retreat to your side of the mattress. He wraps his arms around you, pulling your back flush against his chest, and tangles his legs with yours.

He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your neck.

“Mine,” Dean whispers into the dark room, his voice completely satisfied.

You let out a soft sigh, too tired to argue, too happy to care. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of his body envelop you. You know you are going to have to deal with Ilya eventually. You know your perfectly controlled life is completely off the rails.

But as Dean’s hand rests heavily over your heart, keeping you grounded, you smile into the darkness.

Let the game begin.

***

The arena is absolutely deafening on a Friday night in early December.

You are sitting in your usual spot in the lower bowl, your heavy winter coat unzipped, the collar of your dark sweater pulled up against the chill of the rink. The air smells exactly the same as it always does — cold ice, stale popcorn, and the sharp, metallic tang of sweat and adrenaline.

Down on the ice, game is tied 2-2 in the middle of the second period against a viciously aggressive opponent. The play is fast, sloppy, and heavily physical.

“I still don’t understand icing,” Morgan says loudly, leaning close to your ear to be heard over the roar of the student section behind you. She is clutching a massive pretzel and shivering, despite wearing three layers. “Like, why can’t they just hit it to the other side?”

“Because it slows down the pace of the game and rewards lazy defensive zone breakouts,” you explain automatically, your eyes tracking the puck as it cycles behind the Briar net. “It forces the team to skate the puck over the red line before dumping it.”

“Right. Obviously.” Morgan takes a bite of her pretzel. “Are you going to Dean’s house after this?”

You don’t look away from the ice. “Maybe.”

“That means yes,” Morgan singsongs. “You guys are, like, practically married now. It’s actually kind of gross how obsessed he is with you.”

You finally tear your gaze away from the game, shooting your roommate a flat, unimpressed look. “We are not married. We have been exclusive for exactly one month. And he is not obsessed.”

“He literally brought you a coffee in the middle of a blizzard on Wednesday just because you texted him that the dining hall espresso machine was broken,” Morgan points out dryly. “He treats you like a queen.”

“I am a queen,” you say smoothly, turning back to the game. “He is simply acting accordingly.”

Before Morgan can argue, a sudden, massive shadow falls over your row.

The overhead arena lights are blocked out. The people sitting in the row behind you suddenly go dead silent. You feel a distinct, heavy shift in the air, followed by the undeniable scent of expensive Tom Ford cologne and a hint of winter frost.

“Move over,” a deep, booming voice commands in heavily accented English.

Morgan jumps, her eyes going completely wide. She scrambles to the left, practically throwing herself into the empty seat beside her to clear the space.

You turn your head slowly.

Dropping down into the newly vacated plastic seat next to you, completely unannounced and looking like a mob boss, is your older brother.

Ilya stretches his long, powerful legs out, resting his forearms on his knees as he peers down at the ice. He is wearing a dark, tailored wool peacoat over a black turtleneck, a dark beanie pulled low over his forehead. He looks entirely out of place in the sea of drunk college students wearing cheap synthetic jerseys, and yet, he looks like he owns the entire building.

“Ilya?” You ask, your voice dropping perfectly into Russian. “What are you doing here?”

“The Bruins have a home stand,” Ilya replies in Russian, not taking his eyes off the ice. “We played last night. We play again on Sunday. I was bored. And you were not answering your texts.”

“I am watching a hockey game.”

“You are watching boys chase a piece of rubber like blind dogs,” Ilya corrects, gesturing vaguely toward the ice as the opposing team fumbles a pass. “Look at this. The neutral zone is completely wide open. It is a tragedy.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “You cannot just show up to my university unannounced, Ilya. You are going to cause a riot.”

It’s true. Whispers are already breaking out in the surrounding rows. People are pointing. The Briar student section is heavily populated by hockey fans, and the Boston Bruins’ star center sitting casually in Section 104 is not going unnoticed.

“Let them riot,” Ilya says dismissively, switching back to English for Morgan’s benefit, shooting her a devastating, perfectly charming smile that makes her blush furiously. “Hello, Morgan. Are you learning about hockey?”

“H-hi, Ilya,” Morgan stammers, completely starstruck. “Yes. I mean, Y/N is trying to teach me.”

“Good luck,” Ilya snorts. He leans forward, resting his chin on his fist. His eyes narrow as he begins to analyze the play with ruthless, surgical precision. “Look at this power play. It is pathetic. The umbrella formation is too flat. The center is not moving his feet.”

You cross your arms, sinking slightly lower in your seat. “They are college students, Ilya. Not professionals.”

“They are pretending to be hockey players,” Ilya grumbles. “Ah, look. Number … sixty-six.”

Your breath hitches slightly.

Down on the ice, Dean receives a pass at the point. He looks incredibly sharp tonight, his skating fluid and effortless. He drags the puck along the blue line, walking it away from a diving defender, and snaps a crisp, perfect pass right into the slot for a waiting forward.

“Number sixty-six,” Ilya repeats, his eyes tracking Dean’s movement. “He is fast. I will give him that. Good edge work. But he is arrogant.”

“You are calling someone arrogant?” You ask dryly. “That is rich.”

“I am arrogant because I am the best,” Ilya states, entirely serious. “This boy, he plays with a chip on his shoulder. Look at his gap control. It is … acceptable.”

Coming from Ilya, the word ‘acceptable’ is essentially a glowing endorsement. It takes everything in your power not to smile.

“He is the leading scoring defenseman in the conference,” you point out casually, playing devil’s advocate.

“Because he plays against children,” Ilya counters immediately. “But he has good hands. And he hits hard.”

As if on cue, an opposing forward tries to enter the Briar zone with his head down. Dean steps up, dropping his shoulder, and delivers a clean, crushing open-ice hit that sends the forward flying into the boards.

The crowd erupts into cheers. You offer a small, proud clap.

Ilya nods slowly, a grudging look of respect crossing his face. “Okay. That was not terrible. He has decent timing.”

You turn your head to hide your smirk. Ilya is literally analyzing your boyfriend, completely unaware that the “acceptable” defenseman currently dominating the ice is the exact same boy who has been leaving bruises on your hips for the last month.

For the rest of the game, Ilya provides a running, highly critical commentary. He complains about the coaching. He complains about the referees. He loudly predicts every single play before it happens, much to the awe of the frat boys sitting three rows back who are currently taking notes.

When the final buzzer sounds, securing a 4-2 victory for Briar, the arena explodes with noise.

“Finally,” Ilya sighs, standing up and stretching his massive frame. “I was beginning to lose brain cells.”

“You only have three left to lose,” you tease, grabbing your purse. You look up at him. “So, are you taking me to dinner? Or did you just come here to complain?”

“I am taking you to dinner,” Ilya confirms, wrapping a heavy arm around your shoulders and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “But first, I want to see the locker room. I want to see where these boys pretend to be athletes.”

Your stomach drops. “You want to go to the locker room?”

“Why not?” Ilya smirks, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “I am Ilya Rozanov. I go where I want.”

You look at Morgan, who gives you a wide-eyed, terrified look. You promised to wait for Dean outside the locker room after the game. It’s part of your routine. Dean comes out, fresh from the shower, pulls you into a dark corner, kisses you senseless, and then drags you to his car.

Now, you are going to be waiting outside the locker room with the most overprotective, terrifying player in the NHL.

The game is officially up.

“Fine,” you say, your voice perfectly calm despite the frantic hammering of your heart. “Let us go.”

***

The hallway outside the locker room is usually heavily guarded, restricted to team personnel and family. But when a six-foot-four Russian tank with a multi-million dollar NHL contract walks down the corridor, the security guards practically stumble over themselves to hold the doors open.

You stand with your back against the cinderblock wall, arms crossed, trying to look completely unbothered. Ilya stands next to you, taking up half the hallway, looking around with a deeply unimpressed expression.

“It smells like wet dog,” Ilya observes loudly.

“It is a hockey locker room, Ilya,” you remind him.

The heavy double doors swing open.

The first person to walk out is Garrett. The Briar captain is dressed in a sharp suit, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, chatting over his shoulder to Logan.

Garrett steps out into the hallway, turns his head, and freezes.

He stops so abruptly that Logan literally crashes into his back.

“What the hell, G?” Logan complains, rubbing his shoulder. “Keep walking-”

Logan looks up. He sees you. Then, his eyes track to the right, and he sees the massive, brooding figure standing next to you.

Logan’s mouth drops open.

Garrett looks like he is going to faint. He is staring at Ilya with the wide, terrified, awestruck expression of a man who has just met God.

“Holy shit,” Garrett whispers.

Ilya raises an eyebrow. He looks Garrett up and down, his gaze heavily calculating. “You are the captain. Graham. Yes?”

“Y-yes,” Garrett stammers. His voice actually cracks. The captain of the Briar hockey team, the guy who fights defensemen twice his size on the ice without blinking, is currently sweating through his suit jacket. “Yes, sir. Garrett Graham.”

“I have seen your tapes,” Ilya says casually, though his tone is terrifyingly flat. “Your face-off percentage is acceptable. But you rely too much on your wingers to dig the puck out of the corners. You need to use your body more.”

“I will,” Garrett says immediately, nodding so fast he looks like a bobblehead. “I’ll do that. Thank you, Mr. Rozanov. Sir.”

“Do not call me sir,” Ilya grunts. “You make me sound old.”

Tucker walks out next, stops dead in his tracks, and slowly backs away until he is pressed against the opposite wall, trying to make himself entirely invisible.

And then, the doors swing open one last time.

Dean steps out into the hallway.

His blonde hair is damp from the shower, pushed back in a messy, effortless style. He is wearing a tailored grey suit jacket with the collar open, no tie, looking entirely too cocky for his own good. He is laughing at something one of the assistant coaches said inside.

He turns the corner, his green eyes scanning the hallway. They find you instantly.

A massive, devastatingly handsome smile breaks across his face. He takes a step toward you, his entire body language softening, lighting up with that intense, focused devotion he saves entirely for you.

“Hey, beautiful,” Dean says, closing the distance. “Sorry I took so long, I had to-”

Dean stops.

He is exactly three feet away from you. He finally realizes that the massive, dark-coated wall of muscle standing right next to you is not a security guard.

Dean’s eyes slowly travel up from the expensive black combat boots, over the tailored peacoat, and finally lock onto the dark, lethal face of Ilya Rozanov.

The silence in the hallway is absolute.

Garrett is holding his breath. Logan is slowly inching toward the exit, ready to call an ambulance. Tucker has closed his eyes, preparing for the gore.

You stand perfectly still. You look at Dean, and then you look at your brother.

“Ilya,” you say, your voice ringing clearly in the dead-silent corridor. “This is Dean Di Laurentis. Dean, this is my brother, Ilya.”

Ilya slowly turns his head to look at Dean. The casual, slightly bored older-brother aura completely vanishes. His posture straightens, his shoulders expanding, taking up every inch of available space. He looks down at Dean with eyes so dark and cold they could freeze the Charles River.

“Ah,” Ilya says softly. The Russian accent is suddenly much, much thicker. “Number sixty-six.”

Dean swallows. You can literally see the Adam’s apple bob in his throat. But to his absolute credit, he doesn’t take a step back.

He squares his own shoulders. He pulls himself up to his full height, refusing to cower. He meets Ilya’s terrifying gaze head-on, the cocky, playful college boy completely melting away, replaced by the stubborn, unyielding defenseman who refuses to give up his blue line.

“It’s an honor to meet you,” Dean says, his voice steady, offering his hand.

Ilya looks at Dean’s outstretched hand for a long, agonizing five seconds. He does not take it.

Dean slowly lowers his hand, entirely unbothered, tucking it into the pocket of his slacks. He holds Ilya’s stare.

“You are dating my sister,” Ilya states. It is not a question. It is an accusation, heavy with the promise of violence.

“Yes,” Dean says simply. “I am.”

“She is nineteen years old,” Ilya says, taking a single, slow step closer to Dean. He is invading his space, using his size to intimidate. “She is brilliant. She is perfect. And she is the only family I have that matters.”

“I know,” Dean replies, his jaw tightening slightly. “She talks about you all the time.”

“Then she has told you what I do to people who cross me,” Ilya murmurs, his voice dropping so low it’s almost a growl. “She has told you that I do not play games, Di Laurentis. I end them.”

“She mentioned it,” Dean agrees, his green eyes flashing with a sudden, dark challenge.

“Let me make this very clear,” Ilya says, leaning down slightly so he is perfectly eye-level with Dean. “If you make her cry, you will not have to worry about a career in the NHL. Because they will not find enough of you to bury in a matchbox. Do you understand me?”

Garrett actually whimpers.

You cross your arms tighter, watching Dean closely. Most men would apologize. Most men would stammer, back away, and promise to be perfect.

Dean just stares right back into the eyes of the most dangerous man in hockey.

“If I make her cry,” Dean says, his voice low, steady, and vibrating with absolute certainty, “you can have a free shot. You can break both my legs. But it won’t happen.”

Ilya’s eyes narrow to slits.

“Because I’m not going to hurt her,” Dean continues, leaning in a fraction of an inch himself, refusing to back down. “I’m keeping her.”

The tension is so thick you could carve it with a steak knife. The two men stare at each other, neither blinking, neither giving an inch. It is an absolute standoff of alpha male ego and fierce, unyielding protectiveness.

And then, suddenly, the ice breaks.

Ilya lets out a sharp, barking laugh.

He lifts his massive hand and claps Dean on the shoulder. The force of the hit is so hard it actually makes Dean stumble half a step, but Ilya grips his shoulder tightly, hauling him back up.

“I like this one!” Ilya booms, turning to look at you, his eyes sparkling with genuine amusement. “He has spine! He is stupid, but he has spine!”

The collective exhale from Garrett, Logan, and Tucker sounds like a punctured tire.

Dean blinks, totally caught off guard by the sudden shift in energy, but a slow, cocky smirk immediately begins to form on his lips. “I prefer the term confident, but I’ll take stupid if it means you aren’t going to murder me.”

“Oh, I might still murder you,” Ilya says cheerfully, releasing Dean’s shoulder. “We will see how the season goes. Your backhand is still weak.”

“It’s getting better,” Dean fires back effortlessly, leaning casually against the wall. The fear is completely gone, replaced by his usual, charming swagger. “Y/N runs drills with me. She’s a brutal coach.”

“She learned from me,” Ilya points out, puffing out his chest slightly. “The Russian system is superior.”

“I don’t know,” Dean argues playfully, crossing his arms. “The North American system focuses more on creativity. Let the players make plays.”

“Creativity is an excuse for a lack of discipline,” Ilya scoffs, waving a hand dismissively.

“Discipline doesn’t score the game-winner in overtime.”

“I scored the game-winner in overtime last night!”

As you watch them argue, a strange, creeping realization begins to settle over the hallway.

You watch Dean lean against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, a completely arrogant, completely self-assured smirk on his face. He is talking with his hands, completely relaxed, verbally sparring just for the fun of it.

Then, you look at Ilya. He is leaning against the opposite wall, one ankle crossed over the other, wearing the exact same arrogant, self-assured smirk. He is talking with his hands, arguing just to hear his own voice, completely thriving on the friction.

They have the exact same posture.

They have the exact same cocky, infuriating grin.

They radiate the exact same possessive, fiercely loyal energy hidden beneath layers of playboy swagger and ego.

You look over at Garrett, Logan, and Tucker.

The three Briar players are staring at Dean and Ilya with wide, horrified eyes. Logan slowly turns his head, making eye contact with you.

“Do you see this?” Logan whispers, his voice trembling slightly. He points a shaking finger between the two men. “They are … they are the exact same person.”

“It’s like looking at a multiverse variant,” Tucker mutters, completely disturbed. “Same font, different languages.”

“She’s dating the American version of her brother,” Garrett says, looking like he might actually throw up. “This is a psychological nightmare. Freud would have a field day with this.”

“Shut up, Garrett,” you hiss, your cheeks flushing violently.

But as you look back at them, you can’t deny it. Dean laughs at something Ilya says, throwing his head back in that rich, booming way that echoes down the hall. Ilya claps him on the shoulder again, offering a sharp, sarcastic insult that Dean immediately deflects with a perfectly timed chirp.

They are getting along flawlessly. They are practically speaking their own language — a language built entirely on hockey stats, trash talk, and massive egos.

And the scariest part? Neither of them seems to realize it.

“So,” Ilya says, pulling a sleek black card case out of his coat pocket. “You boys are hungry? I am buying dinner. The steaks in this town are acceptable. Come, Di Laurentis. You will sit next to me and explain why your power play is so predictable.”

“It’s not predictable,” Dean argues, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside Ilya as they start walking down the hall. “We run a one-three-one. It’s designed to open up the half-wall.”

“It is designed for lazy wingers,” Ilya corrects loudly.

They walk down the corridor together, completely ignoring the rest of you, deeply engrossed in an argument about special teams tactics.

You stand in the hallway, watching them go.

“Well,” you sigh, rubbing your temples again. “That went better than expected.”

Garrett slowly walks up next to you, his eyes still glued to Ilya’s retreating back. “Y/N.”

“Yes, Garrett?”

“Can you ask your brother to sign my chest at dinner?”

You close your eyes. “I am going to pretend you did not just ask me that.”

“Please,” Garrett begs, sounding entirely pathetic. “I have a sharpie in my bag.”

“We are leaving,” you announce, grabbing Garrett by the sleeve of his expensive suit and dragging him down the hall after Dean and Ilya. Logan and Tucker follow silently behind, both looking like they are still trying to process the sheer psychological horror of what they just witnessed.

As you catch up to them, Dean glances over his shoulder. He spots you, stops walking for a second, and waits for you to reach his side.

When you do, he doesn’t say a word. He just reaches out, sliding his large, warm hand around your waist and pulling you flush against his side. He presses a soft kiss to your temple, right in front of your brother.

Ilya stops talking. He looks at Dean’s arm around your waist. He looks at the way you lean into Dean’s side, completely relaxed.

For a second, the dangerous, protective older brother flares up in Ilya’s eyes.

But then, he looks at Dean’s face. He sees the absolute devotion there. He sees the way Dean looks at you like you are the only thing in the entire arena that matters.

Ilya huffs a soft breath, shaking his head. He turns around, shoving his hands into the pockets of his peacoat.

“Come on, children,” Ilya calls out, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. “Dinner is on me. And Di Laurentis?”

“Yeah?” Dean asks.

“If you order your steak well-done,” Ilya warns over his shoulder, “I will revoke my approval.”

Dean laughs, pulling you a little tighter against his side.

“Don’t worry, old man,” Dean calls back playfully. “I like it raw.”

You let out a long, exasperated sigh, hiding a smile against Dean’s shoulder as you all walk out into the freezing Boston night.

One arrogant, hockey-obsessed idiot was hard enough to manage. Now, you officially have two of them.

You really are going to need more deadbolts.

***

The Ottawa winter is absolutely brutal, the kind of biting, deep-freeze cold that makes your lungs ache the second you step outside.

“I don’t understand how people survive here,” Dean complains, his teeth actually chattering as he parks his sleek SUV in the sprawling, snow-covered driveway of the massive luxury estate. “It’s negative twelve degrees, Y/N. Negative twelve. The air hurts my face.”

“You play a sport that takes place entirely on a sheet of frozen water,” you point out dryly, unbuckling your seatbelt. “You should be used to the cold.”

“Arena cold is different from Canadian tundra cold,” Dean argues. He kills the engine and turns to look at you.

The dashboard lights cast a soft glow across his face. He is older now, his jawline sharper, his shoulders broader from years of NHL conditioning. He has a tiny, faded scar above his left eyebrow from a high stick three seasons ago, but he is still, undeniably, the most devastatingly handsome man you have ever seen. And the heavy platinum band resting on his left ring finger — matching the diamond currently sparkling on your own — is still the best decision you have ever made.

“Besides,” Dean says, reaching across the center console to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “Your brother chose to sign with Ottawa just to punish me. I know it. He wants me to freeze to death during the holidays.”

“Ilya did not sign a massive, eight-year contract with the Senators to punish you,” you laugh, leaning into his touch. “He signed it to be closer to Shane.”

Dean smiles, a soft, incredibly fond expression that he saves entirely for you. “Yeah, yeah. The greatest love story in the NHL. Come on, Mrs. Di Laurentis. Let’s go freeze.”

You brave the frigid air together, jogging up the salted stone steps to the massive mahogany front door. Before Dean can even ring the bell, the door swings open.

Shane stands in the entryway, wearing a soft grey cashmere sweater and looking every bit the golden boy of the NHL. He holds a can of ginger ale in one hand, his wedding band flashing in the warm foyer light.

“Y/N! Dean! Get in here before you let all the heat out,” Shane laughs, stepping back to let you both inside.

“Shane,” you smile, stepping into the sprawling, gorgeously decorated house and pulling him into a warm hug. “It is good to see you. Smells incredible in here.”

“Ilya’s making my mother’s brisket,” Shane says, rolling his eyes fondly as he claps Dean on the shoulder. “Good to see you, man. Rough game against Tampa on Thursday.”

“Don’t remind me,” Dean groans, shrugging out of his heavy wool coat. “Our penalty kill is a disaster right now.”

“Whose penalty kill is a disaster?” A booming, heavy Russian accent echoes from down the hall.

A second later, Ilya rounds the corner. He is wearing a dark apron over a black t-shirt, a wooden spoon in one hand, and a massive grin on his face. Years of professional hockey have only made him wider and more intimidating, but the sheer joy on his face when he looks at Shane, and then at you, softens his entire demeanor.

“Little bird!” Ilya drops the wooden spoon on a side table and crosses the foyer in three massive strides, scooping you up into a bone-crushing hug. He spins you around once before setting you back on your feet, kissing the top of your head. “You look beautiful. Marriage is treating you well.”

“I am managing,” you reply in Russian, smiling up at him.

Ilya turns his attention to Dean. He looks his brother-in-law up and down, his eyes narrowing in that familiar, hyper-critical way.

“Di Laurentis,” Ilya greets, his voice dropping into a flat, unimpressed drawl. “Your plus-minus this month is embarrassing. You are pinching too high in the offensive zone. Have you forgotten everything I taught you?”

“I play top-pairing minutes for a Cup-contending team, old man,” Dean fires back without missing a beat, a cocky smirk instantly appearing on his face as he shakes Ilya’s hand. “I can afford to take risks. Some of us actually have a reliable defensive partner to cover for us. Not all of us are busy staring at our own husbands across the ice.”

Ilya lets out a sharp, barking laugh, pulling Dean into a rough, one-armed hug. “You are an idiot. Come into the kitchen. The team is here. They want to meet the American liability.”

You follow the boys down the wide hallway, the sound of loud, overlapping voices and clinking glasses growing louder. Ilya and Shane’s house is an architectural masterpiece, completely open-concept, and right now, the massive kitchen and attached living room are overflowing with professional hockey players.

Half the Ottawa Senators roster seems to be lounging around the kitchen island, drinking beers and eating appetizers. When you and Dean walk in, the conversation stutters to a halt.

“Boys,” Ilya announces loudly, gesturing with his wine glass. “This is my little sister, Y/N. And her husband, Dean Di Laurentis. If any of you hit him on the ice next month when we play them, I will buy you a Rolex.”

A chorus of laughter breaks out. You recognize a few of the younger players staring at Dean with wide eyes.

Dean isn’t just a college player anymore. He is a bona fide NHL star, known for his lethal backhand, his punishing hits, and his absolute refusal to back down from a fight. To the young Ottawa players, seeing Dean standing casually in their captain’s kitchen is a surreal experience.

“Nice to meet you guys,” Dean says, leaning against the marble counter and effortlessly sliding into his charismatic, playboy-turned-superstar persona. “Don’t listen to Ilya. If you hit me, he’ll actually cry. He loves me.”

“I tolerate you because my sister likes your face,” Ilya corrects loudly, handing you a glass of white wine.

“Sure you do,” Shane murmurs, stepping up behind Ilya and wrapping his arms casually around his husband’s waist. Ilya immediately leans back against Shane’s chest, the massive, terrifying Russian practically melting into the Canadian. It’s a sight that the hockey world is finally used to — the league’s first openly queer, married power couple — but it still warms your heart every time you see it.

“So, Di Laurentis,” LaPointe asks nervously, holding a beer. “Is it true you guys run a completely fluid neutral zone trap in Boston? Because our coach showed us tape of your game against Florida, and your transition speed is insane.”

Dean’s eyes light up. Hockey is his second favorite topic in the world, right after you.

“It’s not entirely fluid,” Dean says, gesturing with his hands as he launches into a highly technical breakdown of his team’s defensive systems.

You stand back, sipping your wine, and watch the room.

Ilya naturally jumps into the conversation, loudly arguing with Dean about the merits of aggressive forechecking versus positional defense. They are standing mirroring each other — both holding their drinks in their left hands, both gesturing wildly with their right, both wearing identical, arrogant, infuriatingly handsome smirks.

“They are exactly the same,” a voice whispers next to you.

You turn your head to see Haas, the young forward, watching Ilya and Dean with a look of absolute awe and mild terror. He doesn’t realize he spoke out loud until you raise an eyebrow at him.

“Sorry! I mean, ma’am—Y/N—sorry,” Haas stammers, his face flushing bright red. “It’s just they’re both so … intense.”

“You can say cocky, Luca,” Shane laughs, joining you on the outskirts of the hockey debate. “We all know they’re cocky.”

“They’re assholes,” Boodram chimes in from the other side of the counter, keeping his voice low so his captain doesn’t hear. “But, like, in a good way? Like, they know they’re the best players in the room, and they want everyone else to know it too. It’s crazy.”

“It is a carefully cultivated brand,” you say dryly, taking another sip of wine.

“You disagree?” Ilya suddenly calls out, spinning around to point an accusing finger at Dean. “You think a drop pass on the power play entry is a good idea? It is a coward’s move! It slows the momentum!”

“It creates space, Ilya!” Dean argues back, his competitive streak fully ignited. He starts pacing back and forth in front of the island. “If you drop the puck to the trailer, you force the defense to step up, which opens the wings! It’s basic geometry!”

“It is basic stupidity!” Ilya roars, throwing his hands in the air. He turns to the Ottawa rookies. “Do you hear this? This is why the American system is flawed. They rely on tricks instead of brute force.”

The Ottawa players look terrified to be brought into the crossfire.

Shane sighs, setting his empty wine glass on the counter. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t yell. He simply looks at his massive, raging husband and says, very calmly, “Babe. Inside voice. And pass the salad.”

The transformation is instantaneous.

Ilya stops shouting mid-sentence. His chest heaves once, his eyes completely dial back from murderous enforcer to devoted husband.

“Yes, malysh,” Ilya murmurs softly. He picks up the salad bowl and hands it to Shane, the argument completely forgotten.

Across the kitchen, Dean is still pacing, completely fired up. “I’m telling you, the drop pass is statistically proven to increase zone entries by forty percent! It’s not a trick, it’s-”

“Dean,” you say.

Your voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the noise of the kitchen with absolute, undeniable authority.

Dean stops pacing instantly. His head snaps toward you, his green eyes wide and completely focused on you.

“Yes, sweetheart?” He asks, his entire posture softening.

“Stop waving your hands around,” you tell him smoothly. “You are making me dizzy. Come here and eat your protein.”

You slide a small plate of sliced brisket across the marble island.

Dean doesn’t hesitate for a single second. The superstar defenseman, the cocky, arrogant NHL playboy, obediently walks over to you, wraps an arm around your waist, presses a kiss to your temple, and spears a piece of meat.

“Sorry, Y/N,” Dean murmurs against your hair. “Got carried away.”

“You always do,” you reply fondly, running a hand through his blond hair.

You look across the island.

LaPointe and Haas are staring at you, and then at Shane, and then back to the two massive, highly dangerous hockey players happily eating their respective bread and carrots.

LaPointe leans over to Haaa, his voice a barely audible whisper of pure disbelief.

“They walk them like dogs,” LaPointe breathes. “It’s insane.”

“Terrifying,” Haas agrees in a hushed, reverent tone. “I want a marriage exactly like that.”

You catch Shane’s eye across the kitchen. The Canadian raises his ginger ale toward you in a silent, perfectly synchronized toast. You raise your wine glass back. The rookies are right, of course, but neither you nor Shane would ever admit it out loud.

***

Dinner is a loud, chaotic, incredibly warm affair.

Ilya’s brisket is perfect, the wine flows freely, and the dining room echoes with laughter, old hockey stories, and ruthless chirping. Dean fits in flawlessly with the Ottawa players, trading insults with Ilya that sound vicious to an outsider but are actually layered with deep mutual respect.

It wasn’t always easy. Those first few years after college were a brutal adjustment. Dean getting signed, the long-distance strains, Ilya’s terrifying protective streak flaring up every time Dean’s name was in the tabloids. But Dean proved him wrong. Every single time, Dean proved that his devotion to you wasn’t just a college phase, it was the defining anchor of his life.

By the time the Ottawa players finally clear out around midnight, retreating into the freezing snow to head home, the massive house is finally quiet.

You, Dean, Ilya, and Shane migrate to the sprawling living room. A fire is cracking in the massive stone fireplace, casting a warm, flickering glow over the leather furniture.

Shane is curled up on the sofa, his head resting in Ilya’s lap. Ilya is absently running his large, calloused fingers through Shane’s hair, looking completely at peace.

You are sitting on the oversized loveseat, your legs draped across Dean’s lap. He is gently massaging your calves through the fabric of your jeans, his thumb pressing into the muscles with practiced ease.

“Good dinner, old man,” Dean says quietly, staring into the flames.

“Yuna’s recipe,” Ilya replies softly, his eyes closed. “It is foolproof. Even you could not ruin it.”

Dean chuckles. He leans his head back against the sofa, his green eyes catching the firelight. For a moment, he is quiet, a rare, reflective look crossing his face.

“You know,” Dean says, his voice losing all its usual sarcastic armor. “Dykstra was asking me earlier about how I got signed m. About how I climbed the undrafted free agent projections.”

Ilya opens one eye, looking at Dean across the room. “You fixed your gap control.”

“Yeah. I did.” Dean’s hand rests heavily on your knee, his thumb stroking your skin. He looks at Ilya, the tension between them completely replaced by a deep, unspoken brotherhood. “But that’s not what got me there. I told him the truth.”

“Which is?” Shane asks gently.

“I wouldn’t be playing in this league if it wasn’t for you guys,” Dean says. He looks down at you, his eyes incredibly soft, and then back to Ilya. “If Y/N hadn’t torn my game apart that night in the lobby … if Ilya hadn’t spent that entire summer in Boston physically beating my ass on the ice … I would have coasted. I would have been a good college player, and then maybe played beer league.”

You feel a tight, warm ache in your chest. You reach out, lacing your fingers through Dean’s.

“You did the work, Dean,” you tell him softly. “We just pointed out your flaws.”

“You pointed them out very aggressively,” Dean grins, though the emotion in his eyes is entirely genuine. He looks at Ilya. “Seriously. Thank you. Both of you. For not letting me settle.”

“You are a good man, Di Laurentis,” Ilya says, his voice thick and sincere. “You are arrogant, and you talk too much, but you take care of my sister. And you are a hell of a defenseman. You earned your spot.”

Dean swallows hard, his jaw tightening as he nods. Coming from Ilya Rozanov, there is no higher praise on earth.

“But don’t think this means I’m not going to put you in the boards next month,” Ilya adds quickly, the gruffness returning to his voice. “If you try that drop pass in my zone, I will end your career.”

“I look forward to seeing you try, grandpa,” Dean fires back instantly, the cocky grin returning in full force.

Shane laughs, sitting up and stretching. “Alright, that’s my cue. If you two start drawing up plays on napkins, I’m going to bed. Goodnight, kids.”

“Goodnight, Shane,” you smile as Ilya stands up, pulling his husband to his feet.

“Sleep well, little bird,” Ilya says, pressing a final kiss to your forehead. He points two fingers at Dean, pointing them back at his own eyes in an I’m watching you gesture, before following Shane down the hallway toward the master suite.

The living room falls quiet again, save for the crackle of the fire.

Dean turns his attention entirely to you. He slides his hands up your thighs, gripping your hips, and pulls you effortlessly across the sofa until you are straddling his lap.

“Hi,” Dean murmurs, his hands resting warmly on the small of your back.

“Hi,” you reply, resting your forearms on his broad shoulders. “You are feeling very sentimental tonight.”

“Can you blame me?” Dean asks, his eyes tracing the line of your jaw, down your neck, and back up to your eyes. “I’m sitting in a mansion in Ottawa, playing in the NHL, holding the most incredible, terrifying, beautiful woman in the world. I’m a lucky guy.”

“You are,” you agree, completely unabashed. “But you earned it.”

Dean smiles, that devastating, million-dollar smile that still makes your heart skip a beat all these years later. He leans in, capturing your lips in a slow, incredibly deep kiss. It tastes like expensive wine, woodsmoke, and years of absolute devotion.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, your fingers tangling in his thick blonde hair. The heat between you flares instantly, burning just as bright and desperate as it did in that tiny college bedroom years ago.

Dean breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead against yours, his breathing slightly elevated.

“You know,” Dean whispers, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs. “The guest room is all the way on the other side of the house. Soundproof walls, too. I checked.”

You raise an eyebrow, your old, haughty confidence returning in full force. “You checked the acoustics of my brother’s guest room?”

“A good player always scouts the arena before the game,” Dean murmurs, his voice dropping into that rough, gravelly register that completely short-circuits your brain. He kisses the sensitive skin just below your ear. “What do you say, Mrs. Di Laurentis? Ready for puck drop?”

You let out a soft, helpless laugh, leaning your head back as his lips trail down your neck.

Some things never change. He is still arrogant, he is still incredibly demanding, and he is still, without a doubt, exactly the game you want to play for the rest of your life.

“Take me upstairs, Di Laurentis,” you whisper into the quiet room.

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He stands up effortlessly, carrying you in his arms as he walks toward the hallway, a triumphant, wicked smirk on his face.

You rest your head against his shoulder, entirely safe, entirely loved, and completely in control.

The Ottawa winter rages outside, but inside, you have never been warmer.

[sc3ptre]

Welcome to EARTH-181938 | Navigation by M.I.R.A

M.I.R.A: Turbulence detected! Classified as sonic disruption of codename: Superman. Initiating descent to troposphere; handoff protocol engaged for final homeward guidance. Welcome home, traveler.

Divider by me :)

K25-FILES: Even heroes need a little… diversion. Five extra adventures await in the Kinktober log, don’t keep them waiting.

HEADCANONS!!! (more to come)

Clark Kent's NSFW alphabet - ♠♡

Have you ever tried this one? - ♠ NEW!!

Off the record - ♠

A healing touch - ♠

Where love lands - ♡

Between love and hate (ft. Lex Luthor) - ♠

Bombshell: Attorney at law - ♡

Superfreak - ♠

Three inches from heaven - ♠♡

Good girls swallow - ♠♡

Clark Kent: $ex toy connoisseur - ♠♡

Arguments worth moaning over - ♠♡

Twice the man - ♠♡⚠

Deleted scenes from a movie night - ♠♡

Pt.1 A-Lister in the making - ♡

Pt.2 Starstruck - ♡

Not quite a trustfall - ♡

Tears (at friendsgiving) - ♠♡

A heart at flight risk - ♠♡

Distant lover - ♠☹♡

Your best American girl - ☹♡

Tell me lies - ♠♡

Distance makes the d grow harder - ♠♡

Method acting - ♠♡

Atonement - ☹♠♡

Before sunrise - ☹♠♡

He's just not that into you - ♡

Past lives - ☹♠♡

The star that leads to you - ♡

Rocking on your Kryptonite - ☹♠♡

SCOTT MILLER - Twisters

Lessons on sex - ♠♡

Matters of orgasm quota - ♠♡

DAVID MCDOUGALL - We own this city

Love to see you cum, hate to see you go - ♠☹♡

SERIES:

The Marvelous Mrs. Kent:

You’ve spent your entire life becoming exactly who other people wanted. Raised by wealthy parents who already had your future mapped out, you ran to Metropolis before they could finish deciding it for you. Now you’re twenty-five, unemployed and realizing every single person in your life somehow belonged to Clark Kent first. After one painful misunderstanding pushes you over the edge, your carefully maintained life begins collapsing in ways both tragic and absurd. But if losing your mind in public was truly rock bottom…why are people suddenly applauding?

A romantic dramedy about grief, identity and what happens when your breakdown becomes entertainment. Here's to starting over after the fantasy fails!

"Pilot"

"Material Girl"

"Out of order"

"Mrs. X at the Talon"

The secret life of Miss Honey: (status: COMPLETED)

As a devoted teacher, you never expected to stumble into temporary parenthood or to find Clark stepping naturally into the role beside you. Caring for your student brings you and Clark closer than ever, blurring the line between friendship and something achingly tender. Fostering her might be temporary… but the family you're forming feels anything but.

Chapter 1 - ♡

Chapter 2 - ♡⚠

Chapter 3 - ♡

Chapter 4 - ♡⚠

Chapter 5 - ♡

Chapter 6 - ♡⚠

Adventures in cape-wearing childcare:

M.I.R.A: Alert!! We’ve stumbled onto an infinite timeline, traveler. One without a clear beginning or fixed end. Expect minor continuity blurs as files are generated on request. Logs are arranged here in loose chronological order, with new entries surfacing as your signals arrive. Safe travels!

Eating for two! - ♡

The baby whisperer - ♡

Superdad in training - ♡

A batch* made in heaven - ♡

Speed - ♡

Swear jars and tiny titans - ♡

Supermom in training - ♡

Requiem for a dream - ☹♡

Bless you...and everything else - ♡

Shared frequency - ☹♡

The man before tomorrow:

The man before tomorrow follows Clark during his university years in Metropolis, where Smallville’s history bleeds into a city that never stops watching. With you, his academically gifted friend by his side, these standalone stories trace investigations, growing responsibility and the careful balance of learning to help without yet becoming the Man of Tomorrow.

Read separately or as a whole, each moment captures the hero he is before the legend takes flight.

1x01 Pilot - ♡

1x02 Bewitched - ♡

[yunyuu]

✶ HE'S A GOOD BOYFRIEND!

masterlist ⠀! ⠀ do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites. ✶

He loves you so much. So so so fucking much. So much it hurts.

Like physically一like a hot knife twisting in his chest every time you blink those pretty eyes at him.

You could hand him a razor and point at his throat and he'd say thank you, he'd fucking thank you with his last breath because you're an angel and he's just the dirt under your nails.

He's not a bad guy, okay??!

He's a good boyfriend.

A devoted boyfriend.

He'd die for you. He'd kill for you. He'd crawl inside your chest and live between your ribs if it meant being closer, and that's romantic, that's soulmate shit, not creepy. Dont say its creepyー

But then he hears you crying through the door, and his stomach drops.

Is someone hurting you? Did something happen? Was it himーdid he fuck up again?

He's already digging his own grave as he rushes to you, ready to do anything. anything, just make it stop—

Oh...

Your shoulders are shaking. Your hair is messy and unbrushed because you've been too sad to care, your cheeks are flushed and wet and rosy, your nose running just a little, your mouth—god, your mouth一is pouty and swollen and suckable, like you've been biting your lip to keep the sobs inー

He's supposed to comfort you. He knows that. That's what good boyfriends do. That's what he does.

He wraps his arms around you from behind, pulls you close, whispers "shh, shh, I'm here, I've got you." into your tangled hair. He's so good at this. He's so gentle. He's so一

Oh fuck.

Oh no.

Oh no no no no no.

You're crying harder now, and your body is trembling against his, and he can feel every little shudder through his chest, his stomach, hisー

He's hard. He's so fucking hard and he didn't mean to, he swears he didn't mean to.

He's a monster, a disgusting horrible boyfriend.

Who gets turned on when their girl is crying? Who does that? Who—

But you're so pretty when you cry.

And you're so needy right now, so broken and fragile and his, leaning into him like he's the only thing keeping you together, and he just—he just needs a little friction, just a little, he'll be so gentle, you won't even notice—

He shifts his hips. Just barely. Presses himself against your lower back through your thin sleep shirt and his sweatpants and breathes.

"It's okay," he whispers, rubbing slow circles on your stomach while he rubs himself against you, just a little. just a tiny bit, he's still comforting you, he's still being good, he's still—

"I've got you. I've got you."

What the fuck is wrong with him?

He's a fucking creep.

A disgusting, pathetic, perverted piece of shit.

He hates himself. He hates himself so much it makes him even harder.

He's so fucking sorry. He's grinding, slow and subtle, biting his lip so hard it bleeds, using your sobs to cover the shaky little breaths he's taking against your hair.

You're crying more and more, and his pre cum is soaking through his boxers.

He's a good boyfriend.

Of course he's a good boyfriend!

He'd die for you. He'd kill himself if you found out, if you turned around and saw the wet spot on his jeans, the desperate, leaking outline of everything he's trying to hide.

Please don't notice.

Please don't hate him.

He loves you more than anything, he's just—fucked up, okay?

He's broken and sick and his balls are aching and you smell so good when you're sad, salty and warm and vulnerable, and he wants to lick the tears off your chin while he fuck—

Oh god.

You just sniffled and arched a little and his dick jumped so hard he almost came right there, grinding against the fabric of your shorts like a dog in heat.

Please. Please let him cum first. Then you can hate him. Then you can scream at him and call him a freak and he'll go swallow a bottle of pills like he deserves.

But please— please— just let him rut against you for one more minute, just let him sliding into you while you're still hiccuping and broken and his.

And if you could just pretend not to feel it一just this once—if you could just stay still and cry and let him use the sound of your pain to get off, he promises he'll never ask for anything again.

He'll comfort you properly in a minute, he swears.

He just needs to一just needs to一fuckー

He's a bad, bad boyfriend.

He knows.

But you still love him,

Right?

If you want to be in my taglist let me know :)

© yunyuu 2026 : do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites.

[mickyschumacher]

[REVOLVING DOOR!]

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: after getting your heartbroken by your long-time one-sided love for charles, the most irritating and vexing person in your life, max verstappen, suggests only one thing to remedy it: fucking it out. and after some brief scepticism, you agree. what could possibly go wrong?

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: enemies with benefits, angst, smut (18+ please for the love of god minors DNI), best friend's older brother vibes, bad french and dutch, poor humour, mental health, insecurities, jealousy

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: max verstappen x fem!reader, charles leclerc x fem!reader

EP 1 | AN OPEN DOOR

EP 2 | MEDDLE ABOUT

EP 3 | BABYDOLL

EP 4 | PACIFY HER

EP 5 | PLAY WITH ME

EP 6 | HOUSE OF BALLOONS

EP 7 | JEALOUS TYPE

EP 8 | DADDY ISSUES

EP 9 | SHE'S ALL I WANNA BE

EP 10 | DO I WANNA KNOW?

EP 11 | BACK TO FRIENDS

EP 12 | THE CUT THAT ALWAYS BLEEDS

EP 13 | A CLOSED DOOR

total word count: 76.1k

EP 13.1 | dancing with our hands tied s|f|a

EP 13.2 | their first podium f|a

EP 13.3 | happy birthday max f|a

EP 13.4 | revolving door universe headcanons f|s

EP 13.5 | max vs superman f|s

EP 13.6 | horror night at the leclercs f

EP 13.7 | hand-painted trophies f|a

EP 13.8 | cat whisperer + cat parents f

Ep 13.9 | positive reinforcement f|s

EP 13.10 | casual lore drop f|a

EP 13.11 | the simulator f|s

EP 13.12 | the winner takes it all f|a

EP 13.13 | i think you'd look best in all white f|a

EP 13.14 | yes to forever f|a

EP 13.15 | honeymoon avenue f|s

EP 13.16 | a forever family f|a

total word count: 54.6k

PLAYLIST

𝐀/𝐍: yes this is not a drill! i'm writing another series! however, this idea is credited to this lovely anon who i dearly thank for requesting this! i hope you like it as much as summer sunshine although, as you can see, the tone is a bit different. and this one doesn't have entirely pre-written chapters so i'm taking my time to explore the plot here!

[strangelure]

thinking about people witnessing the bossman michael 'robby' robinavitch turning into a softy, submissive pushover when he's with you

like asking him to fetch you something (perhaps a drink) without saying please, only a soft "mikey, can you..." and he immediately gets up without a second thought and follows your command with a "yeah honey"

at a bar or at a party, robby sitting with his legs spread wide open, you standing in between them facing him, his head smushed against your abdomen as you play with his hair, robby's arms wrapped tightly around your legs to keep you still

people hearing the way he whispers to you a soft and pleading "give me one?" when he's leaning in, a giddy smile on his face, theres literally twinkles in his eyes as he's trying to steal a kiss from your lips, eager to show his affections even when theres an audience around

witnessing as you sit on his lap, the way you walk up to him and order him to 'lean back' and settling on top of him, robby constantly planting his lips on your shoulder, looking up at you adoringly (and so so whipped) as you continue the conversation with colleagues and friends while sitting comfortably on his thighs

pulling him towards places by the fabric of the front of his shirt or at his sleeves and he lets you, following your lead happily without protest, sometimes you pull so abruptly he gets a lil bit of whiplash but he just chuckles in response to your excitement or eagerness

most hilariously, and specially when its jack or dana being the ones who witness it: when you're talking or telling a story and robby chimes in on impulse or without warning and you snap at him "baby- dont interrupt me" and robby stops immediately, only a small little amused huff in response

[seraphk1ss]

𝑚𝑦 𝑚𝑜𝑜𝑛, 𝑚𝑦 𝑚𝑎𝑛 ☽˚.⋆(b.p.)

Plot | The great shark struggles with modern dating --- a bar so low he keeps tripping on it.

Tags | no smut, mentioned skin to skin intimacy, virgin!reader (for the plot!), yapper!reader, celibate!reader but not fully, waiting for marriage reader, bad experience with dating (not with park), cursing, traditional roles, age gap (15 years), endearments (babydoll, sweetheart, sweetie, baby),

[Inspired by this drabble <3]

Brendon Park is a good man.

He calls his mother every week. Sends his father the good whiskey every year on his birthday. And does good on his job no matter how much he hates the … socializing aspect of it.

A good son, a good surgeon, and a respectable member of society.

“When are you gonna give me some grandbabies, huh?”

Just … a little delayed in certain aspects of his life.

It wasn’t on purpose.

When he was young, he was so deadset on becoming a surgeon that everything else became an afterthought. He maintained relationships here and there (he wasn’t a saint) but by the time he was an attending none of his girlfriends managed to keep up with his relentless schedule, demanding workload, and emotionally reserved nature.

Truly, he doesn't blame them. He wasn't exactly carving out the time for them either --- too focused on being the best and too single-minded in his career to put any relationship as a priority.

Long story short – good surgeon, bad boyfriend.

And then he woke up and he was 40 years old with a very pissed off mother.

When he reluctantly asked his friends about it, the warnings were immediate and repetitive.

Dating in the modern century is different now. The women are different. Difficult.

Too demanding. Too clingy. Too much.

By the time Yolanda sidelined him quietly with a proposition, he was already dreading the worst and preparing himself to disappoint his mother for the first time in his life.

You were a welcome (gorgeous) surprise.

Yolanda’s friend of a friend of a friend that she set him up with. Something about a ‘sweetie-pie that could just soften you up, big guy’.

What she failed to mention was the noticeable difference in years between the two of you.

He was never one to go for someone young just to compensate for a void in his life or make himself feel better about getting older. Even though he saw the appeal, it was never a requirement. If you had asked him before the date, he would’ve thought dating someone younger was more trouble than it was worth.

But watching you beam as he waits for you by the door of the café he had reserved a table for today’s date, holding a fresh pink bouquet of flowers just because Yolanda mentioned that it was your favorite, he couldn’t help but wonder if he was too confident with that assumption.

“Flowers on the first date? You’re winning me over already.”

He couldn’t help but frown in confusion, remembering a coworker's quip about not coming on too strong. Already feeling an unfamiliar feeling of minuscule panic creeping up his throat. “Is it too much?”

Your eyes widened, head shaking, “No! No, they're beautiful. It’s just – men don’t really – it’s less of a thing now.”

He hums, deciding that that was stupid. Especially when he saw just how beautiful the flowers looked when you held them --- like they belonged in your arms. He opens the door for you. “That’s a shame.”

You laugh, head back and so carefree. It warms something in his belly. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

The two of you continued a casual conversation as you lined up for your orders, an official introduction of sorts. Thankfully, it wasn’t as awkward as he dreaded, your cheerful disposition perfectly counteracted his restrained one.

He couldn’t help but notice you intimately checking out the pastries bar but not ordering any when you got to the counter. Thankfully, he was quick enough to take note of those that caught your eyes for longer than half a second, ordering it along with his drink and swiping his card for both of your orders.

As he pulled back a chair, he noticed the few seconds of shock on your face before you sat. A small touch on his bicep and a bashful ‘thank you’ had him concluding that this was also no longer ‘a thing’ in this generation.

If he were honest, he'd admit he was dreading this. It's been a while since his last proper date. He wasn't sure if he could muster up enough topics to keep the conversation going or accidentally say something rude or stupid that would turn this date into a humiliation ritual.

But you were pleasant company and a surprisingly great conversationalist. Picking up where he was prone to awkward silences. You carried the conversation with an ease that he admired. To his surprise, the conversation shifted from one topic to another, and by the end of the night, you somehow even managed to get him actually interested in the New York sports team you were dedicated to. A sport he had never given a thought to his entire life.

“You live in Pittsburgh.”

“So?” you giggle at his obvious accusation.

“Now, that’s just treason.”

That got an adorably loud laugh out of you that embarrassingly puffs out his chest – he knew he wasn’t exactly the funny type so to have you genuinely throwing your head back at his banter felt good.

Three drinks, 6 pastries, and too much caffeine later, he realized it had already turned dark outside and your friend (probably Yolanda wanting all the details) was already texting you incessantly about dinner.

“So, how much do I owe you?”

He looks down at you in confusion as he helps you put your jacket on.

“For what?”

A respectful palm gently leads you by the curve of your back and into his car, which was parked just a few feet from the café.

“Lunch.”

He shuts the door, still confused even as he pulls out of the curb.

“I asked you out, it’s on me.”

“Technically, you didn’t ask me out. We were set up.”

He rolls his eyes at that, huffing out a laugh. Cheeky brat.

“I’m the man. I pay for dinner.”

“That’s very old-fashioned of you, Brendon.”

“Well, I am 15 years your senior, baby." It doesn’t escape him how you press your legs together at that statement. Interesting. “I get to be old-fashioned, don’t you think?”

You turn your body fully toward him, blessing him with a shy, sweet smile.

“Old-fashioned enough to not to kiss on the first date?”

He takes a deep breath, pressing on the gas.

“Old-fashioned enough to ask first."

‘Busy morning and tied up in surgery this afternoon. I’ve got about 30 minutes for a call at 11:30 if you're free?’

‘Sounds perfect. Can’t wait <3”

“👍”

“What’s this?”

You flip the thick piece of paper back and forth as if the words were written in hieroglyphics.

He watches you register what he had just done.

“Tickets. For the Knicks game this weekend.”

You stare at him as if he just popped out a second head so he sighs and continues. “You said you loved them on our first date.”

“Brendon.”

“It’s the Eastern Conference Finals.”

“Brendon.”

“What?”

“It’s in New York.”

He cocks his head at another pair of tickets sitting on his coffee table.

“Those are our plane tickets.”

“You bought plane tickets?!”

“Can’t exactly walk there, sweetheart.”

“You bought Knicks tickets, plane tickets, and planned an entire trip without telling me?”

“Well, such is the nature of a surprise.”

You actually let out a snort of laughter before jumping into his lap on the couch pressing kisses and ‘thank you’s’ on whatever skin you could reach. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You haven’t even heard of the restaurant reservation yet.”

Or the fact that he somehow tracked down a friend of a friend of a friend who is somehow dating someone working game day operations just to make sure the kiss cam landed on the two of you during half-time.

And they said he wasn’t a romantic.

It took Park 3 months in your relationship to realize … you have never truly slept over his place.

When you mentioned on your second date that you were a virgin and that you planned to wait until marriage, he was – for the sake of honesty – taken aback.

Not that there was anything wrong with it and you had bashfully admitted that you were willing to do some 'other stuff' as long as you didn’t go 'all the way'. Something about a vow with the women in your family that the only man who should be able to touch you is the one who is willing to commit.

It makes sense, in theory. But they never took into consideration that the man who plans to worship the ground you walk on is a stressed-out orthopedic surgeon in a trauma center whose only source of relaxation is in between your thighs.

So, yeah. He was a bit taken aback. And frustrated.

But he respected it.

(He was too far gone for you to let this minor complication stand in his way.)

Sucked it up like a man, met your parents, swore to them that this relationship would end in marriage once you were ready, and now added meditation to his workout routine so he wouldn’t pop a boner every time you lounged around his place in just his shirt.

“What are you doing?”

He asks from the en-suite bathroom’s door, finally ready for bed after a long day of bullshit in the hospital only to find his girlfriend quietly trying to book a taxi from his bed.

“Oh! I figured you’d be too tired to drive me back home so I was just going to book a car.”

He frowns in confusion. Quickly walking to where you were lounging in his bed to grab your phone and cancel it.

“Wha – hey!”

“I think we’re past asking permission to stay over.”

You open your mouth to protest before hesitating, choosing instead to crawl to the edge of the bed so you can sit by where he was standing. The fresh smell of his soap, body wash, and clean skin lights your skin on fire.

“I don’t have my skincare stuff in here,” you weakly protested.

He hummed, hands petting the back of your head.“Let’s go buy it tomorrow after brunch. It’s my day off.”

You beamed, gasping in glee. “Really?”

"Really." He can’t help but chuckle at your delight – so pleased with a couple hundred dollars of products. Seems he wasn’t doing quite a good enough job spoiling you, he plans to change that starting tomorrow. “Anything else I should know before our first official sleepover?”

You rubbed your cheeks into his hands like a cat before shyly nodding.

“I know you’re having a hard time with the … abstinence thing,” you pout your lips up at him, your chin digging firmly on his navel which definitely didn’t help.

He clears his throat, taking a beat to look up at the ceiling and collect himself before letting his hands cup your cheeks, “I’m a grown man, babydoll. I can handle sleeping next to my woman without pouncing on her.”

“I trust you, Bren,” you insist earnestly. “But it doesn’t mean I want to frustrate you any more than I already do.”

“Hey, where is this coming from? I’ll behave,” he pokes the tip of your nose to lighten your mood but you only bit your bottom lip in even more hesitation. “Or is there another reason?”

He wouldn’t want to push you if you were truly uncomfortable.

“The thing is,” you groan, cupping the hands holding your face. “I can only sleep naked.”

If he had to go back to the bathroom for five minutes to listen to the calming meditation exercise his therapist recommended to him, it would be something the two of you agreed to take to the grave.

“Alright, my eyes are closed, babydoll.”

He prepared as best as he could.

Lights are off, sleep mask on.

Now he just needs to not think about his girlfriend sleeping naked beside him for the entire night. His adorable, sweet, angel of a woman who is not wearing a stitch of clothing on her bo –

“Thanks for doing this, baby.”

He sucks in a sharp breath when he feels you press a kiss to his cheeks.

He grips the comforter so tight he swears his nails ripped through it. “Warn a man next time.”

Your giggle disappears under the duvet. He makes it a point to put a pillow between the two of you – for your sake and mostly his.

It’ll be fine. Everything will be –

-- fucked! He is so fucking fucked.

The nudity wasn’t the challenge – difficult, yes but manageable with the proper monk-like focus. What you have failed to disclose was that you slept like a possessed octopus. Something he himself only found out when he felt your entire body weight on top of him at 2:47 in the morning.

Once he felt the swell of your chest on his ribs his entire body instinctively flinched so quickly, he almost developed a cramp.

“S-Sweetheart,” he whispered, trying to see if he could jog you out of your sleep gently to save him from the suffering of having to push you back.

To his horror, you just whined, grabbing even more tightly to his biceps as you dragged your body up the length of his so you could push your face in the juncture of his neck.

The contrast of the warmth of your skin on his, the small puffs of air a siren’s call on his ear, and the plump of your lips grazing his neck as you sleepily mumble mindless nothings was torture to his already frazzled sense of self-control.

He grips his bedsheet tightly, knowing his willpower would snap if his hands ever got ahold of you.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“’luv yu’, Bren.”

He sucks in a breath. What the – did you just say – “Babydoll?”

“So nice to me,” you whimper the words on his neck. “Love you so much.”

That felt like a jagged knife of guilt to his heart.

The shame and responsibility you felt for what he could only believe other lovers saw as a drawback or a burden. It must’ve been a heavy weight to carry for his sweet girl.

He swears you won’t have to carry it anymore as long as he is here.

He holds his breath for 10 seconds and lets it out for 5. He thinks about surgical risks, antibiotics, anesthesia regulation, and proper post-op instruction. Thinks about Gloria on his neck, the pressure to live up to their expectation as the upcoming Chief of Surgery. He thinks about Robinavitch’s jealousy even though the both of them knew the pressure Brendon was in would eventually fling the ER attending from the roof he so often escaped to.

Anything and everything to keep his mind clear and disciplined as he refuses to be another weak man who resents your boundaries.

With a deep breath he finally gathers you in his arms, curling around you until his body threatens to swallow you whole.

Saying instead the words that always seemed to get stuck between his heart and his tongue whenever you looked at him. Reminding himself to repeat it tomorrow before you could say it first.

He’s an old-fashioned man, after all.

“I love you, babydoll.”

'Going to the gym but i'm gonna be busy all day. Text me '911' if it's an emergency and my assistant will track me down.'

'Go it. I'm planning to cook you steak for dinner tonight, can I use your kitchen?'

'DON'T SEND ME MONEY. It's my treat.'

'I know your fingers are hovering Brendon Park. Don't!'

'Fine'

'Fine <3'

'Check your jewelry box. I slipped a spare key to my place there.'

'Okay <3'

'Wait what.'

“Hi, babyyyy,” you jump into his arms as he drops his work bag unceremoniously on the floor.

Your text that said you were going to spend your day off going to the grocery store and preparing him a steak dinner genuinely was the only thing that pushed him through a long day of surgeries and consultations.

He lets you rope him into a kiss, sitting the two of you down on his couch as you continue to map out his face with your mouth.

“Missed you so much,” you mutter in between kisses. He smiles at your earnest confession. “Say you missed me too.”

You press a finger on his chest, and he glances down at it as if unconvinced. You squawk in offense and try to get off his lap but not before getting caught in his arms and flipped into the couch.

“You’re all I ever thought about all day, sweetheart.”

You hum, running your hand on his hair. “That’s a dangerous habit, doctor.”

“Don’t worry. I’m a professional.”

With one last deep kiss he lets you out of his arms and back into the kitchen. He prepares to stand up and set the table but you pressed a hand into his chest with an explicit instruction to go shower and relax.

“It’ll be ready when you’re out.”

By the time he was done, you were already getting the wine out of the chiller. “Oh, by the way, some important-looking envelope from your bank arrived.”

You point a finger at the side table by the door. He opens it, his eyes moving carefully with each line.

“Babydoll?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you give me your landlord’s bank details?”

A pause, he turns back to see you staring at him in bewilderment.

“Uh, what for?”

He drops the letter on the coffee table before walking towards you. “I need it to set up an auto-pay in my account.”

You blink up at him as he casually presses a kiss on your lips before sitting at his seat beside yours.

“Are you … moving?” You ask even though you had to admit how incredulous it was. Why would he switch his immaculate penthouse to your subpar building? Is he buying the building then?

“No, for your apartment, honey,” he continues patiently, taking your hand.

Your eyes widened, finally getting what he is implying. “What?! Why – you don’t have to do that! I-I know I complain a lot but I’m fine really!”

He presses a kiss on the back of your hand. “I know, sweetie. But I’m planning on moving you with me by the end of the year, and I want that transition to be as smooth as possible for you.”

Your mouth opens and closes in shock as he drops two bombs on you at once.

“Are … are you asking me to move in with you?”

He slices a piece of his steak before feeding it to you.

“By the end of the year,” he reiterates casually. “At least that’s the deadline I gave my realtor.”

You audibly swallow the barely chewed steak, pushing it down with large gulps of wine.

“I … I don’t want to make it seem like I-I’m a gold digger or something.”

His face hardens at that. “Don’t say that.”

“I’m serious. People talk.”

“Let them talk,” the reprimand was there but it was gentle. “I know why you’re here.”

That softens you.

“Because I’m funny and a good lay.”

You almost snorted your wine into your nose and he finally smiles hearing you laugh. He raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘see?’.

“Brendon –”

“Hey,” he takes your hand, pulling you closer and letting the chair screech in protest. “You’re allowed to like the things I do for you. I work hard, I make good money. And I’d rather spend it making you happy than letting it sit there in the bank.”

He holds your hesitant eyes, only letting a victorious smile appear on his face when you let out a resigned sigh.

You stand up and he automatically pushes his chair back so you can sit in his lap.

“Okay. Thank you. I love you and I will move in with you by the end of the year even though you technically didn't ask.”

“You’re welcome,” he whispers on your lips. “Also, that was your new credit card in the envelope.”

“Brendon Park –"

[docrobinavitch]

MICHAEL "ROBBY" ROBINAVITCH

"Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it." -Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

SERIES:

speak of her over my grave -> (completed) robby x f!widowed!reader, you're cursed and so is your home, but robby is determined to break both one way or another, a gothic horror romance

i would've run -> (completed) robby x f!nurse!reader x abbot, after robby breaks your heart, you run to a widowed jack abbot for comfort. one thing leads to another and before you know it, you become mrs. abbot. but robby can't let you go and you're not sure you can let him go either.

sacraments of healing -> (completed) robby x f!attending!reader, a complicated love story told over the back drop of an even more complicated family fraught with grief, misunderstandings, and sometimes even cruelty. robby loves you through it all.

force of nature, pull of gravity -> (completed) robby x f!attending!reader, you and robby have had a sort of friends with benefits type relationship going back decades, but when adamson dies and robby pushes you away you're forced to lock him out, maybe for good. told parallel to season one timeline.

say goodbye like you mean it: part one | part two | part three | part four -> (completed) robby x f!oc!charge nurse, when gwen waltzes into robby's ER intent on replacing dana, he's more than a little prickly, but is quickly won over. now, if only he could win her over.

ONE SHOTS:

the fawn -> robby x f!pathologist!reader, after a bad one night stand in med school, you and robby get a second chance twenty years later

once more to see you -> robby x f!charge nurse!reader, after what you thought was a one night stand while on vacation, you're forced to now work in your hook up's emergency room.

you're a cowboy like me -> robby x f!forensic psychologist!reader, you come to the pitt to evaluate a client awaiting his murder trial. robby finds himself wanting to evaluate you instead.

baby goes again -> robby x jack's adopted sister!reader, f!intern!reader, you and robby start sleeping together behind jack's back. when he finds out, all hell breaks loose.

i'm your summer girl -> robby x f!reader, summer vacation romance, you're an old friend of samira's and are invited to a vacation full of doctors, one of which, you develop a huge crush on

tracing back lucky stars -> robby x f!attending!reader, a decade long will they won't they spurred by a fifteen hour car ride that sends you and robby down a path you couldn't change even if you wanted to.

flushed & flustered -> robby x f!resident!reader, emt keeps flirting with you in front of robby and he can't help but react.

but i stayed anyway -> robby x fiancée!reader, you're a clinical psychologist and head to the hospital to help when you heara about the shooting at pitt fest.

time after time -> robby x wife!reader, you're afraid of needles and have migraines, robby helps with your injections.

MISCELLANEOUS, SHORTER FICS, BLURBS, DRABBLES, ETC.

[docrobinavitch]

THE FAWN.

dr robby x f!pathologist!reader | read on ao3

wc: 22.5k content: 18+ mdni, sexually explicit content, no age gap, reader in her mid to late forties, rivals to lovers, med student flash backs, parental death, suicide, suicidal ideation, cat dad!robby, sabbatical!robby, biker!robby, motorcycle accident (minor injuries), whump, angst with happy ending, hurt/comfort, so much domestic fluff, discussions of mental health, complicated parental relationship, like literally so much domesticity it's sickening, robby nicknamed reader bambi back in med school, mostly used in flashbacks, reader has a tattoo synopsis: michael robinavitch was practically your sworn enemy in med school. your sworn enemy that you'd slept with, regretably, once. then twenty years passed and back in pittsburgh, you see one michael robinavitch on hinge. ever the hopeless romantic, you can't help the curiosity that leads you to match with him. unfortunately for you, he doesn't remember you. a/n: this one is for all my fellow hopeless romantics. it's so romantic and dramatic it borders on cringe but whatever. i had a ton of fun writing all my deepest romantic and domestic fantasies. welcome to my dream house, i tried to paint it as cozy as possible. <3 -syd

Your favorite part of being called in to the hospital on a Saturday was the peace and quiet of the lab. Doubly so today, because you were called in during the night shift.

Pathology didn't really have "night shifts" or even weekend shifts so the lab was completely empty when you arrived. Immediately, you set up your space, your speaker, pulled out the iced coffee you'd made at home, unscrewing the cap on the Ball jar.

Originally, you'd planned to spend the night on the couch with your tabby cat, Brutus (named in such a way so when he inevitably destroyed your furniture or knocked your favorite mug off the table you could at least find some whimsy in crying "Et tu, Brute?" theatrically), and a movie that you'd heard would make you cry. You'd been meaning to cry for a while now, but hadn't been able to find the time. You supposed you could push it to another night, depending on how long you ended up being in the hospital tonight.

You hummed along to the playlist you'd started on your speaker as you prepared a blood smear from the sample you'd been called in for.

Jack Abbot was the attending on shift in the ED this evening. You had only met him in person once or twice, but you were glad it was him and not Michael. Or, Robby, it seemed he was going by these days. You hadn't yet run into him since being back at PTMC, but you were not eager to reminisce with him, especially since it was becoming more and more clear that he had no recollection of you.

It shouldn't have bothered you so much. It had been two med school rotations and one extremely disappointing hookup when you'd both gotten too drunk after shift. But he had been instrumental in you picking pathology for residency. At the time, the decision had been full of complicated emotions, resentment, a complete misunderstanding of who you were and what you wanted. But now, well, you thought maybe you owed him your gratitude.

Your phone pinged while you were prepping your slides and you eyed it and found it was a notification from Hinge.

From Robby.

You inhaled slowly and looked away as your screen went dark. You had no idea what the fuck you were doing, chatting with Robby on a dating site. You told yourself you just were curious when your thumb tapped the heart on his profile. Middle aged looked really really good on him, you wouldn't deny that, but you still saw the baby faced, skinny rod of a med student when you looked at him. And when he'd first initiated the chat, you realized very quickly he didn't remember you.

You found yourself preening under his attention, how he complimented your photos and your mind through conversations. The both of you established early on that you didn't want to discuss work beyond confirming that you were both doctors working in PTMC. But you repeatedly dodged his attempts to meet up and grab a drink. You weren't sure how long you could keep it all up without admitting that you knew him already. Intimately, even.

You suspected soon enough, he'd get tired of trying to get you to meet up with him and move on to the next thing. But thus far, he'd been persistent, going on weeks now.

But you didn't have time for him right now so you turned your attention back to your slides. Slipping one beneath the microscope, you focused the knobs slowly, letting your world narrow to the blood sample, the blood cells.

This was why you loved your job. How easy it was to slip outside yourself and into whatever sample you were looking at. There was always a clear answer hiding in the shape of the cells, just beneath the surface. There was always a clear path to diagnosis, to treatment, to healing. Everything made perfect sense under the light of a microscope.

And this sample, as always, made perfect sense after just a few minutes. You sighed, "Shit."

You couldn't risk just sending this back via the online portal for whenever the doctor deigned to check the chart next so you picked up the phone. It rang and rang and rang.

You shook your head and put the phone back on the receiver. As quickly as possible, you documented the chart, still trying to get ahold of someone, but no one was picking up the phone. What the fuck was going on down there?

Impatient, you decided to head down yourself after saving your changes in the chart. You walked briskly towards the elevators, rocked on your heels as you waited.

The second the elevator doors opened you were knocked practically on your ass by the noise and the chaos of the ED. It was rare you came down here at all and every time you did it felt like being thrown back to med school rotations. Suddenly you were again the floundering med student constantly being expected to be on the lookout for the daggers of the other students as well as practice medicine efficiently.

But you were an adult now, not the twenty year old naive kid genius walking around on wobbly legs. Pushing your shoulders back, you shook it off and headed for the hub. Luckily, Dr. Abbot was right there.

"Your phones not working down here or something?" You asked without preamble, hands on your hips.

Abbot looked up at you slowly and then over to the phone. You followed his gaze and saw that the phone was lying off the receiver, "Ah, shit, sorry." He put the receiver back on the hook, "What could be so urgent it coaxes path from the comforts of the cave upstairs?"

You smirked, "Your patient has TTP."

He sighed and picked up an iPad, "Fuck," he muttered when he pulled up the chart you'd just updated, "Okay, um," He shook his head, "I don't think we have the resources down here to start TPE."

You frowned, "Okay… Admit to ICU, then."

He laughed, "Yeah, right. Good luck getting the charge to agree to admit a patient on a Saturday night."

You bit your lip, and then sighed, "Alright, give me… fifteen minutes and I'll be back down here with an apheresis machine, I'll run it."

He raised his eyebrows, "Really? You'd do that?"

You shrugged, "I could run apheresis in my sleep."

Slowly Abbot nodded and smirked at you, "Alright, great. Thank you."

Later, you sat in the hub of the emergency department after setting up the patient for TPE and finally opened your messages from Michael—Robby, you corrected yourself.

What's my favorite homebody up to this evening? Any way I can convince you to grab a drink?

You stifled a smirk and typed back, I'm on call tonight. Sorry, cowboy.

"Hey," You looked up to see Abbot leaning over the counter to look at you, "Seriously, thank you for staying."

"No problem," You eyed the chaos around you, "Seemed like you guys could use the help."

"Always." He laughed and nodded, "Listen, some of us in the ED are getting together for a poker night next Friday, would you… be interested in coming?"

You blinked up at him, unsure of what to make of the offer. Was he flirting or just being nice? You'd heard that Jack Abbot flirted with everyone, so likely he didn't mean anything by it at all. While you were trying to figure it out, your phone pinged again. Robby. You flipped your phone facedown on the workstation desk.

"Why not?" You said and smiled up at him.

"Great," He unlocked his phone and handed it to you, "Here, put your number in and I'll text you the details."

Having entered your information, you returned his phone to him and then he was off. Sighing, you turned back to your phone to open Robby's latest message.

They're working you too hard. I thought path was supposed to be easy?

You rolled your eyes at this, but were unsurprised. For as much as you remembered him complaining about surgeons during your rotations, that they had a superiority complex, he had the same issues. And so had you, once upon a time, but you had grown out of it.

Having a work-life balance doesn't make the whole specialty "easy."

Almost immediately, a reply was on your phone: Sorry, I didn't mean to diminish your specialty. The ED would cease to function without collaboration from path, I know that. And your diagnoses have saved our asses on multiple occasions when we were busy chasing zebras.

Well. That was new. An apology without hesitation that seemed to drip through with humility and sincerity.

Though, it also was not lost on you that he had incentive to be nicer to you in the context of a dating app considering he'd been trying to fuck you for the last few weeks.

Apology accepted, you texted back, I know your true frustration lies with the inability to have your way with me tonight. You stifled a smile after hitting send. It reminded you of being in college, the casual flirtation. You hadn't had time for this sort of thing in med school or residency, doing your best to just survive. Then, when you were finally an attending, you were so burnt out you remembered practically sleep walking through the first couple of years. By the time that was all over, you felt so out of practice you'd mostly isolated yourself until now.

You'd had a few one night stands since creating a Hinge profile, but since you and Robby had begun chatting he had taken up all of your mental space. This irritated you greatly on top of the fact that he didn't seem to remember you.

And here I thought I was doing an excellent job at concealing my desperation.

You huffed a laugh and shook your head, Could you show me just how desperate you are for me?

You fidgeted with your fingers anxiously as you waited for his response, wondering for just a few moments if you had been too brazen, too forward—The phone pinged.

You slid open your phone and felt lightheaded as you took in the photo he'd sent you. His fist was wrapped around the considerable length of his very erect cock, dark tufts of hair at the base of his fist. You had both been pretty drunk the time you'd hooked up in the darkness of Robby's messy studio apartment and as he'd had trouble maintaining an erection that night, you'd never gotten a good look at it. Not like this.

There was a lump in your throat and you swallowed hard as another message came through: The photos you sent in that pretty lingerie set will have to do for tonight.

You felt your cheeks heat and blinked the steamy feeling from your eyes. Locking your phone, you placed it face down in front of you and stared off into the distance for a while.

And after a minute or so of this, when your galloping heart slowed and lucid thinking began to ease its way behind your eyes again, you had only a single thought:

Oh, no.

***

An unseasonable heat wave had domed around Pittsburgh the last couple of days and so when Robby headed to Jack's place for poker night that Friday, the sun had gone down, but the residual heat warmed him enough that he didn't need a jacket.

He had been waffling back and forth on whether or not to skip the night all together. The week had been crushing him, slowly, a boulder rolling incremently into a brick wall, an unstoppable force.

There had been a few patients they'd lost that really stuck with him this week. They'd been short on residents which meant he'd had to do a bit more hands on care than usual.

And more and more when he found things growing particularly dark, he'd reach for you. You, with your gorgeous smile and silly cat and constant, almost oppressive optimism.

He'd tease you about it, but really he admired it. How no matter how bleak of a day you had, he had, you'd find a way to turn it on its head.

Sure, you'd had to stage the breast cancer of a woman in her thirties and the news wasn't good, but you'd gotten to hold her hand and tell her about all the ground breaking treatment that was available to her. Sure, you'd cried about her for days later, but she'd sent you a card the next week thanking you for the simple act of holding her hand. Of showing her kindness. And maybe you'd get to see her through to remission as you'd done for countless others.

That was your favorite part, you'd tell him. Diagnosing sucked, but treatment plans and seeing people through to the other side, sliding biopsies under your microscope to see healthy tissue. Remission.

"That's why you're so miserable down there," You'd told him, "You mostly see people on their worst days, you don't get to celebrate with them when they make it to recovery. You don't get to see the returns."

He craved your perspective, wanted desperately to have it himself. But he wasn't sure it was possible for him the way it was for you. With your nine to five and weekends off and time to date—though apparently, not time for him.

He had thought at first that you were simply waiting him out, waiting to see if he'd lose interest. You'd been open about the fact that your time on dating apps had largely led you to become disillusioned with the possibility of a real, fulfilling relationship. He felt the same, mostly. The only thing the apps had ever been good for was a night or two to fill the oppressive silence of his house.

But he continued trying with you, which had led to the two of you sexting and him being as open as he could remember being in recent years about how badly he wanted someone. Still, you avoided him.

He'd texted you earlier to see if you were around tonight and you had left him on read, so begrudgingly, he'd be going to poker night instead. Anything other than being alone with his thoughts tonight after they'd lost a woman with eclampsia and her baby.

But when he walked into Jack's living room, a beer in hand, he was stunned to see you sitting on the couch, immersed in conversation with Mckay and Al Hashimi.

Your eyes darted to his and then quickly away, but he saw the way your eyes widened and your chest swelled. You didn't know he was going to be there.

"Hey man, you made it," Jack clapped Robby on the shoulder, "Glad you came."

But Robby couldn't tear his eyes off you, "You invited path?"

Jack followed his gaze, "Oh, yeah, she helped us out last weekend with a TTP patient. Figured it was only polite. Honestly, I didn't think she'd come. Why, do you know her?"

With effort, Robby tore his eyes away from you, "Wha—? Oh, no. No more than you do, you know, the rare occasion path comes down."

Jack narrowed his eyes at Robby, "Right," he said slowly, "Okay. Well, can I interest you in a round of Blackjack?"

Robby chuckled and shook his head, "No thank you, learned my lesson years ago not to play cards with you."

Jack smirked and watched as Robby's gaze flitted back to you, "I think she's too well adjusted for you."

Robby's head whipped back around, a hot flush crawling up his neck, "Excuse me?" He said through nervous laughter.

Jack shrugged, "I'm just saying, she seems like she wouldn't tolerate your bullshit and you'd probably get bored at how… normal she is."

Robby blinked at him, "Who said I'm interested?"

Jack rolled his eyes, "Please, don't insult me, brother. The last time I saw you look at a woman like that was the first time you met Heather. And you'll recall she also was unwilling to put up with your bullshit."

He knew Jack was mostly being playful, but it stung nonetheless, the thought that someone else besides himself thought he was incapable of being in a healthy and loving relationship. That no one in their right mind could want to stay with him.

For just a second he was eight years old again wondering if he was such a terrible, rotten son that it'd pushed his mother to end her own life—The thought rushed up against the dam in his brain and just as quickly receded. He wouldn't think about that. Not now. Not here.

He forced a smile for Jack, "You don't need to remind me. I remember."

After a moment Jack squeezed his shoulders, "But what do I know, hm? Go shoot your shot."

Robby rolled his eyes, "You have far too many Gen Z staff on your shift."

But still, Robby wandered over to you eventually, surprised to find that he was a bit nervous, "Is this why you didn't answer my text earlier?" He asked quietly as he sat down.

You turned just a bit towards him, "I didn't think you'd be here, honestly. It doesn't seem like your scene."

He laughed, "Meaning?"

"Meaning it's too… jovial," You teased.

He ran a hand over the back of his head, "Well, I'm glad I came. It's nice to finally meet you in person."

You grimaced, "Yeah, we've met before, Michael."

He frowned and turned fully to you, "What're you—? No we haven't."

You nodded slowly, "We have, yeah. We went to med school together. Did rotations together."

For a moment he paused and tilted his head, turned your name over in his head, "No… No, you're too young to have gone to med school with me—" His eyes caught on your wrist as your fingers tapped lightly against the glass of your beer bottle. A tattoo in looping scroll that read As you wish. With a dagger beneath the words. The feeling of nostalgia almost violently overtook him. There was only one other woman he'd ever met who had that tattoo of a quote from The Princess Bride in that exact spot.

"Bambi?" He asked, sounding almost breathless.

You wrinkled your nose and turned away from him, "I always hated that nickname."

But Robby couldn't tear his eyes off you. There were a million thoughts running through his head as suddenly images flashed behind his eyes, the two of you twenty years younger and constantly at each other's throats, desperate to prove you were better than the other. But the first thought that he blurted out of his mouth was, "You went into pathology?"

You laughed and shook your head, "I knew you didn't mean it when you said you respected my specialty—"

"That's not what I meant—"

"What else could you have meant by the condescension dripping from your tone right now?"

He opened and closed his mouth before hanging his head, "I'm just… Surprised, is all. You were… a force in the ER. You could have had your pick of any emergency medicine residency in the country, surely."

You stared ahead for a few moments, tightlipped and eyes glossy, "Emergency medicine nearly burned me out just at rotations, I imagine I would have been… a shell of myself had I stayed. And at the time, you certainly agreed."

He huffed in indignation, "That is categorically false, I thought you were brilliant."

"Well you sure had a funny way of showing it. Talking over me, talking down to me in front of attendings, basically celebrating every mistake I made—"

"Everyone else practically worshiped you. I was just trying to make sure I wasn't overlooked. You know how cutthroat it was down there—"

"Exactly," You nodded, "Which is why I'm actually grateful for the way you treated me. It wore me down enough that I knew if I couldn't get through even a rotation or two, there was no way I'd make it through a residency. Not in that environment."

He pressed his lips together and looked down at his hands, "Look, I'm… I apologize… For how I spoke to you back then, I was a stupid kid, I was just trying to survive as best I knew how. It's not an excuse, I just. I'm sorry."

You didn't seem upset as you looked at him, eyes gently passing over his face. You lifted the beer bottle to your lips and he watched the lights refract off the glass.

"It's fine," You said eventually, "You were far from the only reason I went into path."

"Why didn't you say anything? When we—When we started talking? Why didn't you tell me?"

You shrugged, "I thought maybe you'd forgotten me altogether. Or worse, that remembering me would mean you'd no longer be interested."

You carefully avoided looking at him when you said this, but screwed your mouth down to the side as you chewed your cheek.

Robby sat back and took a sip from his own beer, "It seems like I should have been the one to worry about that. Since I was the one who treated you so horribly."

You cleared your throat and turned back towards him. He was struck again by a sense of nostalgia at the intensity in your gaze. He had nicknamed you Bambi all those years ago because of your skittishness, the way that everything seemed to terrify you. Despite how smart you were and how clearly gifted a doctor you would become, you were easily startled and easily overwhelmed by the din of the emergency room. It hadn't been all that uncommon to find you in the ambulance bay after a hard case, slouched on the ground against the wall, hands trembling as they cradled your face.

But it had also been the intensity in your eyes, how every emotion was always so clearly reflected in their glossy pools, that had been the real inspiration behind the nickname. He had never intended it to be cruel, though it appeared that's how you'd interpreted it. It was something he had admired about you, the ease with which you'd connected with your patients because the empathy was so clear on your face. Of course, he had never told you that. Afraid to let on to any perceived weakness around you.

He suspected, though, that you hated the nickname because he had also used it as a weapon against your naivete. He remembered the ways he'd called attention to your age and when the Bambi nickname had spread there had been no way for you to escape it.

Now, though, your eyes were glossy again and he felt bowled over by the way you stared at him, a wistfulness in your expression, "Are you actually sorry or is it just that you think I'm hot now?"

He was so surprised by your question, he gave out a short laugh, "Please, I thought you were hot then, too."

You snorted, "Well, now I know you're lying."

"The nickname Bambi, if nothing else, implies that I found you adorable at the very least."

You rolled your eyes, "Even if I agreed with that assessment—which I don't—it was very clear from that one time we slept together that you were uninterested—"

"Woah—woah—woah— back up. When we slept together?"

You looked at him blankly for a few moments, "Oh my God," You said quickly, seemingly embarrassed as you looked away from him, "You don't remember. It was so bad you don't even remember."

Robby's brain was still working overtime to catch up with you, "Hold on—I would remember sleeping with you."

You stood up from the couch, and he remembered this about you—You had been spooked, you were about to dart back into the woods, never to be seen again. But he stood at the same time, towering above you, "Don't go," he said quietly, "whatever happened was twenty something years ago, it doesn't mean anything—"

"It does to me." You said firmly, "Excuse me," And you forced your way past him.

Robby watched you walk away for a moment, then turned his head to see Jack shaking his head, a slight smirk on his face. A very blatant I told you so if Robby'd ever seen one.

"Shit," Robby muttered under his breath and hung his head.

***

TWENTY SOMETHING YEARS AGO

Michael was being very touchy that evening and overly kind, paying for your drinks and wrapping an arm around you in the booth. It was making you shy. Despite the way he talked to you, at you, over you, there were cases every now and then when you caught him looking at you with what looked like awe or reverence. But just as quickly, it'd dissipate and you'd be left wondering if you'd imagined it.

"Let me walk you home," he said, slurring only a little, his words just slightly stumbling into one another like dominos. He wrapped your jacket around your shoulders as he spoke.

"I'm fine," You smiled at him, "I think you're the one who needs to be walked home."

He held up his hands in mock surrender, a boyish grin on his face, "You got me. I do need to be chaperoned home if you would be so kind."

You rolled your eyes, but secretly you were pleased. You wanted to be his friend, wanted him to respect you so you didn't have to keep having panic attacks alone in the bathroom. You were still very much like a scared little kid in that way, just wanting at least one other person to just see you, truly.

So you allowed Michael to swing his arm around your shoulders as he directed you towards his place. It was just a couple of blocks from the hospital, but when you got to the building, a rundown, brutalist slab of concrete, you frowned, "You live here?"

"Now, don't sound so disgusted, princess," he teased and pulled you along behind him inside the building, "Not all of us have wealthy parents to fund our gorgeous apartments in buildings that have doormen."

You felt your cheeks heat, "That's not—That's not entirely true." He looked at you dubiously, eyebrows raised, and you furrowed yours, "I pay for my utilities," You grumbled.

He chuckled and ran a hand over his jaw before sliding his key into his door.

"If it's not too revolting to you," He said softly as he pushed the door open, "You're welcome to come inside for a drink."

Something changed in the tone of his voice and as you tried to place it, you saw the way his eyes roved down your body.

You had never had sex with anyone before, had never had the time. You were in college by the time you were fifteen and because you were so young no one really wanted to hang out with you. You didn't get invited to parties or study sessions (unless someone was trying to inadvertently get you to do their homework). Once you got to medical school, you were still only seventeen, still too young for any of your peers to show much interest.

When you turned twenty one, the shift had been subtle. But suddenly, you were being included to go out for drinks. Then people raised their eyebrows less when you said you were in med school. The stares lingered longer and traveled farther.

And now Michael was looking at you like that, too.

Maybe you should've thought it over more, said goodnight and gone straight home. But you were so painfully lonely. You should've hated him for the way he'd treated you, but it only spurred you on. You were used to having to compete for scraps of love from people who seemed to not like you much. Had been doing it since you learned to talk.

So you followed him inside.

It was freezing inside his apartment. So cold, in fact, your breath was beginning to cloud in front of you.

"Jesus Christ, Michael, is your heat broken or something?"

"Uh, no," He said from the kitchen. You heard the sound of glasses and bottles clinking before he reappeared, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and two glasses in the other, "Just… trying to conserve. But we can turn the heat on for you, princess." He said with a wink.

You sat on his couch with your arms crossed and felt your lip jut out in a pout, "I'm not spoiled, you know. I just—It's just as cold outside as it is in here. Can't be good for you. Or the pipes."

"Many of us," He said as he poured you each a glass, amber liquid sloshing up the sides, "Had to learn to live without. I didn't grow up in a mansion like you."

You scoffed, "I'm not the sort of rich you think I am, I grew up in the suburbs. My parents still have to work for a living. Yes, it was comfortable, but we're not fucking millionaires. We don't have, like, a fucking second house in the Hamptons."

He nodded, "Still seems pretty rich to me."

You rolled your eyes, "Well, what do your parents do then?"

That insufferable smirk finally fell from his face and for a second you felt vindicated.

"If you must know," He started, staring intently at the liquor in his glass, "I don't know who my father is, never met him. And my mother killed herself when I was eight. I found her swinging from the rafters one day when I got home from school."

You stared at him, stunned, while he knocked back the rest of his whiskey and poured himself another, "My grandparents took me in after that and then when I was sixteen, my grandfather died. When I was twenty, my grandmother joined him. So now it's just me."

He raised his glass, forced smile on his face, "May their memories be a blessing." He said, and tossed back the entirety of his drink in one go.

"Michael," you said softly, reaching for him when he began to pour more whiskey, "I'm sorry, I didn't—"

Not unkindly, he pushed your hand away, "You know, I've been thinking that I want people to start calling me Robby."

You frowned, thrown by the change in subject, "What?"

"Yeah, I just, people have trouble with Robinavitch. And Adamson asked me, if he could call me Robby. And I—I really like him and I want him to like me so I think—I think I'm just gonna have everyone call me Robby. It sounds friendlier, don't you think? Once I become a doctor? Doctor Robby."

You felt a sort of tenderness towards him now, after he'd revealed so much of himself to you. You had the distinct urge to hold him, cradle him to you, tell him it was all going to be okay.

"I like Michael," You said quietly, "If it's alright with you."

Finally he met your gaze again and his eyes softened just slightly. Slowly, as if afraid to scare you off, he reached a hand out to cup your cheek. When you leaned into his palm, he stroked his thumb against your cheek bone.

"Sure, Bambi. You can still call me Michael."

You couldn't say which of you closed the distance first, just that the next thing you remembered, his warm, wet mouth was on yours.

At first, the kisses were slow and hesitant. You remembered it was you who deepened it, a whine clamoring out of your throat and into his mouth.

Before you knew it, you had climbed into his lap and pushed him down into the couch. You felt him harden against you and it felt instinctual, the way your hips ground down against him, chasing the friction.

"Fuck," he breathed into your mouth, his hand cradling the back of your neck, "This good?"

You nodded fervently, "Do you have a condom?"

He raised his eyebrows, "Are you sure?"

You nodded again and so he pushed his hand between you, pushing his hand into the pocket of his jeans to pull out a foil packet.

You blinked, "Were you… planning this?"

"No," He said and teared the packet open with his teeth, "But I like to be prepared just in case."

Rolling your eyes, you pulled back to allow him to push his jeans and boxers down. His cock sprung up between you and you felt your breaths grow shallow as you watched him work the condom on.

Carefully, you hiked your dress up to your hips, hoping he didn't notice the way your hands shook. His eyes stayed on yours as you shifted your underwear to the side and slowly lowered yourself onto him.

"Oh, God." He sighed, sounding just a breathless as you felt at the stretch of him. It burned for just a moment, almost pleasantly, "Look at me," He said and your eyes locked back on his.

You leaned your forehead against his as you slowly moved your hips along the length of him, "Is this—Is it good?" You asked, your voice small and uncertain.

"Yeah," He said quickly, pushed his mouth up into yours, "So good," he whispered into your mouth.

But less than a minute later, the sensation changed. It was difficult to move against him, in fact, you weren't even sure he was inside you anymore, "Did you—I mean—Are you—soft?" You could hear your own panic and desperation in your voice as your hips slowed.

A scarlet flush was creeping up his throat and he squeezed his eyes shut, as if to avoid your gaze, "Yeah, I—I think so. S'probably whiskey dick." He finally opened his eyes and maybe sensed your impending humiliation, "Hey—hey—it's not you," He cupped your cheeks with both hands, "It's not you, I swear, you're perfect."

He pulled your face down to his again and you allowed yourself to get lost in the taste of him again, "It's me," he murmured between kisses, "I'm fuckin' defective, it's my fault."

"Michael—"

"Come up here, sit on my face," He said abruptly.

You raised your eyebrows, "Wh—what?"

"Please," He said, sounding desperate, "Please, I wanna taste you. Lemme take care of you."

You sighed and hid your face in your hands, "You don't have to, like, make it up to me—"

"I want to," he said again, "If you do, too. Please."

You couldn't deny that the idea of it had embers of arousal stirring in your belly. You hadn't prepared for the possibility of someone's mouth on you like that, but you didn't want to admit that to him. You didn't want to have to explain the depth of your inexperience lest it kill whatever remained of his desire.

So, you swallowed and moved your way up his body, let him position you, his arms wrapped around your thighs and pulling you to his mouth.

You were immediately overwhelmed by the sensation, gasping and whimpering when he moaned against you, your whole body twitching as it reverberated through your core.

But again, it wasn't long before things slowed, and then—stopped completely. Blinking, you looked down and saw that Michael had fallen asleep.

No, he couldn't have—could he? You leaned in a bit closer, leaning back to fully pull yourself off his face. Oh my God, was that drool on the corner of his mouth?

Mortified, and at a loss for what else to do, you carefully and quietly climbed off him, grabbed your things, and slipped out of his apartment. Heels in hand, you paused outside of his door and exhaled in relief.

You left his apartment feeling even more conflicted about him than before and also feeling a bit dejected. This was the guy who had once tripped you up in a trauma and then said "Don't worry Bambi, it's normal to be a bit wobbly on your legs when you're still just a fawn."

It shouldn't have surprised you at all that he found you unattractive, that obviously he had only allowed you to initiate because you were sat in front of him, willing and able. Like an idiot. Like the naive little kid he had told everyone you were.

You felt stupid and humiliated. And God knew you didn't believe in the fucking patriarchal construct of virginity, but you couldn't deny it made you feel a bit bitter that you had wasted it on Michael Robinavitch. You wouldn't make such an idiotic decision ever again.

He could say a lot about you, but you'd never made the same mistake twice. You didn't intend to start now.

***

Robby watched you through the glass, leaned over Jack's balcony with your arms wrapped around yourself.

This had to be a new record of how quickly he could fuck things up with a potential romantic partner. Once he'd recognized you, he'd felt stupid that he hadn't recognized you immediately when he saw your profile. And maybe there had been some familiarity there, something he'd mistaken for instant attraction and chemistry.

That said, he had wracked his brain and the two of you sleeping together he was near positive had never happened. Or at least, for the life of him, he couldn't remember it. And yes it was true he'd always given you a hard time, but he had also always been enamored by you. Honestly, he'd thought it'd been obvious, especially towards the end of M4.

So he found it hard to believe that he wouldn't remember that. But he also didn't think that you were a liar.

Carefully, he slid the glass door open and stepped outside. The night had cooled significantly since his arrival and as he got closer to you, he saw goosebumps along your arms. You didn't startle when he came up next to you and positioned himself at such an angle as to shield you from the breeze.

"I'm sorry that I don't remember," He said softly after a few moments, "But I'd like you to tell me about it, if you're up for it."

You shook your head, "It's not your fault. It was really horrible, I don't blame you for not remembering."

He groaned, "You know, you could say a lot of shit about me and I wouldn't blink, but hearing I'm bad in bed is a new one for me and I'm not a fan."

You laughed and turned to him, "Oh yeah? You've become something of a casanova in your old age?"

He winced, "Not that old."

You hummed and turned back towards the treeline, "What was it? That made you finally remember me tonight?"

"The Princess Bride tattoo."

You looked at your wrist, "Huh. I would've thought this was one of the things you picked on me for behind my back. Called it childish."

He shook his head, "Nah, The Princess Bride's a classic. I actually always really liked it, thought it was romantic."

You rolled your eyes at that, as if you didn't quite believe him, but didn't comment further. After a moment you sighed, "It was during MS4. We were almost done with our last rotation in the ER and some of the residents invited us out for drinks."

"Oh," Robby said, frowning, "I do remember that. I got really drunk and you walked me back to my apartment."

You nodded, "Right."

"But we didn't… I invited you in for a drink and…" He trailed off. He was drawing a blank, "Did you come inside? I just thought… You never liked me, I thought for sure you declined. I don't remember anything after that."

You narrowed your eyes at him and then sighed, "Well, you did down something like three fingers of whiskey in quick succession once we got in your apartment so I guess it's possible you blacked out."

"You always made me nervous so it's no surprise I drank so much."

You opened and closed your mouth for a moment, but then shook your head quickly, "Yeah, I guess that was it."

"Then what happened?"

You sighed, "We really don't have to rehash this—"

"Please," he pushed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, "I want to know."

You shook your head and then shrugged, "Fine. About a minute after you put it in, I was riding you and you went soft. So then you… you asked me to sit on your face instead. Which I did. And a minute or two later you… fell asleep."

Robby was silent for a moment as he processed what you'd said. You were deliberately looking away from him, running a hand nervously over the back of your neck.

"Wow," He said finally, "And you still liked my Hinge profile decades later?"

You gave a short laugh, "I was curious if anything had changed, I guess."

He hummed, "A lot has changed, I would say." He ran a finger lightly over the back of your arm and watched as goosebumps spread—But you didn't move away, not even when he bent to your ear and said lowly, "I'd like a chance to make it up to you."

You swallowed and then turned to face him, your faces impossibly close, "Have you ever been married, Michael?"

He frowned and pulled away marginally, "Um… no? Have you?"

You shook your head and looked off into the distance over his shoulder, wistfully, "I got close, once." You sighed, "Listen, I'm too old to be doing this… friends with benefits, situationship, whatever, bullshit. Sex is great, but I have plenty of vibrators that do the job just fine and without the emotional turmoil. So I'm not interested in casual sex. I'm looking for a partner, not a dildo. If you want me you'll have to romance me and mean it."

Robby's eyes roved over your face. Maybe it was your shared memories or the fact that you knew him before he was broken beyond repair, but he felt a tender ache in his chest looking into your eyes. Just as warm and inviting as he remembered.

There were few people these days who could entice him to commit to anything. A real relationship meant having to open himself up to someone else. Allowing them to see the ugliest parts of himself and hope they didn't leave. It usually ended in him lashing out instead so at least he had some semblence of control over the end of the relationship.

Or at least, that was the hypothesis of his last therapist, who he still wasn't entirely sure wasn't full of shit.

But either way, when he thought about pursuing a real, full relationship with you, he didn't feel his usual urge to run. Instead, he felt a curiosity. The need to take you apart, to learn you like he would a medical procedure.

Maybe he wasn't broken after all. Maybe he could have full, healthy relationships like everyone else.

He brought one of his hands up to your neck, watched how you tried to stifle the urge to lean into his touch—Good, you were touch starved, just like him—and his thumb lightly toyed with one of the hoops hanging from your ear.

"'As you wish'." He said softly, a smirk on his face. You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth tugged upward.

"What? You don't believe me?" He tilted his head downward to force eye contact with you, "I've been the one begging you to go on a date with me for weeks."

"A date?" You raised your eyebrows, "They're calling a drink at the bar before taking someone to bed a date now, are they?"

He scoffed, "What, so you want a string quartet and a night out at the ballet?"

You furrowed your brow, "And so what if I did?"

He stared at you for a moment and then chuckled, "Then I'd tell you to wear your favorite dress."

You narrowed your eyes, but then shook your head, "Just dinner would be more than enough."

He nodded, "I can do that. Would you allow me to cook for you?"

You smirked and ran your hands up his forearms, "Sure, but it has to be at my place."

He grinned, ran his thumb back and forth across the skin just below your ear, "Friday night?"

You tilted your head a bit, "You're serious about this?"

"Yeah," He said softly, eyes heavy lidded from both alcohol and desire as he looked into your face, "Are you?"

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips as your eyes darted back and forth between his eyes, assessing. You still didn't quite believe him, he could tell. You had always been distrustful, convinced everyone was out to hurt you to a nearly paranoid level. The decades it seemed had done nothing to smooth that over.

But still, you nodded and leaned forward, pressing a warm kiss to his cheek, "See you Friday, Michael."

He watched as you walked back inside, conscious of the heat that pulsed against the skin where your lips had been just moments before.

***

"What do you think, Brutus?" You asked, your cat sidling between your legs as you looked at yourself in your floor length mirror. You had chosen form fitting, but simple clothes. A ribbed black sweater and your favorite pair of jeans. "Do you think he'll like it?"

Brutus trilled and stood up on his hind legs, stretching his front paws against your legs, a very clear request to be picked up. You looked down at him and smirked, "You're gonna get cat hair all over my sweater."

He mewled again, claws gently pricking at your jeans before quickly receding. You sighed, already defeated. You could never say no to him. You bent to scoop him up to your chest, pressing your nose into his face as he immediately began purring, "I know you don't like guests, but you have to be on your best behavior tonight, okay? No knocking glassware over if I'm not paying attention to you," You peppered kisses all over his head, "It's not polite."

The doorbell rang and you quickly lowered Brutus back down, running your hands over your sweater in an attempt to brush off the cat hair.

Sliding across the hardwood in your socked feet, you took one deep breath before pulling your front door open.

There in your doorway stood Michael Robinavitch in a button down and jeans, one hand holding a thermal bag you assumed was full of groceries, the other a bottle of wine.

He grinned when you opened the door, his eyes trailing lazily down your body, giving you a once over before meeting your eyes again.

"Hi," You said and stepped to the side, "Come in."

You watched him take in your home as he walked in, kicking off his shoes by the door without you having to ask.

Without a partner to appease or children you'd spent a lot of time creating a calming, beautiful space just for yourself. It resulted in a lot of warm lighting and soothing colors. Lots of windows and cozy nooks. The kitchen was big and open with huge bay windows looking into your backyard behind the sink. As you padded gently behind Robby, you watched him take stock of the sun setting through those windows.

"This is gorgeous." He said, eyes on the fresh tulips that sat in a vase on the island.

"Thank you," You said, and took the wine bottle from his hand, "It's my favorite place in the whole world."

He smirked as he placed the groceries on the counter, "Now I understand why it's so hard to get you to leave."

You took wine glasses down from your cabinet and opened the wine he'd brought, pouring you each a glass and bringing his over to him as he began unpacking the groceries he'd brought.

"What're you making?"

He pulled out a loaf of Challah bread and offered you a piece as he spread everything else out in front of him, "Um, some salad, roast chicken, and potato kugel."

You hummed, "Where'd you learn that?"

He began prepping the veggies and you watched his hands. You remembered from med school you had always been enamored by watching skilled hands at work, especially in the ED. Watching him now you had that same feeling as the wine began to warm you from the inside out.

"They're my grandma's recipes. She used to make this every Friday for Shabbos dinner."

Your mouth fell open slightly in surprise and immediately, you felt touched, "That's… really lovely, Michael. I'm honored that you'd share them with me."

He looked up at you for a moment, smiling, but shrugged his shoulders, "It's the only meal I really know how to cook well because she taught me. I don't do much cooking these days."

You tried not to let his dismissiveness disappoint you, "Do you still… I mean, are you observing Shabbos this weekend?"

He shook his head, "No, no, if I was I'd already have broken the rules," He jerked his head towards the bay windows, where the sky was beginning to bruise, "No cooking after sundown. I don't really practice anymore, but I sometimes go to synagogue on High Holidays."

You let a few moments pass in silence before speaking again, "Can I help?"

He shook his head, "No, you just sit there and look pretty."

The two of you made small talk about work, discussing funny patients or over eager med students, until he put his dishes in the oven.

"Do you want to sit on the porch?" You asked as he washed his hands.

"That sounds lovely," He said, drying his hands on your dish towel before following you outside with his glass of wine.

You tucked your legs underneath yourself as you sat on the love seat, the chill of the spring night had you reaching for the throw blanket. But Robby got there first, gently draping it over your legs and then his own lap. You pretended not to be flustered when he pulled your feet into his lap, tenderly kneading his fingers into the arch of your foot as he sipped his wine.

Over the years, you'd brought men to your place many times. You'd even had the occasional relationship that grew to the point of your partner moving into your place, because it was a nonstarter for any partner to suggest you sell your house, something you were always clear about at the start of the relationship. Maybe it would be the reason you never had a lifelong partner, but you had put an enormous amount of work into this house to create a sanctuary of sorts. It was where you were happiest. You had no desire to live anywhere else. You doubted you'd ever love anyone as much as you loved this house.

But Robby being here, it felt different than it had felt with all others. It felt natural to have him here, like this, cooking dinner in your kitchen, sitting on the porch with you while you told him about the study you'd just been awarded a grant to start. After residency, you'd sworn off dating doctors all together. But there was something refreshing about discussing renal cell carcinoma with Robby and him asking follow up questions that were more complex than "what's a renal cell?"

It felt like he fit here with you, like he could slot into your life effortlessly. But you supposed that could just be the forlorn romantic in you desperate for anyone to desire you again.

"Where'd you go for your residency?" Robby asked.

"Chicago," You said, "Northwestern Memorial. What about you?"

"New Orleans. Big Charity Hospital."

You opened and closed your mouth, thinking silently for a few moments. Trying to remember what years the two of you had gone off to residency and when you would have finished. And the realization of when had your stomach slowly sinking. "Wasn't… Wasn't Katrina during residency?"

He wasn't looking at you, staring off into the darkness of the trees behind your house. His face was partially lit by the candles you'd brought outside. When he nodded, you couldn't get a good read on his expression, but it suddenly felt very cold around you. As if the ghosts had lowered around his shoulders.

"That must have sucked," You said softly, "I'm sorry."

He cleared his throat and looked down at his wine glass, "It was a long time ago."

One thing that had changed about Robby was his openness. Years ago, in med school, you only needed to get him a single beer deep before he was pouring out his most intimate thoughts. Obviously, the time you'd slept together, that had been the most he'd ever revealed to you. About his parents and grandparents. But even before that, he'd opened up to you about his insecurities as a doctor and even when he was having trouble with significant others.

Now, he seemed to be dismissive of his troubles. Never wanting the focus on him for too long. He used to be what your mother would call a peacock, charming to an almost offensive degree. He was impossible to dislike and had everyone thinking they were his best friend. That had all changed. You could feel the barrier he'd put up between you. What had happened to him between then and now to have changed him so drastically?

Likely, you supposed, it started with Katrina.

Another reason you had decided against going into emergency medicine had been that you knew you were too soft for it. Just the rotations had been so detrimental to your well being. You had thought you loved it while you were in it, but the second you were out of it, you realized you had been in survival mode the entire time. Outside of it, you cried for weeks straight, grieving every person you'd watched die and especially the ones that had died on your watch. The heaviness of that responsibility was too much. A lifetime of it would've broken you.

It would break anyone, you imagined. And as you watched Robby curiously, you realized for the first time since reuniting with him just how haunted he had become. You had thought with his easy charm and smile that he was still the same kid, but he had changed. The years had slowly eroded him, smoothed some edges and sharpened others.

A timer went off a few moments later and Robby flashed you a quick smile, carefully removing your feet from his lap, "You hungry?"

"Starved," You said, allowing him to take your hand and gently pull you to standing.

The food was delicious. You caught Robby staring at you more than once over the candles when you licked your fingers or groaned in pleasure, mischief in his eyes.

You had to fight him to let you do the dishes, insisting it was only fair since he had cooked. He protested for a bit until you sternly repeated that you'd be doing the dishes and since he was a guest here, you demanded he relax on the couch while you cleaned up. Eventually, he gave up, sighing heavily and pressing a sweet kiss to your cheek, "Thank you," he murmured, sounding bone tired.

When the last dish was loaded in the dish washer, the cookware washed, the counters wiped down, you found Robby nearly fast asleep, stretched out on your couch. Brutus had come out for the first time since he'd arrived and was now hesitantly sniffing at his hand which hung over the edge of the couch.

"What d'you think, Brutus?" You whispered, "Is he good enough to eat?"

A chuckle rumbled deep in Robby's chest and Brutus scampered off, sufficiently frightened by the sudden movement. Robby cracked an eye open to look up at you, reaching with both arms towards you, "C'mere before I eat you."

You hesitated for just a moment before crawling over him, sighing contentedly as his arms wrapped tightly around you, your ear pressed to his chest.

You were reminded again of that one night with him decades ago, you atop him not unlike this, trying to warm yourself with his body in the frigid apartment.

"It's strange," you said softly, "I don't really know you anymore, but I feel like I understand you more now than I did then."

He hummed, "That's funny. You're still just as much a mystery to me as you were twenty years ago."

You lifted your head from his chest so you could see his face and felt his breath fan your cheeks, "I'm an open book, you just have to ask."

"Why pathology?"

You pursed your lips, brow furrowed in thought, "I liked the simplicity of it. That there were rules and structures and always a correct answer. There's always a clear path to and from diagnosis."

He shook his head, "I know you applied to the emergency medicine residency at Big Charity. I was the second choice, they wanted you."

You felt your cheeks heat, "I—It was so long ago, it doesn't matter—"

"No, you're right, it doesn't matter anymore," He ran a soothing hand down the back of your head to your neck, "It certainly mattered to me then. I was so pissed off at you those first few weeks of intern year when I found out. I tried calling every emergency medicine department in the country I could think of to find you."

You smirked, "You looked for me?"

He nodded, "Never crossed my mind that you would've gone into a different specialty. And pathology even? I never would have guessed. You were so good in the emergency room. A natural. I bet if I threw you in my ED now you'd do just as good as most of my residents."

You gave a short laugh, "Absolutely not, I don't even remember most of my rotations. Honestly, they were so hard for me I think part of my brain blacked it out."

He narrowed his eyes, "Yeah, they're hard for everyone, it's the emergency department."

You nodded, "I know. And I didn't want the rest of my life to look like that."

"Look like what?"

You opened your mouth for a moment and then sighed, "Like I was struggling to stay afloat in a sea of constant compounding grief."

He shook his head slowly, "I remember those rotations, you helped save a lot of people."

You nodded, "At the expense of my sanity, yeah."

"You don't think it would be worth it?"

You tilted your head slightly, "To martyr myself? Do you?"

He sighed and looked away from you, "I used to think so, yeah."

Robby used to come alive in the emergency department, as you recalled it. You knew he was empathetic and had his own struggles because he'd told you on occasion and because you'd seen it. Maybe he hadn't broken down visibly as often as you, but you recalled finding him at least a couple of times out in the ambulance bay, eyes red rimmed and wet.

But you had never doubted that he would thrive in the emergency room. You had been so busy feeling like an imposter yourself and he had made everything look so easy, it had never crossed your mind that maybe he had been struggling the same as you. He just hid it better, even from himself.

"You've lost a lot," You said softly, "the last twenty years, haven't you? Not just patients."

His eyes floated slowly back to yours and it didn't matter what he said, it was sitting there in his eyes as he looked at you. All the ghosts that haunted him, clawing to get out just behind his eyes. He looked tired. He looked shattered.

After a few moments he brought a hand up to your face, brushed the backs of his knuckles across your cheek, "I don't want to talk about that tonight." When he spoke, his voice hitched just slightly, but you politely acted as if you hadn't noticed.

It was a first date, after all. He didn't need to crack open his chest for you tonight, though part of you wished he would. You had never been one for small talk and you were always all in long before anyone else was. You were used to this, being the one kept at the perimeter, debating whether to ignore the Beware of Dog sign and hop the fence.

But he looked so tired and sad. You could be patient for now. Maybe befriend the dog while you waited, tossing treats through the hole in the fence, whistling gently on the wind.

"Okay," You pushed yourself up so your face was closer to his, "We don't have to talk."

A moment passed, two. Your eyes stared longingly at his mouth until his hand slipped to the back of your neck and pulled you to him, mouths crashing together.

You sighed at the feel of his lips on yours, simultaneously soft and rough from the scratch of his beard. It chafed against your chin, but still you pushed yourself closer, the new, but still somehow familiar taste of him intoxicating.

He still kissed the same, teeth digging desperately into your lower lip, tongue stroking against yours almost sweetly. But it was more refined, somehow. Like he'd perfected the art of kissing over the decades.

You'd had many lovers over the years, but few who would make out with you like this for very long without it quickly escalating. Robby's hands, hot and needy, worked their way beneath your shirt, thumbs stroking just below your breasts. Then, one of his hands slid down until it was on your ass, squeezing and groping over your jeans. It was at this point that he whimpered into your mouth and you felt yourself clench instinctually around nothing at the sound.

It had been a long time since you'd been touched like this and longer since you had enjoyed it this much. Usually, it was other partners that acted impatient, that were already tugging at your pants when you were nowhere near warmed up yet, but now it was you who had started grinding on his thigh, searching for friction. You who was frantically pulling at the buttons on his shirt, trying to get it off. You who was now fumbling for his belt when Robby finally stopped you.

"Mmm—Hold on—Wait." Easily, he secured your wrists in his hands and pinned them to his chest which was rising and falling rapidly as you both attempted to catch your breath.

"Are you—Are you sure? I don't want you to think—I'm happy to just end the night like this. I can go home right now—"

You pressed your mouth to his again, kissing him deeply before playfully nipping at his lip, "Do I seem unsure to you?" You asked, nudging your nose against his.

He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, "No," He said and kissed you again, fervently.

"Do I… need to beg you to fuck me?" You asked, sucking lightly on his neck as you spoke, "Because I can do that."

Robby sighed and gripped your ass tighter, "Fuck."

You dragged your center across his thigh, "Not an answer."

His hand gripped the back of your neck, forcing you to meet his gaze, "You would beg for me?"

You weren't exactly thinking straight as you looked at him, wild with want. You would have done anything he asked in that moment, you were sure of it. But still, looking at him now, you were dragged back twenty years to his icy apartment. To the way he'd opened up to you and then swiftly rejected you. He denied it now, chalked it up to alcohol, but somewhere in you was still that dejected girl, begging for any scrap of affection.

It'd been a while since you felt her, small and weak, at the edges of your consciousness. She'd been shortsighted and easy, pan handling for love on the side of the road. You still loathed her, felt she was pathetic. Robby could still pull her out of you. It felt easy to slip into her and her wants. You remembered insisting to yourself after that night with him that you'd never let him that close again.

And yet you found yourself tangled in him yet again. You were different, you assured yourself, lied to yourself. In reality, he already had you wrapped around his fingers. He could break you with a single word, a change of expression.

You pushed all that out of your mind, suffocating it with your mouth on his, his all consuming taste in your mouth, "Is that what you want?"

"I want," He said, hand still firm on your neck, kissing you between his words, "Whatever you want. Just want to make you feel good."

You sighed, "Then take me to bed."

Quickly, he sat up, keeping you in his lap. He kissed up the column of your throat to your earlobe, sending chills down your spine, "Lead the way, sweetheart."

On your bed, he undressed you carefully, taking his time in a way you weren't used to. After the way you'd been talking over texts and swapping photos back and forth, you thought he'd be ravenous. And he was, you could tell from his groans and whimpers, but still, he remained steady and patient.

Once you were topless, both of you kneeling across from each other on the bed, you reached to unbuckle his pants before he could get to yours. Robby had been competitive as you remembered it, but in bed it seemed he was fine with handing over the reins. He watched you with heat in his eyes as you spat in your hand and reached down his pants to fist his cock.

As your hand stroked his shaft down to his balls, his eyes rolled back and he swore. You were on fire watching him, his desire seemingly contagious.

"Please," He whimpered after a minute of so of this, "Please, can I… Can I suck on your tits?"

Your belly somersaulted at the thought and immediately you were nodding, scooting closer to him.

As his lips puckered and pulled at your nipple, he was whining more loudly than you were with each stroke of your hand. He muttered praises and pleas into your breasts, heat bubbling up at the sound from your belly to your chest to your neck.

Looking down at his cock in your hand, you noticed the small amount of precum beginning to leak. You leaned down to lick it off, but Robby stopped you before you could.

"No—Wait. Need to take care of you. Please." He was breathless and flushed pink. Needy and desperate to please. You weren't sure that anyone had ever been this desperate to please you.

You gave him a short nod and released him. Immediately, he kissed you, the momentum pushing you flat against the mattress.

As he crawled over you, you opened your eyes to look up at him. There had been times when you were students that he had been vulnerable with you, but that had only been under the heavy influence of alcohol. Mostly, he had been very guarded. And still, earlier this evening you'd sensed the same guard up, though it had been reinforced throughout the decades.

But now he was looking at you with a gentle, almost tender look on his face. Before you could fully digest what that meant, he had leaned back down to kiss along your jaw, rough fingers gently grasping your chin to kiss down your neck.

He kissed all the way down your body, looking up at you occasionally through heavy lids whenever you made a noise he particularly liked.

Down at your waist now, he carefully unbuttoned your jeans and wriggled them down, you lifting up your hips to assist.

In just your panties now, you watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he looked at you, ran his rough hands over your soft thighs, kissing and nipping gently at your hips, "So, so pretty for me." He murmured into your skin.

The man in front of you now so at odds with the boy you had imagined was revolted by you. Now he worshiped your body with lips and tongue and teeth. He kissed you now over the fabric of your panties, slowly and methodically, until you felt the fabric begin to soak, both from his saliva and your arousal.

You whined and tried to lift your hips, but he quickly braces an arm over your thighs, "Michael, please." You whimpered.

He groaned against your cunt, sending shockwaves through your body.

"Sorry, baby," He murmured and began tugging your panties down your hips as well, "You need my mouth on you properly, is that it? Need my tongue inside you?"

You nodded, a burning in your eyes from embarrassment or pure desperation, you weren't sure.

Panties out of the way, he ran a finger down your slick folds to separate them. As he sighed, your eyes rolled back, jaw going slack.

"Gorgeous," he murmured, fingers running slowly and gently around your entrance.

It didn't feel like teasing, but admiring. Your hips jumped when he pressed a chase kiss to your puffy clit. You had barely begun to whine again when he licked, long and slow, from the bottom of your entrance up to circle your clit.

The sensation was dizzying as he continued to repeat the motion, moving faster and applying slightly more pressure each time.

"Okay, sweetheart," He said breathlessly, your juices glistening all over his beard, slowly, he slipped his middle finger inside you, stroking the spot deep inside you that had your abdomen tightening in anticipation, "Think you can finish for me?"

Unable to form coherent words, you writhed against him, whining until he relented and lowered his mouth back down to your clit.

It was over quickly after that, though his tongue kept working you until you lightly tugged at his hair, pulling him off you. He wiped his mouth on the back of his forearm and crawled back up to you, pressing kisses all over your sweaty face.

Without preamble, you reached for his cock with the intention of lining it up with your entrance, but he pulled away, "Not yet." He said mildly, propped up on one elbow as he looked at you, his free hand stroking the backs of his knuckles gently against your cheek, "I'm not done with you yet."

You were still a bit dumb from the aftershocks of your orgasm and you blinked blankly at him, "What?"

"I figure I owe you at least three orgasms before I get to cum, that should wipe the previous horrendous encounter from your memory, no?"

A slow, sleepy smile spread across your face and he traced his thumb across your lips, "It's gonna take a while for me to cum again, never mind twice more."

He nodded, "That's why I'm giving you a break, sweet girl."

Flustered, you looked away from him. Who would have thought one man had the potential to be both your best and worst sex?

***

TWENTY SOMETHING YEARS AGO

Your eyelid was twitching as you sat at central, a phone receiver pressed to your ear as you listened to your mother drone on. As she spoke, your eyes drifted to a fresh blood stain on your white sneakers from the man who'd died maybe an hour or two ago from several gunshot wounds to the chest.

"I hear you, I just—" You tried and failed to scrub the bloodstain out with a wet wipe from behind the desk. The grueling twelve hour shift had ended something like forty five minutes ago with you crying into your hands in the ambulance bay. You were exhausted. "I just don't think now is the time for this conversation—"

"Well," Your mother huffed, "Maybe if you ever answered your phone at home we wouldn't need to have this discussion now."

You ground your teeth together, "I appreciate all the support you and dad have given me—"

"You know, I don't think you do. We clawed our way through law school with no help from our families, started our own firm, saved thousands just so you could be as educated as you wanted without having to struggle like we did—"

"—And I'm immensely grateful for that privilege—"

"Then why would you throw it back in our faces by choosing pathology, essentially a glorified lab technician—"

"That's not what it is at all—"

"You should be in neurosurgery."

You had had this argument what felt like a thousand times over the last few weeks when you had first admitted interest in applying to path residencies. Your mother's insistent argument that she knew best and neurosurgery would provide you with the best career and would utilize your strengths—an excruciating attention to detail and laser-like focus—in a way no other specialty could.

But you disagreed. And what you could never admit to your mother was that your emergency medicine rotations had proven to you that you would crumble under that sort of pressure.

"Hey, Bambi," Michael leaned over your desk, "Get off the phone and glove up, incoming MVA in two minutes."

You gave him an incredulous look, "Our shift ended almost an hour ago."

"Okay…" He said slowly, pulling on a clean pair of gloves, "So you're gonna let me just take this one myself? What if it requires intubation? You're gonna pass up that opportunity? You still haven't done one by yourself."

You were so burnt out and frustrated and once again on the verge of bursting into tears, you didn't have the energy for this, "So, what, you're keeping tabs on my procedure log now?"

He pretended to think about it, furrow between his brow, "Yeah, guess I am."

Neither of you had spoken about the night you'd slept together—if you could even call it that—and Michael had been acting like it never happened. Occasionally he'd reference the night it happened, but always before you went home with him. This was fine with you, it saved you from the embarrassment. Though, sometimes, it had you wondering if maybe you'd somehow hallucinated the entire thing.

"Who are you talking to?" Came your mom's tinny voice in your ear.

You hurriedly said that you had to go and hung up the phone, knowing it would lead to more phone calls later, but you had taken to leaving your phone off the hook when she began calling repeatedly like that. Which was often. It was the only way to ensure you got enough sleep.

Normally, you would jump at any opportunity to try to show up Michael in a trauma, but you were barely holding it together right now. The thought of watching another person die on the table today had you fighting back the instinct to dry heave.

You rested your elbows on the table in front of you and kneaded lightly at your temples, "You can have the MVA, I'm going home."

"That your mom on the phone?" Michael asked, leaning forward and apparently ignoring what you'd just said, "Is she waiting at home for you with a fresh meal and a warm bath?" He taunted, "Bambi needs to be pampered? The ER is too rough for the princess?"

Slowly, you tilted your face up to look at him, "You jealous that I still have a mother who takes care of me, Robinavitch?"

If you weren't as tired, you wouldn't have said it. As it was, your stomach churned when the smile melted off his face. Yes, he had taunted you and teased you and tortured you for most of both MS3 and 4, but you shouldn't have sank to his level. Really, you had sunk below his level, you thought. Even with how cruel he could be, he'd never mocked you when he found you crying out in the ambulance bay. On occasion he'd actually silently stood next to you or offered you a cigarette.

Your relationship was strange as he could be downright abusive in front of attendings or other colleagues, but when it was just the two of you it was like being on hallowed ground. He had only ever been nice to you when it was just the two of you with no one else around to hear. Something you struggled to reconcile. And now you had weaponized one of the only times he had opened up to you.

He shook his head, but otherwise didn't say anything, ducking away from you, "Michael—Wait—"

"It's fine, Bambi," He called over his shoulder, "Go home. As you've so astutely pointed out, not all of us have one of those."

Later, after you'd crawled into bed and couldn't sleep despite your exhaustion for the guilt that wracked you, you picked up the phone next to your bed and dialed Michael.

It rang for a while and you thought he might let it go to voicemail, but when he finally picked up his voice was rough with sleep.

"Hello?"

You hesitated, then breathed softly, "Hi."

A moment of silence passed, "Bambi?"

"Yeah."

"It's… late."

You sighed, "Yeah, um, sorry. Did I wake you?"

You heard him stifle a yawn, "You did, yeah." Silence again, but for the sound of both your breathing, "Um, did you need something?"

"I—Yeah, I, um… I couldn't sleep."

"Okay," He drew out the word, long and smooth, "Have you tried… Counting sheep?"

You huffed a laugh, "No, I—I can't sleep because I feel horrible about what I said to you earlier. About—about your mom. I'm so, so sorry, Michael. It was awful and—and it was unacceptable and unprofessional."

He was quiet for a moment, then, "It's alright, Bambi. I've said worse to you. You didn't know about—It was just a lucky shot."

Your mouth fell open slightly, confusion clouding your brain, "What?"

"You—What you said earlier hit a nerve, but you couldn't have known. I've—I've never spoken about my mother to anyone."

You stared at the popcorn ceiling of your apartment, mouth still agape. Did he not remember?

And you were nothing if not a coward, so you kept quiet. Didn't correct him. The fact was, what you said was so much worse knowing what you knew. And he didn't even know you knew.

"Right," You said, swallowing, "Well either way, it was a really shitty thing for me to say. So I'm sorry."

"I appreciate it and I'm sorry for pushing you earlier."

You exhaled slowly and closed your eyes, "Thank you."

"Think you can sleep now, princess?" Despite the nickname, his tone was playful, almost gentle in your ear. You had the insane thought that you'd like to hear him talk you to sleep.

"Yeah. Goodnight, Michael."

"Goodnight, Bambi."

***

Robby shot up in bed, his skin tacky with sweat and his chest heaving, lungs struggling to fill. Nightmares were common for him, but what was so disorienting this night was that at first, he wasn't sure where he was. The bed sheets were unfamiliar to him where they stuck to his skin. They felt more expensive than what he had at home, reminded him of hotel sheets. The mattress was softer as well.

And then there was the soft sigh the came from the pillow next to him. His eyes followed the noise and he saw you laying beside him, fast asleep. At the sight of you, his panic began to recede just slightly. He was in your bed. Had shared a lovely dinner with you and slept with you and spoke in hushed whispers across pillows until you'd fallen asleep.

When he had nightmares at home, he would often get out of bed, crack open a beer or smoke a cigarette, unable to properly fall back asleep. But looking down at you, he feared he'd wake you if he did that. The last however many hours he'd spent with you had been the most at peace he'd felt in recent memory. Even with the nightmare, he already felt his heart rate slowing, just watching the even rise and fall of your chest.

He sank back down into the mattress and laid his head down on the pillow, his forehead nearly touching yours.

Unable to help himself, he rested his hand against your neck and ran his thumb over your cheekbone. You mewled and then your eyes began to blink open.

"Sorry," He said immediately when your eyes opened into his, "Didn't mean to wake you."

You gave him a sleepy smile and nudged your nose against his, "S'okay… It's almost nice to wake up in the middle of the night when there's someone else here."

Lying close to you, he allowed himself to believe that he deserved love like this. That he deserved a life like this. That you could love him and stay despite the ugly parts of him he'd try like hell to keep from you.

He kissed you then, to avoid thinking about all the ways in which he was bound to disappoint you if this continued. And you kissed him back, pulled him closer, your hand at the nape of his neck and he catalogued it—the feeling of your gentle fingers stroking the back of his head.

"Mmm," You hummed and pulled away from him slightly, your brow furrowed, "Is it raining?"

Sure enough, as both of you stilled, there was the sound of rain tapping against the windows, "Sounds like it."

You grinned at him, "Would you like to drink tea and watch the rain from the porch?"

You seemed already giddy by the idea so he couldn't say no, not that he wanted to. It was so simple, really, the act of watching the rain. But you stood outside wrapped in a throw blanket, your hands warming a mug of tea, and looking out into your yard with awe as the sun started to stretch over the horizon, lighting up the storm clouds from behind.

He wanted to see the world like that. To be enamored by simple pleasures, the way you were.

"You seem so happy," He said into your ear.

You hummed, "I am."

"Is this what it's like being you? In this stunning house? Just a cup of tea while it rains can bring joy?"

You turned slightly in his arms to see his face and he recognized it when you scanned his face: You were trying to gauge if he was making fun of you. Old habits died hard, he supposed.

Seemingly satisfied that he wasn't mocking you, you turned back toward the rain, "It's a lot nicer when there's someone to share it all with."

You said it casually, but he heard the note of sadness in your tone, "You've been alone for a while?" You nodded, "What about family? Your parents?"

You stiffened in his embrace and he almost regretted it. He knew what happened when you got like this, if someone moved too quickly or suddenly—you bolted.

But after a moment, you softened, "We don't really talk much anymore."

"Oh," He said softly in surprise, "Sorry, I thought—You always seemed close when we were in school."

"You mistook financial support as love. And even if it was, they promptly cut that off the second I moved to Chicago."

He frowned, "You haven't spoken since residency? Why?" In the silence that followed, he sensed your hesitancy, "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"I don't mind," You said softly, "I just haven't thought about it in a while. We have talked since, but sporadically. It's mostly just happy birthday texts now." You sighed heavily, "The short answer is that they wanted me to go into neurosurgery and treated me going into pathology as some personal affront to them. It felt like they only ever saw me as some sort of investment instead of their kid."

Robby had been guilty of assuming that you had it all. After thinking it over more, he'd come to the conclusion the way he treated you had had more to do with jealousy than anything else. You always seemed so put off by talking to your parents, your parents who took care of everything for you. What he would have done to have anyone like that in his corner when he was in his twenties. He felt you were ungrateful.

But now, having done a lot of growing up himself and watching residents with all sorts of parental issues come and go through his ER, he understood that just throwing money at a kid was no way to raise them.

"I'm sorry," He said again and leaned down slightly to kiss the back of your neck, "You deserved better than that."

You turned in his arms to face him, "Do you really believe that? That what I do is just as important as what you do? Or neurosurgery?"

"Yes," He said immediately, "If it was me I might be… bored out of my mind, but we need pathologists. The ED needs them, surgery needs them, oncology needs them, hematology needs them, you're absolutely vital to all of us. But that's not what I meant. I meant that you deserved better parents."

Though you had changed over the years, not so skittish and quiet, there were things about you that remained. Your anxious state, bordering on paranoia the way you worried that others would betray you. Your quiet but desperate need of approval—of love. Your empathy, the way you felt everything so deeply and openly, even when you tried to hide it.

Right now, you were scared. Of him, of his ability to hurt you. He was also scared of his ability to hurt you. Terrified, really.

But still, you swallowed and looked away from him, "Thank you," you said quietly and tugged his arms tighter around you.

Bambi—his fawn—now stable on your own two feet. It'd be you that would have to keep him steady now, keep him from running.

***

When Robby was at work now, when the shifts got bad, he excused himself for just a moment and closed his eyes. He'd conjure your home in his head, your cat Brutus, the sound of your laugh, watching rain from your covered porch while drinking coffee, waking up to the smell of your shampoo on the pillow, movie nights on your couch, long showers and your hands on his skin.

It had been weeks now since your first date and things had moved quickly. It hadn't been discussed explicitly, but Robby spent most nights at your house now. The simple domesticity of it, of having someone to come home to, had felt nearly life changing. You often asked if he wanted you to stay at his place for a change to which he always turned down.

He loved everything about your place, from the way it always smelt like something delicious, to the fact that Brutus was always there, to just how lived in it felt. Just last weekend the two of you had spent entire days digging up the garden beds so you could start planting vegetables and fruits and herbs. You talked about cucumber salads and fresh baked pies and it all felt so… domestic. Mundane. And it was the only place he felt peace.

Today's shift had been horrible. And so after calling time of death on a patient that he'd worked on for far longer than was clinically appropriate, he told Dana he'd be outside for a few minutes. In the ambulance bay, with silent tears streaming down his cheeks, he tried to slow his breathing. In through his nose, out through his mouth.

Closing his eyes, he willed the images of the woman away, of her child. Instead, he pictured you, the sleepy smile on your face when he woke up first in the morning, whispered in your ear that he was going to make pancakes. He pictured you fast asleep on your couch, a paperback abandoned in your hand and Brutus snuggled up on your chest. He pictured you spinning around your backyard in the rain, green rain boots up to your knees and your wild laughter.

As his breathing slowed, the sound of the ambulance bay doors sliding open had him turning his attention to the doors to see Abbot walking toward him.

Silently, Jack stood next to Robby and crossed his arms, "Your girlfriend's down here looking for you."

Robby sighed and ran his hand over the back of his neck, "She's not my girlfriend."

"Sorry, your pathologist."

Robby huffed a laugh, "I guess she is sort of my girlfriend."

"Well, you better watch out because I hear all the nurses warning her about your… 'seven week itch' I think they're calling it."

He shook his head, "She's not the type to listen to rumors."

Jack hummed, "She might start if you keep her waiting much longer."

"Alright, alright," He sighed and pushed himself off the wall, "I'll go find her."

"'Atta boy," Jack said and clapped him over the shoulder, the two of them walking back into the Pitt.

Robby's eyes found you almost immediately, talking to Dana, and you, as if sensing his gaze, looked up to meet his. There was concern all over your face and Robby didn't even have the time to properly wonder if Dana had filled you in about the terrible shift they'd had before you were marching over to him.

You were apparently so intently focused on him, you didn't notice the puddle of water on the floor and before Robby could warn you, you'd slipped.

Your feet went up over your head and your back hit the ground—hard.

Instantly, Robby was there, a hand on your shoulder to stop you as you tried to sit up— "Hey, don't move, don't move."

"Ow," you groaned and tried to push him out of your way, "I'm fine, Michael."

"Did you hit your head?" His penlight was already out, ready to assess.

You sighed, "I don't know, I don't think so."

"Dana," he called over his shoulder, "What's open?"

"Central 11."

"I just wanna go home," You said softly, "I'm fine, I swear."

But seeing you fall like that after the shift he'd had, he couldn't seem to slow the spiral he was beginning to fall down. What if you had a concussion? A brain bleed? Untreated one could lead to irreparable brain damage and the other, death.

"It'll be quick," He said, "Promise. Just… Please, it'll make me feel better."

You tilted your head slightly, doe eyes out in full force. Like you were concerned about him. But you nodded anyway, conceded to him, even when he insisted on a wheelchair to transport you.

When it was just the two of you and he had started your exam, you continued to watch him carefully.

"Did something happen today?" You asked softly, "During shift?"

He hummed in question, gently turning your head this way and that, "What d'you mean?"

"You're being… hypervigilant. I'm just wondering if something happened today to trigger that."

The two of you had discussed covid and Adamson. You had been back in Pittsburgh at that point, but at Westbridge. Robby had felt a pang of resentment at first, thinking that you likely hadn't had to be on the front lines like he had.

But then you told him about the autopsies. How there were so many bodies that you, who had built a career off studying cancers and blood, had had to assist with autopsies. You told him how you hadn't really done an autopsy since residency, but now with how many you'd had to do during the pandemic, you could do them with your eyes closed.

"It fucked with me," You'd told him, "I saw those bodies everywhere, even if I wasn't in the hospital. I could smell them no matter how many candles I lit at home. I dreamt about them for weeks after. I cried for months."

And when you'd divulged that, the flood gates had opened for him. He told you everything, from covid to PittFest. When he got choked up, he found himself instinctually reaching for your hand, needing you to anchor him. Without hesitation, you practically pulled him into your lap, cradled his head to your chest and whispered soothing words in his ear.

So then it shouldn't have surprised him that you would catch on so quickly. For being so young when you went through med school, he had assumed upon first meeting you that you'd have no idea about anything. But it had struck him immediately how emotionally intelligent you were, how you had from the very beginning been able to read even the most closed off of patients.

Still, he felt himself recoil at your assessment, "You fell," He said, "I'm just making sure you're alright."

"Well I'm also a doctor and I'm telling you, I'm fine. There's no tenderness at the back of my head, no nausea, no dizziness—"

"I'm ordering you a head CT."

Your mouth fell open, indignation in the tug of your lips. After a moment, you scoffed, "I don't want that so please get me the AMA forms to sign, if you don't mind."

He raised his eyebrows and finally met your eyes, "Really?"

"You're exposing me to unnecessary radiation when I have zero symptoms—"

"You don't remember if you hit your head—"

"Robby?" He whipped his head around to see Dana in the doorway, "The cops are here, they wanna talk to you about the boy and his mother who—"

"Yeah, okay, I'll be there in a minute."

Dana left and he hung his head, braced his hands against his legs, hoping they didn't shake, "I would really appreciate it… if you could please stay for a CT."

He felt your gaze even as he avoided it, "Why are the cops here?"

He sighed, "A kid's here with no parental guardian."

There was a pause, then, "What happened to his mother?"

"I really can't talk about this right now—"

"Then I'd like the AMA forms, please."

He made an exasperated groan and looked up at you, tried pleading with his eyes, but you stayed firm, expectant, until he sighed, "A woman was brought in today with her ten year old son who'd found her unresponsive in the bathtub when he came home from school today. She'd slashed her own wrists. We couldn't get a pulse back." He ran a hand along the back of his neck, "The kid doesn't have anyone else."

In a moment, you were on your knees in front of him, his hands clasped in yours, "You worked the resuscitation?"

He nodded, and to his surprise salty tears fell onto your clasped hands. Embarrassed, he tried for nonchalant as he spoke, "It's uh—It's been a long day, but that happened almost first thing this morning. I don't know why I can't shake it."

"Well… That's unsurprising." You said slowly, "Considering your childhood."

His entire body stiffened and he pulled away, "What'd you say?"

You opened and closed your mouth, still lowered to the ground in front of him. He watched as you seemed to calculate your misstep too late and then rush to correct, "I just, um, I remember you telling me once that… that your parents weren't really… present in your life."

Robby shook his head, "I never told you about that."

You bit your lip for a moment and then shrugged, "You told me… everything, Michael. The night we slept together in med school. You were very drunk."

He bristled and scoffed, "Right, we got drunk, I told you that my mother killed herself, and then we fucked?"

It seemed absurd. The truth that he was so ashamed of, that he'd held so close to his chest, that he hadn't allowed anyone to know, he had told you. His grandparents had been the only other people to know and when they died they took it with them. He had assumed he would do the same. But here you were, this contradiction to the one fundamental truth he'd had. That no one would ever need to know the ugly truth that the single person on this Earth who was supposed to love him unconditionally had abandoned him with such violent permanence.

You seemed a bit embarrassed at his hostility, lifting yourself back up to your feet again, "Look, you don't have to try to humiliate me just because you don't believe me. I'm sorry I brought it up, I was just trying to let you know that I understand why that case was difficult for you."

"Yeah, well, it's not your fucking place."

He thought he saw you flinch, but just as quickly, you became stoic, "I think it's time for me to go and I'd prefer it if you stayed at your own place tonight."

You left without waiting for him to respond and immediately, the anger left him in a rush, replaced with shame. When he walked back towards central, you were gone, Dana looking at him now with a question in her eyes, "Your girl left in a rush, I thought you were leaving with her?"

He sighed, ran both hands over his face, "Where's the kid?"

"BH1," She said and leaned closer to him, "It's her birthday today and you let her leave here without you?"

Fuck. "It's her birthday?"

Dana nodded, "You don't know your own girl's birthday?"

"She's not—How do you know it's her birthday?"

"She told me about ten minutes ago."

Unbelievable.

"Well," He said, fingers interlaced at the back of his neck, "I don't think she'll want to spend it with me now."

Dana watched him for a moment, "Tell you what, Baran's still here, I'm sure she wouldn't mind handling the police. You should go. Get her a cake and flowers and apologize. You had a hard day, she'll understand."

You had understood, but he thought you'd likely be heaps and bounds less understanding now.

But hadn't he promised himself, when he first agreed to date you, seriously, that he'd be different this time? That he wouldn't fall back into old habits? That he wouldn't push people away when they got too close?

You already knew the worst of him, apparently. Had known it for decades it seemed and still, you wanted him. And as always, he'd hurt you anyway.

So, he was really prepared to grovel when he finally got to your place, a bouquet of tulips and white bakery box in hand. He knocked gently on the door and waited until he heard the twist of the doorknob, and then saw you. You were in sweats and a tank top and you crossed your arms over your chest when you saw him.

"Hi," he said softly.

"I thought I asked you not to come here tonight."

"I know, and I'll go, I just, Dana mentioned that it was your birthday so I got you a cake and some flowers and I just wanted to say that I'm—I'm really sorry. I just, I've never told… anyone about her, or so I thought, and it just caught me off guard. But, I shouldn't have spoken to you that way, you were only trying to help."

You stared at him for a few moments, mouth twisted to the side and bounced on the balls of your feet, "You got me a birthday cake?"

His mouth twitched into a smirk, but he fought it, "Yeah, but I didn't know what sort of cake you like so I—I got you funfetti cake. It reminded me of you."

Now it was you fighting a smirk, "Funfetti cake reminds you of me?"

He nodded, "Yeah, you're bright, colorful, pretty, happy—You're everything. Funfetti."

You uncrossed your arms and interlocked them behind your back instead, "You can come inside."

Ten minutes later, you both sat on the couch with a slice of cake, "No one's ever gotten me a birthday cake before."

Robby balked, "What?"

You shrugged, "My parents were always too busy to celebrate my birthday. I think they forgot most years. And I didn't have many friends growing up. And then when I got to be an adult I just… stopped telling people when my birthday was. To avoid being disappointed."

He felt an ache in his chest for the child he saw in his head, the kid he used to know. How lonely you must've been. "Why'd you tell Dana?"

"One of my students is a bit of a kiss ass and found out it was my birthday from the internet. Got the whole class to sign a card for me. Dana just happened to see it."

He sighed, "I'm really sorry if I contributed to your day being shitty."

You shook your head, "I really don't even think about it much anymore, truly. And anyway, it sounded like you had a much harder day than I did."

"That's not an excuse."

You put your plate on the coffee table and turned your attention fully to Robby, taking his face gently in your hands, "You came here and you apologized," You said softly, "And I've forgiven you. So enough with the self flagellation, hm?" You stroked your thumbs gently over his cheekbones, "And why don't you tell me about the mother that came in today."

Again, he felt the involuntary raise of his hackles at the suggestion that he discuss today. But there was warmth and tenderness in your eyes. Your fingers ran through his hair and scratched at his scalp gently, and his eyes fluttered closed, hackles falling.

And so the words flowed out of him. He recounted the horror and fear that reverberated through him as the woman was rolled in, her son shaking and sobbing at her side. How difficult it was for him to focus on anything other than this boy, this baby, now alone in the world. It was frightening, really, to come face to face with the boy he used to be. How young he was when his mother had passed, something he'd been unable to appreciate at the time.

He'd done a lot of work to forgive her for leaving. Had studied up on suicidality and bipolar depression. In his career he met many people who reminded him of his mother and his empathy had stretched and grown and while he'd thought he'd forgiven her, there was still just a kernel of bitterness deep in his chest.

He had never been confronted with himself, with the child he used to be, until today. How his heart bled for that child. He could recall every memory of that day, every smell, every sound, every touch. The world had fractured and reassembled for that boy today, much like it had for him so many years ago. And he'd had to listen to his colleagues all day, talk about that boy as if he was the one who had died and it pissed him off. That they could so easily written off that kid's future because of a single day, because of the choices his mother had made.

But then came the small, nagging voice at the back of his head, But wasn't it true? Aren't you broken beyond repair? Isn't that the one truth you've been running from all this time?

"You're not broken," You said softly to him when he'd finished speaking, still holding him tightly to you, now with one hand beneath his shirt and running your nails soothingly up and down his back.

You repeated it to him like a mantra until he leaned up, captured your soft, warm mouth with his. And whenever he opened his eyes to look into yours, he knew you didn't believe your own words. Walls that you had begun to deconstruct over the last few weeks were now built back up. Now, barbed wire adorned the walls like vines.

He had the distinct feeling that you'd never allow him to see over the walls again.

***

"Well I heard from Edith who heard from Sam who sometimes has lunch with Dana that Robby's been staying late and picking up more shifts again, since he bought that motorcycle… You know what that means."

"The seven week itch has struck again. That motorcycle's a breakup motorcycle if I've ever seen one."

You sighed heavily as you adjusted your microscope, "You guys are not being as quiet as you think you are."

Your students giggled at your admonishment, "Sorry, the drama is just way more fascinating in the Pitt than it is up here."

You were silent after that and their whispers died down, but never completely. You had never paid much attention to rumors around the hospital until you and Robby started seeing each other. The women in the hospital loved gossiping about him. And more and more it ate away at you.

Things hadn't been quite right between you since your birthday. You had forgiven him for how he'd acted, but still there was a cold dread in your stomach that seemed to intensify every time you saw him. You felt yourself overcompensating, looking for reassurance. You had convincingly kept up the illusion of confidence, but now it waned.

You had the feeling he had sussed it out, how desperate you were. Before, for any companionship. Now, specifically, for his. You were frightened by the way your heart squeezed when you woke up to him beside you in the morning. The way he had slipped into your routine so effortlessly. Helping you out in the garden on the weekends. Putting the kettle on at exactly 9PM for tea before bed. Trying all your desserts even after insisting he needed to watch what he ate. Recently, he'd began reading your well-worn, tattered copy of The Princess Bride aloud to you, using character voices that got more and more ridiculous until you were crying with laughter. More and more regularly, he fell asleep on the couch, glasses askew and Brutus on his chest.

It was terrifying how easily he slotted into your life. This was what you'd wanted, what you'd always wanted, had wanted so badly at times you'd forced relationships you knew would never work.

And you kept waiting, day after day, for him to leave and not come back. The day he'd been short with you in the ER, you'd been flung back to an earlier relationship. Remembered in vivid details the ugly fights you'd had.

"You're not listening to me!"

"Maybe I just don't like the sound of your voice."

It didn't matter how he apologized after, the words had burrowed deep in your head. They stuck with you from relationship to relationship and you'd heard similar disdain from Robby that day.

So with all of this, you were already struggling before the rumors and before the motorcycle. You felt him pulling away from you inch by inch and you clung to him harder, certain if you just enticed him the correct way he'd want to stay.

And for a while, you thought it was working, until dinner one day on the porch. The vibrant strawberry sky was beginning to bruise with dusk as you each sat in silent after cleaning your plates.

Then Robby cleared his throat, "You know how I've been fixing up the motorcycle with Duke?"

You nodded. You knew the fact that you were jealous of a sixty year old biker spending time with your boyfriend was not healthy. You were glad he had picked up a hobby outside of the ER, it was good for him. And still, you couldn't help the way dread curdled in your gut every time he spoke about it. What it really felt like was an escape plan. No matter how you tried to convince yourself it wasn't, you couldn't stop the constant spirals. The souring of your mood whenever he stated he was going to Duke's or he couldn't make it tonight because he stayed too late at Duke's so he'd just sleep at his own place. You knew he noticed the shift in energy whenever the motorcycle was brought up, but he never commented on it.

"It's finished," He gave you a wry smile, "It's rideable now, in really good shape."

"Oh," You said, "That's… great."

Again, he ignored the uneasiness in your tone. Or maybe he truly was oblivious. Because next he said, "I was thinking about taking some time off from work and doing a cross country ride."

"Oh," You said again, feeling dumb at your sudden lack of vocabulary, "For how long?"

"I don't know," He avoided looking at you as he said, "Three months?"

The pain in your chest was spectacular. Again and again you were reminded of how unlovable you were. You tried so hard and it was never enough, not for your parents, not for friends, not for every other partner who left quickly and quietly. Your eyes burned as you pushed back from the table and picked up your plate, "You don't have to flee across the country to get rid of me, you could just break up with me like a mature, grown man." You said bitterly and walked back inside.

Assumedly shocked at your outburst, it took him a minute before following you back inside, "This is not about us," He said quietly over your shoulder as you dropped the dirty dishes unceremoniously into your sink.

"Frankly, it doesn't matter if it isn't," You said turning to face him, "If you leave for three months our relationship is effectively dead. And you know this."

He scoffed, "Three months is not that long—"

"Three months is not that long when you've been in a relationship for a decade, it's everything when you've barely even been together that long."

He watched you and slowly shook his head, "It doesn't have to be. You could come with me."

You laughed and pushed past him, "What, and bring Brutus as well? Let my garden wither away? You don't really want me to come, you're just offering out of guilt."

"That's not true, I—I want to be here with you, being with you is the only thing that feels right in my life right now. I don't want to lose that."

"Then why are you running away?" You asked, exasperated and humiliated when tears began to blur your vision.

You were sitting on the couch now and he crouched in front of you, looked at you with his big wet, brown cow eyes. Eyes you adored, crow's feet you wished to sink into, freckles you'd counted and memorized over many nights.

"I feel like…" He said slowly, "Like… if I don't get out of that hospital, of this city soon that I'm a ticking time bomb."

You nodded and sniffed, pushed the heels of your hands into your eyes, "And I feel like if you leave I'm never gonna see you again."

He tilted his head to the side, eyebrow furrowed and watery eyes studying you. You waited and waited for him to say it wasn't true, but he obviously couldn't. Instead he cupped your cheeks in his hands and gently brushed away your tears, "C'mon sweetheart, don't cry. It's okay. I've got you."

Leaning in, he gently kissed your forehead, the tops of your cheeks, your nose, then your mouth, his beard scratching the soft skin of your face. Stifling the cries that attempted to crawl up your throat, you kissed him back fiercely, wondering if it would be the last time you got to do so. He matched your fervor, groaning into your mouth as you deepened the kiss—and then his hands were everywhere.

He hoisted you up and around his waist and walked you to the bedroom, a path he knew well at this point, could do it with his eyes closed. He placed you down and then crawled over you, arms bracketing your head as he kissed your lips swollen and raw. The smell of him, the taste of him, had become so comforting to you it was agony to imagine a time when you couldn't have them whenever you wanted. That he would be so far away from you, your house lonely and empty once again. And it was this thought that had you burst promptly into tears.

"Wh—What's wrong? Sweetheart—Do you wanna stop? We can stop—"

"No, no," You said quickly through hiccuping sobs and opened your eyes into his, "Please—Please don't stop, Michael, please—"

"Okay," He kissed all over your face again as your sobs began to quiet, "Okay, baby. I'm right here—" In response to his words, you pulled him closer until his weight was almost fully on you, "I'm right here." He repeated.

When your tears dried, he slowly undressed you, his kisses painfully tender and eyes that melted you. It took everything in you not to rush him along. The need to have him inside you, to fill you up, felt almost primal. You needed to be close to him, as close as you could be. Soon he'd be gone and all you'd have was the ghost of a feeling.

He leaned his forehead against yours as he slowly pushed inside you, both of you sighing into one another, "So perfect," He murmured and kissed you, "Feel so perfect, baby."

"Please," You kept saying over and over as he pushed himself in and out of you. You weren't quite sure what you were begging for, for him to fuck you? For him to stay? For him to love you?

Pulling out of you, he turned you onto your stomach, positioned your hips until you felt him press into you again, his belly against the small of your back and the cold chain around his neck falling against your shoulders, sending a chill down your spine.

The feel of him inside you was exquisite, like nothing else you'd experienced before. He pushed his hand beneath your belly until his fingers found your swollen clit and this coupled with the way he filled you up was too much, the sensation overwhelming. You were coming before you even had the chance to warn him, unraveling as he moaned and kissed the back of your neck when he felt your walls pulse around him.

The pleasure was so overwhelming and the feel of him so stifling, it was almost involuntary when you blurted out, "I love you, Michael, I love you."

With your face partially obscured by the mattress, you hoped he hadn't heard it. But his hips stuttered for a second and panic seized in your chest until— "Oh, God, fuck—" he came inside you.

His skin stuck to yours as he caught his breath, still inside you as he softened. You laid like that for a while in silence, spooning in your bed. The sun had still cast shadows in your room when you first came in here, but now it was nearly pitch black.

"You're still leaving?" You asked, voice steadier than you felt, unwilling to hope.

He was quiet for long enough that you wondered if he'd fallen asleep. But then came the soft, "Yes," in your ear.

You said nothing else that night. Neither of you spoke about what you'd confessed during sex and when you woke in the morning, he had left. There was no trace of him left in the house. He'd taken his toothbrush, his beard trimmer, his duffel of clothes and other toiletries. All gone.

He left a single t-shirt—by accident or not, you couldn't say—draped over your hamper. When you picked it up and brought it to your face, it smelt like him.

You sank to the floor of your closet like a child and cried.

***

Robby saw you everywhere and in everything. He thought about you most mornings when he put on a pair of pants and noticed how they were a bit too snug—Having regular meals most days at your place had meant he'd put on a few pounds while dating you. He thought about you and Brutus whenever Trinity showed him pictures of her new kittens. Whenever he had a cookie or a slice of blueberry pie, he remembered the sweet buttery smell of your house whenever you were baking.

He missed you with a devotion that felt almost religious, but he never picked up the phone. After having made you cry and then hearing you admit that you were in love with him, he'd been absolutely certain he couldn't have you. He'd thought in the beginning, he'd been able to delude himself that he could have someone like you. That he deserved someone like you, so sweet and gentle and loving. But despite his precautions, you'd still crumbled to dust in his hands.

He was terrified that if he didn't leave he'd repeat his mother's mistakes and leave you even more devastated than you were now.

But when you looked at him and said you didn't think you'd ever see him again, he'd wondered if you'd understood. If you'd understood his fears and instead worried that if he did leave he'd become his mother.

He didn't want to think about that and so as he packed up his gear and clothes and whatever else he thought he might need onto his bike, he tried and failed to stop thinking about you.

As he left town, he rode by your house knowing you'd be at work. He rolled slowly, memorized every detail he could of the house, the only place he'd ever felt at home besides his grandparents' house. In a last minute decision, he pulled out his phone and took a quick photo.

This was when he saw Brutus in the window, watching him, tail swishing back and forth. He'd miss that little rascal, too, even if he had broken his favorite mug. He gave a quick salute to Brutus and then he left before he could change his mind.

For a while, being on the road felt as freeing as he hoped it would. Everyone before he left seemed so worried he was about to kill himself, but honestly, with new air in his lungs, he felt great. For around four hundred miles.

He was a few days into the trip, having only driven something like a hundred miles each day, and closing in on Chicago when the fatigue really began to set in. Every part of his body ached. He had been very careful not to let his mind wander to you since he'd left, but it wandered anyhow. Now he thought of the Epsom salt baths you insisted on whenever he had aches and pains. He wished more than anything that you'd be there in Chicago, waiting by the hot bath, pretending to resist when he coaxed you in with him. You'd sit between his legs, back to his chest as you told him about your day as he gently kneaded your shoulders with his thumbs. You'd talk about the study you were working on. Or, since it was a Saturday, maybe you'd spent time in the garden, pulling weeds as you listened to an audiobook for a new mystery novel.

Robby was so immersed in the fantasy, he didn't register the oncoming headlights until it was already too late. Still, as the car crossed the double yellow line into his lane, on instinct, he jerked the bike away from the oncoming collision.

He was able to avoid the car, but lost control of the bike, skidding off the road and into a guardrail. He felt it when the gravel tore through his pants, then his skin, the weight of his bike pinning him to the ground as he came to a complete stop.

Robby was so used to watching other people die, he thought he knew what it'd be like when his time came. Stupidly, he thought he'd made his peace with his own mortality, his inevitable demise. But in the split second it took for him to see the oncoming headlights and jerk his bike out of the way, he understood immediately and with complete clarity that he didn't want to die.

As he felt his skin being torn up and his leg being crushed, time slowed, and he saw your face. Heard your voice tell him you loved him. The sound of your laugh. The smell of your shampoo.

And just as quickly as it happened, it was over, and the pain exploded throughout his body.

Pain, glorious pain, and as he categorized it all he understood it meant he was alive and he laughed, wildly. The paramedics that showed up afterwards and told him how lucky he was likely thought him insane as he laughed and laughed.

He was alive. He was fucking alive. And the realization filled him with indescribable joy. Logically he knew most of this was due to the adrenaline rush, but he couldn't help but feel like this had to have been some divine intervention. And soon enough, as the adrenaline fled him and the pain meds kicked in, he couldn't stop crying.

The nurses and doctors looked at him with sympathy and one nurse, Angela, asked gently, "Is there anyone we can call?"

The only person he wanted to call right now was you. His bike was totaled and he found he didn't even care. He just wanted to go home. He wanted to play chess on your porch while it rained. He wanted to play hide and seek with Brutus while you giggled from the sofa, watching him. He wanted to let you pick a movie for movie night only to have you unceremoniously fall asleep in his arms less than ten minutes in. He wanted to beg your forgiveness. He wanted to tell you he loved you, was in love with you, like he should have before he left. He wanted to go home.

But he shook his head, wiped his eyes and asked if he could have his phone. He would be waiting a while for imaging on his leg. The thought for sure something was broken and based on what he felt when he went down, he concurred with that opinion. He thought it possible he might even need surgery, though they hadn't said as much yet.

Angela returned with his phone and a smile, repeated as he looked at his cracked screen that she'd be happy to call, but he thanked her and waved her off.

His phone seemed to be working fine and he immediately scrolled over to his photo album where he pulled up photos of you. Photos of the two of you together, you making a silly face at the camera and him with a toothy smile on his face as he looked down at you. Happy.

He felt suddenly very stupid for how he'd handled everything. Wished he'd listened to you when you asked him why he seemed to be sabotaging the one good thing in his life.

The answer was that he didn't think he deserved anything good, least of all, you. He was destined to a miserable life and a miserable death and he had no desire to bring you down with him.

But looking at this photo, it was becoming more and more clear to him that you had changed him. He thought he was destined for tragedy, but you'd rewritten his ending. Only he'd been much too stupid to see it.

Eventually, he worked up the courage to call you, not expecting you to answer. As the phone rang he could picture you in your pajama set, sleepytime tea on your nightstand and Brutus curled up in your lap as you stared at the caller ID with rage in your eyes.

But you surprised him. You picked up after just three rings.

"Hello?" You sounded a bit breathless and a lot confused.

"Hi."

"Michael?" He closed his eyes at the sound of his name, always so sweet from your mouth, "What's wrong? Where are you?"

"Why are you assuming something's wrong?"

"Because I haven't heard from you in weeks," You said bitterly, "And I can hear beeping monitors in the background and I know you're not at work because Abbot told me you left for your sabbatical days ago."

"So you've been asking about me?" He said, teasing lilt to his voice.

You sighed, "Michael, so help me, I will hang up this phone—"

"Alright, okay, sorry, sorry, you're right," He ran a hand over his face, "I'm sorry—I—I'm in an emergency room in Chicago and I just wanted to hear your voice."

"Why are you in an emergency room?" He could tell you were fighting to keep your voice level from how slowly you asked the question.

"I totaled the bike," He scratched at his beard, "I was driving too late and I was tired and a car drifted into my lane and I swerved and went into a guardrail."

"Oh my God—Fuck—Are you—Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I have some pretty bad road rash and think maybe my leg's broken—" He heard movement on the other end of the phone, "What're you doing?"

"Packing." You said matter of factly, "If I leave now I should get to Chicago by morning."

He felt his eyes burn immediately. That after everything you'd still go to him without hesitation. Again, he felt that pang in his chest, that overwhelming ache that said he didn't deserve you.

"You shouldn't drive this late," Was all he said, swallowing past the lump in his throat.

"Please," You said dismissively, "Do you need anything from your house? I can stop on my way."

"Sweetheart, I'm—I'm so sorry for leaving. You were right, you're the only thing that matters and I thought I didn't deserve it—Deserve you and so I ran away. I'm a coward. And I don't expect you to forgive me, but I'll beg for it anyway. I love you so much and I just want to be with you, if you'll still have me."

There was silence on the other line and then a soft sigh, "You're on so many drugs right now, aren't you?"

"What? No—Well, yes, but that's not why—"

"We can talk about it in a few days when you're not high out of your mind. Do you need anything from your house?" You repeated it like you were talking to a petulant toddler and he felt stupid again. He hadn't considered what this would look like to you. And yes, his accident had forced him to confront what he was actually doing and feeling, but that didn't make it less true. He'd known he loved you long before he left, long before you even said it. He thought he'd likely been a little bit in love with you since med school.

Your caution was understandable, though, so he wouldn't push.

"No," He said finally, "No, thanks. But would you mind sharing your location with me since you insist on driving through the night? Would make me feel better if I can follow along."

"Sure," you said, and he heard the way your voice softened at his concern, "Goodnight, Michael."

For a moment, time seemed to crunch like an accordian and he was back in med school, your voice in his ear in the middle of the night, asking for his forgiveness. He felt a bit fuzzy at the edges.

"Goodnight, Bambi." He murmured and his phone slipped from his hand.

***

Michael was asleep when you got to the hospital and had been admitted to Ortho upstairs for surgery.

Your emotions were all over the place, but seeing him in a hospital bed, a bit bloodied up and hooked up to monitors, you felt your defenses falling. You wanted to be angry with him, but how could you be? When you had been so close to losing him for good?

As you got closer, you noted that he'd let his beard and hair grow out a bit longer since the last you saw him. It made him appear softer. You had been pleased before he left when his cheeks began to fill out a bit having made him eat properly since you began dating. That weight was still there, if not as obvious as before.

The rush of affection that filled you upon seeing him was nearly suffocating.

As you pulled up a chair to his bedside, he began to wake and you smiled at him with watery eyes, "Hi."

He smiled back and reached a hand out for you which you immediately took and brought to your lips.

"I'm sorry," He said immediately, but you dismissed him with a shake of your head.

"What did the doctor say? Why do you need surgery?"

"It's… shattered. The bike fell on it, crushed my leg. Have to screw it all back together."

You frowned as he grimaced, "Are you in pain? Let me go get a nurse—"

You stood to go, but he wrapped a hand around your wrist, "No, no, don't. I asked them to… take me off the meds."

You stared at him, mouth agape, "Why would you do something like that?"

"So that I could tell you how in love with you I am with a clear head."

You nearly laughed, "Michael Robinavitch, have you lost your goddamn mind?"

"You said we should wait," He shook his head, "I don't want you to go another second thinking that I don't love you."

Your eyes watered, but you shook your head, "It's gonna take a lot longer than you saying it once for me to trust you again."

"I know that," He grimaced again, "I just wanted to say it now."

You brought a hand to his cheek and scratched lightly along his jaw, "Can I go grab a nurse now if you're done with the dramatics?"

He smirked and nodded and you hid a grin as you stood and walked from the room.

It was a day or two after surgery that Robby was finally cleared to go home with you. On the way home, high on pain meds, Robby read The Princess Bride to you in his silly voices to keep you entertained.

At home, you set him up in bed with strict instructions to Brutus to keep him company while you made him food.

And slowly, the two of you settled back into the usual rhthym. He told you he loved you many times a day. Even when he didn't say it, he'd run his fingers over the tattoo on your wrist, or say something just to make you laugh. He watched you with an expression on his face that you'd never seen before and when you asked if something was wrong, he shook his head, said "Everything's perfect."

As he got back on his feet, you took slow walks to and from the park, fed the birds. Robby even downloaded an app on his phone that could identify the birds by thsid song. His face would light up with joy whenever the app told him a bird he didn't recognize was around.

Life was quiet and peaceful and love found a way to fill every crack and crevice in each of your hearts.

A year later, when Robby's leg had healed entirely, when the only pain was used to predict the rain, was when he asked you.

"Sweetheart?" Your head was in his lap on the sofa, you watching TV while he did a crossword. You hummed in response so he knew you were listening, "I've been thinking and I think it's time I put my house up for sale."

You sat up slowly and looked at him. Your eyes instantly scanning for deception.

Robby was a great roommate. He was pretty handy and so could usually fix most minor wear and tear problems without having to call in an expert. He took care of Brutus and the plants. He loved gardening with you. He never let the chores go too long without being done. Always washed the toilet because he knew it was your least favorite chore.

You had no qualms about living with him. But you always assumed, even though most of you had grown to trust him again, that he'd keep his house as a backup plan. It was realistic, you told yourself. Relationships all had expiration dates.

"Really?"

He nodded, "The last year I've only ever gone home to to make sure nobody's broken in. I've moved everything I use here already. My clothes, my toiletries, my tools, my books, my records—everything's here. It's a waste, don't you think?"

You opened and closed your mouth, ran your fingers absently over the tattoo on your wrist, "What if… What if we fight and you want space?"

He shrugged, "I don't think that would happen, but I could always get a hotel for a night. I still have the cabin in the mountains."

You swallowed and looked down at your hands, "If we break up you'll hate me because you sold your house."

You felt the couch shift as he sat up and took your hands, "If we broke up, I could never hate you. Besides, this is my decision. You didn't pressure me into it. I also figured this way it was only fair that I start helping out with the bills here. Now, if me permanently moving in feels like too big of a step to you—"

"No," You said quickly, "No, I want you to. I love having you here, it's been…" You shook your head, "It's been the best year of my life."

He smiled and brought your hands up to his lips, "Mine too."

And as the two of you talked over a bottle of wine about the logistics of moving the remainder of his things into your house and calling realtors and what you should do with the extra money (Should you travel? Put it into retirement?) it was like the final piece of your previously shattered heart was glued back into place.

Before Michael, you often wondered if you were too picky. If your standards were too high as your mother loved to tell you and that's why you'd end up a spinster. Alone and bitter, always denied the one thing you wanted and craved most in the world: love and companionship.

But as you and Michael talked late into the night and fell asleep in each other's arms, you knew you'd been right to wait.

You couldn't rush soulmates and you would've waited forever and a day if it meant you got to know love like this. Luckily for you, you'd only had to wait twenty something years for Robby to realize he was in love with you. In the face of forever, it was a blink of an eye. And for that, you'd thank the sun and the moon and all the stars every day for the rest of your life.

[dearestfanfic]

another brilliant piece right here!! again, robby's characterization and the depth of bambi?? and reading the way their characters change ever so slightly to be better for each other which is then healing for themselves?? UGH the feeling in this, i've had to stop and think during some points, i could genuinely write an essay on everything i loved about this

[lisbondollxox]

“Tour videos”

☆dad!joe keery x mom!reader ☆

hi !! english isn’t my first language, so please be nice if there are any mistakes or weird sentences <3 requests are open btw !!

summary: joe brings a camera to argentina with every intention of documenting the tour. instead, he accidentally spends most of the trip filming reader, luke and all the little moments in between.

word count: 3.8k

warnings: fluff, family dynamics, established relationship, luke being chaotic, food mention, concerts, no use of y/n

The camera turns on before anybody is ready for it.

For a few seconds all it captures is the inside of a backpack, a tangled phone charger, half of a sweatshirt and Joe quietly swearing because he can’t find the lens cap he had less than ten minutes ago.

“Language.”

Your voice comes from somewhere nearby.

The camera finally emerges into daylight.

Mountains immediately fill the frame.

Huge mountains.

The kind that make people stop talking halfway through a sentence because suddenly nothing they were saying feels important anymore.

Joe slowly pans across the landscape.

The snow.

The trails.

The sky.

The endless stretch of Patagonia.

Then he turns around.

Immediately.

The mountains disappear.

You are standing a few yards away with Luke balanced on your hip while you adjust the zipper of his jacket. He looks exhausted, his head resting against your shoulder, one hand curled around the sleeve of your sweatshirt while he slowly wakes up.

“There they are.”

You don’t even look surprised anymore.

“Joe.”

“What?”

“The mountains are over there.”

“I know.”

The camera doesn’t move.

You finally glance toward him.

The smile arrives before you can stop it.

“You carried that camera all the way here to film me.”

“Not true.”

The camera immediately zooms in.

“You and him.”

Luke notices his name.

Or at least notices that somebody is talking about him.

He lifts his head.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.”

The camera zooms closer.

“What do you think of Patagonia so far?”

Luke looks around.

Considers the question carefully.

Then points toward a random mountain.

“It’s big.”

Joe starts laughing.

The image shakes.

“A true poet.”

—

The hike itself takes approximately three times longer than it should because Luke treats every ten feet of trail like a separate adventure.

The camera captures all of it.

The first stop happens because of a stick.

Not a special stick.

Just a stick.

Luke decides he needs it.

Then decides he needs a second one.

Then decides the two sticks are brothers and can’t be separated.

You immediately accept this information as fact.

Joe, unfortunately, encourages it.

Within ten minutes the sticks have names.

Within fifteen minutes they have personalities.

By the time the group reaches the next viewpoint, everybody is somehow involved in a conversation about stick custody.

—

A little farther up the trail, Luke decides he’s no longer interested in walking normally and starts climbing every rock he can find, which means the pace somehow gets even slower than before. Joe keeps filming while you follow a few steps behind, both of you already aware that he’s about to learn a lesson the hard way.

“Careful.”

“I am being careful.”

The confidence in his voice makes you laugh immediately.

Luke successfully climbs one rock.

Then another.

Then a third.

By the fourth one, he’s clearly feeling invincible.

The fall isn’t dramatic. In fact, it’s barely even a fall.

One second he’s climbing.

The next his boot catches on the edge of a rock and he lands on his hands and knees with a surprised little noise.

The camera dips slightly.

Not because Joe is worried.

Mostly because he’s already laughing.

Luke remains frozen for a moment, looking down at the ground like he’s personally offended by what just happened.

You walk over.

“You okay?”

He thinks about it.

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

You brush some dirt off his sleeve.

Joe zooms in.

“That was a close one.”

“I survived.”

“So brave.”

Luke immediately starts smiling because he realizes nobody is taking it seriously.

Then he points at the rock.

“That one pushed me.”

You nod without missing a beat.

“I knew I didn’t trust that rock.”

“Me neither.”

The camera shakes with laughter while Luke continues the hike as though absolutely nothing happened.

The camera records none of the mountains.

Only the argument.

“This is ridiculous.”

You are laughing too hard to sound convincing.

Joe zooms in on Luke.

“No, explain it again.”

Luke immediately launches into another explanation.

The sticks are apparently travelling together.

One of them is the older brother.

The other one is irresponsible.

Nobody knows how the story got here.

The camera keeps recording anyway.

—

Several hours later they’re sitting near one of the viewpoints eating snacks while the wind blows across the trail hard enough to steal half the conversation.

Joe originally means to record the scenery.

The scenery really is beautiful.

The problem is that Luke has discovered echoes.

The camera captures exactly three seconds of mountains before Luke starts shouting random words into the distance.

“HELLO!”

The sound bounces back.

His eyes widen.

“Oh.”

Then louder.

“HELLO!”

The echo returns.

You immediately start laughing.

Joe follows.

Luke looks completely amazed.

For the next ten minutes the mountains become secondary to his ongoing conversation with nature.

The camera catches you sitting beside him with your knees pulled to your chest while he repeatedly tests increasingly ridiculous phrases.

At one point he yells:

“I LIKE CHICKEN NUGGETS.”

The mountains answer.

You nearly fall over laughing.

For the next few minutes, the two of you become equally annoying.

Every time Luke yells something into the mountains, you immediately yell something even worse.

“HELLO!”

The echo returns.

“I LIKE ICE CREAM!”

The echo returns again.

Luke starts laughing.

Then decides this has become a competition.

Soon both of you are taking turns shouting increasingly ridiculous things into the distance while Joe stands there filming the entire disaster.

At one point a group of hikers passes by and gives all three of you a very confused look.

You wave.

Luke waves.

Joe keeps recording.

“These are the people I chose to spend my life with.”

Joe can barely hold the camera straight.

“Argentina needed to hear that.”

“I think they already knew.”

—

The next morning begins inside the hotel.

The footage starts blurry.

Dark.

Quiet.

Joe has clearly just woken up.

The camera finds the window first.

Then the mountains.

Then you.

You are standing in front of the glass with Luke asleep against your shoulder, gently swaying while watching the sunrise spread across the landscape outside.

Neither of you realize you’re being filmed.

Joe doesn’t say anything.

For once there isn’t a joke.

No commentary.

No attempt at narration.

The room is so quiet the microphone picks up Luke’s breathing.

The camera remains there.

Watching.

Thirty seconds pass.

Then forty.

Then almost a full minute.

Eventually you notice him.

Instead of telling him to stop, you simply smile.

A small one.

Sleepy.

Private.

The kind that probably would’ve disappeared if he’d pointed it out.

The camera stays exactly where it is.

“You’re being weird.”

Joe laughs softly.

“I know.”

“How long have you been standing there?”

“A while.”

“You’ve literally just been filming us?”

“Maybe.”

You shake your head.

The smile never disappears.

—

The camera is pointed out the window at first, recording endless stretches of road disappearing into the distance until Joe glances up and notices Luke asleep beside you.

Half his body is falling sideways.

His neck is bent at an angle that looks deeply uncomfortable.

Without even looking away from your phone, you reach over and gently pull him closer.

The movement barely wakes him.

He immediately curls against your side.

Joe ends up filming that instead.

—

Buenos Aires feels completely different.

The first clips from the city are messy.

Loud.

Fast.

The camera catches buildings, cafés, buses, random dogs, musicians, bookstores and approximately twenty seconds dedicated entirely to a pastry display because Joe becomes distracted halfway through filming something else.

Luke loves the city immediately.

Mostly because there are people everywhere.

And because every new location presents fresh opportunities to ask questions.

The footage from Puerto Madero contains at least seven separate conversations that begin with:

“Why?”

And end with:

“I don’t know.”

At one point Luke spends nearly ten minutes convinced he could drive a boat.

The camera records the entire discussion.

“You can’t drive.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re five.”

“I could learn.”

Joe zooms in on you.

You’re trying not to laugh.

Failing.

The second you notice the camera, you point at him.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You always do this.”

“What?”

“You wait until I’m trying not to laugh.”

The camera shakes.

Joe is already laughing.

“Can I film?”

The question comes completely out of nowhere.

Joe lowers the camera.

“You wanna film?”

Luke nods enthusiastically.

The next thirty seconds are completely unusable.

First the camera captures his forehead.

Then the sky.

Then part of a boat.

Then his forehead again.

Then one of his eyes.

Then a seagull.

Then absolutely nothing.

You are laughing so hard you’re struggling to stand upright.

Joe isn’t helping.

“Great shot.”

“Thank you.”

“Very artistic.”

“I know.”

The camera suddenly swings toward you.

Only half your face makes it into frame.

Then it swings toward Joe.

Only his shoulder appears.

Then Luke accidentally records his own shoe for nearly ten seconds.

When Joe finally takes the camera back, he’s still laughing.

“I think we’ve got a future filmmaker.”

“I’m already one.”

“Clearly.”

—

The restaurant videos become their own category by the middle of the trip.

Most of them begin normally.

None of them stay normal.

One recording starts with everybody eating dinner while conversations bounce around the table.

The camera sits beside Joe’s plate.

Luke notices it first.

Which immediately becomes a problem.

He straightens in his seat.

Looks directly into the lens.

Then clears his throat.

You recognize the expression instantly.

“Oh no.”

Jake starts laughing.

“What?”

“I know that look.”

Luke straightens in his chair and looks directly into the camera.

“I have a joke.”

The entire table groans immediately.

Joe zooms in.

“Let’s hear it.”

For a second, Luke looks completely confident.

Then he forgets the joke.

Everybody watches him think.

And think.

And think.

You can practically see him trying to remember it.

Finally his face lights up.

“Oh.”

He points dramatically across the table.

“What do you call a dinosaur who likes chicken nuggets?”

Nobody has an answer.

Luke starts smiling before he’s even reached the punchline.

The smile gets bigger.

Then bigger.

Then suddenly he’s laughing so hard he can barely speak.

“What?”

You start laughing too.

“Tell us.”

Luke tries again.

Fails.

Starts laughing harder.

By now everybody else is laughing and nobody even knows the joke yet.

“What do you call him?” Joe asks.

Luke takes a deep breath.

“A chicken nugget dinosaur.”

The second he says it, he completely loses it.

You don’t even know why it’s funny.

It objectively isn’t.

But Luke is bent over laughing at his own joke like he’s just delivered the greatest piece of comedy in human history.

The table falls apart.

Jake is laughing.

You are laughing.

Joe can barely keep the camera steady.

And Luke keeps repeating it between laughs.

“A chicken nugget dinosaur.”

As though saying it multiple times somehow improves it.

You reach over and pull him closer.

He immediately curls against your side.

Then starts giggling again when you poke his stomach.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Mama.”

You do it again.

Luke practically folds in half laughing.

Joe spends the next minute recording both of you while pretending he’s filming the restaurant.

Nobody believes him.

—

The Bombonera footage starts with Luke saying the only phrase he has apparently decided matters.

“Vamos Boca.”

Joe laughs so hard the camera drops toward the pavement for a second.

“Again.”

“Vamos Boca!”

You are standing slightly ahead of them with one hand on Luke’s shoulder, trying very hard to look like you are not amused by the fact that Joe has managed to teach your child a football chant after one interview and approximately five minutes of context.

“You taught him that.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Luke says it again, louder this time, and Joe repeats it with him while the camera catches the blue and yellow around them, the murals, the stadium, the movement of people passing nearby and your face as you finally give up pretending you are annoyed and start laughing along with them.

Later, the footage from C Art Media and the podcast is less glamorous than anyone would expect, mostly because half of it is just waiting in hallways, sitting on couches, stealing snacks from catering tables and watching Luke discover that spinning in an office chair feels incredible until it suddenly does not. Joe means to record the studio, the microphones and the people setting everything up, but the camera keeps drifting toward you instead, catching you fixing Luke’s hair, telling him to stop touching things that are definitely expensive, and then immediately letting him take another cookie because he asks you with the most dramatic little face in the world.

“You’re weak,” Joe says from behind the camera.

“I’m kind.”

“You’re weak.”

“I’m kind.”

Luke looks up with cookie crumbs on his mouth.

“She’s kind.”

You point at him like that settles the argument.

“See?”

Joe zooms in on Luke.

“He’s only saying that because you gave him sugar.”

“Still counts.”

—

The camera is in your hands again after the C Art Media show, and the footage is shaky from the start because everybody is moving at once.

People are clapping, someone from the band is laughing somewhere nearby, a few people are trying to get through the hallway at the same time, and Luke is standing beside you with both hands pressed against the small barrier separating the side area from where Joe is stepping offstage.

The second he sees him, he forgets everything else.

“Daddy!”

Joe barely has time to look up before Luke is already running.

“Luke, don’t run too fast.”

You say it calmly, still filming, because you know him well enough to know he’s going to run anyway.

He nearly trips over his own feet halfway there, catches himself, keeps going, and Joe starts laughing before crouching down just in time for Luke to crash into him with both arms around his neck.

“Hey, buddy.”

“You were loud.”

Joe laughs harder, pulling him up against his chest.

“Thank you.”

“I saw you.”

“Yeah?”

Luke nods, extremely serious.

“I saw everything.”

The camera moves closer slowly, catching Joe still holding Luke while the noise continues around them, people walking past, cables being moved, someone calling for a photo, and Joe looking over Luke’s shoulder until he finds you behind the camera.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

The noise around you continues uninterrupted, people talking, equipment being moved, somebody laughing somewhere farther down the hallway, but none of it seems particularly important.

Still holding Luke with one arm, Joe reaches out with his free hand and gently hooks two fingers into the sleeve of your sweatshirt, pulling you closer just enough to press a quick kiss against your lips.

The camera dips slightly because you’re laughing before the kiss is even over.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Luke immediately looks between both of you.

“Ew.”

Joe laughs.

You do too.

Then Joe finally looks back toward the camera.

“You got that?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Luke leans back in Joe’s arms, looks at him for a second, then pats his cheek like he has something very important to say.

“You did good.”

Joe presses his lips together like he’s trying not to laugh too much.

“Thanks, man.”

The camera shakes because you’re laughing behind it, and Joe glances at you again with that little smile he gets when he knows exactly why you’re laughing but likes hearing it anyway.

“He’s my manager now.”

“He gives very honest feedback.”

Luke nods.

“I do.”

Joe adjusts him on his hip, still sweaty and out of breath from the show, while Luke immediately starts talking about something completely unrelated, already distracted by a light on the wall, and the whole thing feels so normal that you keep recording for a little longer than necessary.

—

The image is slightly shaky at first because you’ve stolen the camera without warning and Joe is still complaining about it from somewhere across the van.

“You don’t even know how to use it.”

“I know exactly how to use it.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I literally watched you do it for two weeks.”

The camera finally focuses.

Most of the band is scattered throughout the seats, half of them looking exhausted after a long day in the city while the other half are talking over each other about dinner plans.

The sun is beginning to set outside, turning everything orange through the windows.

Joe is sitting a few rows ahead.

Or at least he was sitting a few rows ahead.

Now he’s trying to entertain Luke.

The camera catches the exact moment he grabs him by the ankles and lifts him upside down.

Luke immediately loses his mind.

His laugh fills the entire van.

“Again.”

“Buddy, I just did it.”

“Again.”

Joe sighs dramatically.

Then does it again.

The camera shakes because you’re laughing.

“So this is what you two do when I’m not around.”

Joe looks toward the camera.

“We’re athletes.”

“No.”

“We are.”

“You literally have him upside down.”

Luke is laughing too hard to contribute to the conversation.

His hair is hanging toward the floor.

Joe is struggling to hold him because he’s moving so much.

Somewhere behind him, Jake starts laughing.

“That kid is exactly like both of you.”

“That’s a terrifying thing to say.”

“It really is.”

Joe finally pulls Luke upright again.

The peace lasts approximately five seconds.

Then Luke throws himself across Joe’s lap and starts climbing him like a tree.

The camera stays on them.

Not because they’re doing anything particularly exciting.

Just because they’re funny together.

Joe keeps pretending to be annoyed.

Luke keeps pretending to listen.

Neither is convincing.

At one point Luke ends up sitting on Joe’s shoulders despite the fact that they’re inside a moving van and there is absolutely no reason for him to be up there.

The second he gets comfortable, he points dramatically out the window.

“Argentina.”

You laugh behind the camera.

“Yep.”

“Still Argentina.”

Joe leans his head back.

“Thank God you clarified.”

Luke ignores him.

For the next several minutes he continues providing updates whenever he sees something outside.

A building.

A car.

A tree.

Another car.

Every observation is delivered with exactly the same level of excitement.

The camera catches Joe smiling every single time.

Not because what Luke is saying is particularly interesting.

Mostly because he’s Luke.

Eventually he notices you’re still filming.

“Oh, come on.”

The camera zooms in slightly.

“What?”

“You’ve been recording us for like ten minutes.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

You look through the viewfinder.

Joe has one arm around Luke to stop him from falling off his shoulders.

Luke is still pointing excitedly out the window.

The sunset is pouring through the glass behind them.

The rest of the band is talking and laughing around them.

It looks nice.

“You guys look cute.”

Joe immediately groans.

Somewhere behind him, Jake starts making gagging noises.

Luke has no idea what’s happening.

“Daddy.”

“Yeah?”

“I wanna be upside down again.”

The camera shakes because everybody starts laughing at once.

—

By the time Lollapalooza comes around, the camera has basically become part of the family, passed between Joe, you, Jake and whoever happens to be standing closest. Backstage is loud and messy in a way that makes every recording feel a little chaotic, with crew members moving everywhere, instruments being checked, people calling Joe’s name from across the space and Luke pressed against your leg because the whole thing is exciting but also huge.

Then the camera is suddenly in your hands.

The image wobbles before settling on Joe near the stage, guitar in hand, hair moving slightly in the wind while the crowd roars somewhere beyond him.

“Look,” you say softly, close to the microphone, “that’s your dad.”

Luke leans into your side.

“Daddy.”

“Yeah,” you say, laughing a little because he sounds so impressed. “That’s Daddy.”

Joe turns at exactly the right second, spots both of you and smiles before lifting his hand in a quick wave. Luke waves back with his entire arm, almost hitting the camera in the process, and you laugh behind the lens while telling him to be careful even though you are laughing too hard to sound serious.

“Look how handsome he is.”

Luke giggles.

“I love Daddy.”

“I know,” you say, keeping the camera on Joe as the lights shift and the crowd gets louder. “I love him too.”

Then, because apparently he has learned timing from Joe, Luke suddenly yells, “Vamos Boca!” so loudly that the camera shakes when you burst out laughing.

Joe cannot hear what he said from the stage, but he can see you laughing, and that is enough to make him smile right before the music starts.

The actual show footage is terrible in the way home videos usually are. Sometimes the camera catches Joe. Sometimes it catches the lights. Sometimes it catches the back of someone’s head, Luke’s hands clapping off rhythm, the side of your face as you sing along quietly, or the floor because you lower the camera without realizing it when Luke says something to you. None of it is clean or professional, but it feels exactly like being there, loud and messy and warm.

After the show, the recordings become softer.

There is dinner with the band, Luke asleep across two chairs with Joe’s jacket over him, you leaning your head against Joe’s shoulder while everyone talks too loudly around you, and Joe filming under the table for three seconds by accident before lifting the camera again and finding your face.

“You’re still recording?”

“Apparently.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Probably.”

You laugh, and he leaves the camera there.

The last hotel video in Buenos Aires is quiet.

Luke is already asleep, one tiny hand curled around the stuffed dinosaur he has dragged through every city, every car ride, every hotel room and every backstage hallway. The balcony door is open just enough for the sounds of the city to come through, and Joe films the skyline for maybe five seconds before turning the camera toward you instead.

You are sitting on the edge of the bed, folding one of Luke’s sweaters into a suitcase, moving slowly because none of you really want to leave yet.

“Are you filming me packing?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s so boring.”

“It’s not.”

“It literally is.”

Joe doesn’t answer right away, and for a moment the only sound is the city outside and Luke breathing softly from the bed. Then you look up at him, tired and pretty and still wearing the same sweatshirt from earlier, and the camera stays exactly where it is.

“You really filmed the whole trip.”

“Not the whole trip.”

“Joe.”

“Most of it.”

You shake your head, smiling as you fold another shirt.

“You’re gonna have like fifty hours of nothing.”

He zooms in slightly.

“Not nothing.”

You look at him through the camera, softer now, like you understand exactly what he means even if neither of you says it out loud.

“No?”

“No.”

The recording ends a few seconds later, not with a big moment, not with some perfect ending, but with Luke stirring in his sleep and mumbling something neither of you can understand, making both of you laugh quietly before Joe finally turns the camera off.

thank you so much for reading !! ♡this one was heavily inspired by all the photos, videos and interviews from joe’s argentina trip because i became a little obsessed with the idea of him carrying a camera everywhere and accidentally recording hours of footage of reader and luke instead of the actual places he was visiting 😭likes, reblogs and feedback are always appreciated <3 requests are open !!

[birdsofanarchy]

Hucklerobby could never happen in cannon simply because if Trinity Santos even got an inkling of an older man in a position of power trying something with one of her friends, she’d materialize behind Robby with a fucking gun

[mononijikayu]

“i warm my hands to touch you” — ryomen sukuna.

first year high schooler ryomen sukuna was starting to think volleyball had ruined his life. but it was not because he disliked it. if anything, the thought was opposite. quite annoyingly, he liked it far too much. much more than he thought he would possible. and frankly, it wouldn’t have been what he expected more than a year and a half ago for himself.

he liked the impact of a perfect spike against his palm. it just felt too good, feeling that  satisfying burn in his muscles after practice. he enjoyed watching the ball slam into the floor hard enough to make people flinch. 

in some ways, there was something addictive about becoming stronger at something so quickly, about seeing people stare at him with the same mixture of awe and caution they always had. except now it was on a volleyball court instead of outside convenience stores after fights.

volleyball had also introduced him to a very specific problem. that was the unbeatable concept, the most unfathomable concept in the universe. the push and pull of destiny, the endless crash of the waves. the concept of love….the concept of you.

it was something that he would have never thought of years ago, especially a year and a half ago. he wasn’t the type of boy who could have ever been good at being gentle, let alone be willing to let his guard down and be vulnerable for anything, for anyone. 

but somehow, ever since he started dating you, the former red eyed devil of the streets, that young delinquent he was, was no longer there. Instead, all that remained is this young man, this ryomen sukuna who had been acting like a complete idiot. a complete, embarrassing, hopeless idiot, who was head over heels in love with you.

and the worst part was that nobody could even believe it. nobody at school would ever imagine the infamous former delinquent ryomen sukuna, the guy teachers kept an eye on out of habit, the guy with tattoos peeking from beneath his uniform collar, the guy who looked mean even while half-asleep, was internally losing his mind because his girlfriend looked too cute holding a pen.

he  could not believe it at first, but he quickly realized that he was now that sort of boy he used to think were just fools. he was now constantly looking up, waiting for you to be in his bird’s eye view, hoping to catch a glimpse of you and be relieved. 

you sat in the gym almost every afternoon during volleyball practice, student council work spread neatly across your lap while you waited for him to finish. sometimes the manager would offer you a chair closer to the heaters during colder days, but you always stayed near the court because, according to you, “i like watching my boyfriend play” and you repeated that all the time. which was a killer line.

because that sentence alone had nearly gotten him on his knees and made him realize that he couldn’t breathe the first time you said it. then each time you had said it, it had him fighting for his life. he couldn’t believe it. he was a boyfriend, and let alone, your boyfriend. 

he couldn’t go without you now.

he just knows that he can’t do things without you.

how could he, when you are everything good in life?

today, practice had run late.the weather outside had shifted colder with the approaching rain, and even inside the gym, the air carried a chill that lingered against sweat-damp skin. the windows had fogged slightly near the corners, sunset light filtering weakly through the gray clouds overhead.

sukuna was exhausted, beyond comprehension. he could feel the way his head was fuzzy and light-headed. he dropped onto the bench beside you with a low exhale, towel hanging around his neck while he rolled one sore shoulder. his practice shirt clung slightly to his back, still damp from drills.

you looked up immediately from your paperwork. “there you are, i couldn’t see you.” you said softly. “i thought you left. its a good thing i saw your bag in here.”

“had to do the drill outside, for terrain practice.”

“you were doing extra spikes there, huh?”

“tch. coach asked, so i don’t panic when if the volleyball floor isn’t even.”

“you scared two first-years, i heard. you kept asking the senpais for help and you kept glaring at them.” you couldn’t help but say in a light tone. “you could have smiled a little you know.”

“they’ll survive without it.” he says as he takes his water bottle. “‘sides they aren’t you. why should they get my smile?”

“i suppose that’s fair enough.” you tell him. “though, you hit one hard enough that he ducked before the ball even crossed the net. be a bit more mindful next time.”

“he should learn instincts then.”

your lips twitched faintly, the one you had been suppressing for a little bit now. sukuna watched the tiny smile form and immediately felt that stupid feeling in his chest again. god, there it was.

that thing. that unbearable tightness whenever you looked amused by him.

he clicked his tongue and grabbed his water bottle instead, trying to ignore the fact he was staring. you noticed anyway, because you always noticed. you blinked your eyes adorably and you tilted your head slightly. “what?” you asked.

“nothing.”

“you’re staring again.”

“no, i’m not.”

“you absolutely are.”

sukuna glared at you weakly before unscrewing his water bottle. unfortunately, the moment his fingers curled around the cold metal, he remembered something. he looked at your hands for a moment. he starts to think for a moment, about the way you hated the cold. 

it wasn’t dramatic, it wasn’t unreasonable either. and you don’t complain about it often. but he could just feel it, he could just see it. you couldn’t cope. you just got quietly miserable whenever temperatures dropped even slightly.

you tucked your hands into your sleeves. your nose turned pink. you complained under your breath about frozen fingers while trying to maintain your usual composed student-president image.

and sukuna, sukuna thought it was the cutest thing he had ever seen in his entire life. which was a serious problem. because now every time the weather got cold, every time a place felt cold, or when something was too cold to the touch, he couldn’t stop paying attention to you.

a few weeks ago, you’d grabbed his hand while walking home after rain. his muscular fingers had still been freezing from carrying an iced drink, and you’d immediately jerked in surprise before pouting up at him.

“your hands are cold, ‘kuna.” you’d complained quietly. “now mine are cold too.”

you hadn’t even sounded upset. if anything, you’d sounded clingy, almost like you expected him to fix it. sukuna had spent the entire night afterward staring at his ceiling because the memory kept replaying in his head.

now it had permanently altered his behavior, his train of thought, his perspectives. so while you sat beside him in the chilly gym, absentmindedly rubbing your sleeves over your hands for warmth, sukuna’s brain short-circuited instantly.

fuck, there you went again.

you looked too cute.

way too cute for him to handle.

you didn’t even realize you were doing it either, perhaps that was the worst part. your brows furrowed slightly as you tried warming your fingers beneath your sleeves while still reading over council papers, and sukuna physically had to look away for a second because something about it hit him directly in the chest.

how was anyone supposed to survive dating you?

“how are you cold already, babe?” he muttered roughly.

you glanced at him with mild offense. “because it’s freezing.”

“it is not.”

“‘kuna, i can literally see my breath outside.”

“that’s normal.”

“it shouldn’t be.”

you tucked your hands farther into your sleeves stubbornly, shoulders hunching a little against the cold air. and that, that right there nearly killed him. ryomen sukuna stared at you for a long second before dragging a hand down his face.

fuck it all, it was too much.

you were adorable.

actually adorable.

he hated this feeling. hated how soft you made him feel. hated how his chest kept tightening over things as stupid as your cold hands. before you could notice the crisis happening internally, sukuna abruptly started rubbing his palms together.

you blinked. “what are you doing right now?”

“nothing at all.”

“you’re aggressively warming your hands.”

“i said it’s nothing.”

then, dissatisfied, he shoved both hands underneath the collar of his shirt to warm them properly against his skin. your eyes widened slowly as realization hit your face all at once.

and then you smiled. you couldn’t help it, you couldn’t help look at him so fondly.

“oh my god…” you whispered.

“don’t.”

“you’re warming your hands up for me.”

sukuna wanted the floor to open beneath him. “you’re cold, okay?” he muttered defensively, refusing to look directly at you now. “you hate cold stuff.”

your expression softened so visibly it made his stomach flip. “‘kuna…”

“it’s annoying watching you complain.”

“i complained once.”

“you looked miserable.”

“because i was cold.”

“exactly.”

you stared at him for a moment longer, something unbearably affectionate settling in your expression. then you laughed quietly under your breath, so softly, it felt like a feather had landed on his skin, carefully placing its tenderness against him. sukuna felt like his organs were rearranging themselves.

“you’re seriously so sweet, aren’t you, kuna?” you said.

sukuna almost choked. sweet? him? absolutely not. “you’re hallucinating, babe.”

“you’re warming your hands because mine get cold.”

“you act like you’re dying every time the temperature drops below twenty.”

“because cold weather is evil.”

“there’s something wrong with you.”

“you still like me.”

unfortunately, that was true. painfully true. and there was nothing he could do about it. sukuna finally pulled his hands back out from beneath his shirt before awkwardly holding one toward you, still refusing eye contact. “here.”

you looked down at his hand, then back at him. and suddenly your entire expression melted. sukuna immediately knew he was finished. because there it was again. that look. that impossibly soft, affectionate look that made him feel like he’d been punched directly in the chest.

carefully, you slipped your hand into his. the second your fingers touched, your eyes brightened slightly.

“they’re warm.” you said quietly.

the happiness in your voice over something so small genuinely made sukuna’s brain stop functioning. fuck. fuck, you were cute. you held his hand with both of yours now like you were stealing his warmth, shoulders relaxing immediately.

“‘kuna, you’re so good at everything you know?” you murmured, looking absurdly content, “how could you just fix everything so easily? you’re like a healer…..no, no, you’re like my personal heater.”

that did it. that actually did it. sukuna felt his entire face heat instantly as he stared at you in disbelief. you were holding his hand against your cheek now, eyes half-lidded in comfort from the warmth, and sukuna genuinely thought he might die right there in the middle of the gymnasium.

how could someone act like this and not realize what they were doing to him? how could you just cross the boundaries and make the greys turn into a rainbow? his heartbeat was so loud it was annoying. you noticed his silence and blinked up at him innocently. “what?”

sukuna looked away immediately, jaw tense. “…nothing.”

“you’re blushing.”

“no, i’m not.”

“you are.”

“it’s hot in here.”

“you said it was cold.”

“tch.”

you laughed softly again before squeezing his hand tighter, still warming your fingers against his palm. and sukuna, he couldn’t do anything else. sukuna looked at you curled against his warmth like trusting him came naturally, like loving him was easy, and felt something helpless bloom painfully inside his chest.

because nobody had ever needed gentleness from him before. nobody had ever looked this happy just because he remembered something small about them. he stared at your intertwined hands for a moment before muttering under his breath, almost too quietly to hear, he says, “you’re gonna ruin me.”

you blinked. “hm?”

“nothing.”

but you smiled anyway, like maybe you’d heard him after all. and while the gym buzzed faintly around you with distant voices and squeaking shoes, ryomen sukuna sat there completely lovestruck, warming your hands between his own like it was the most important job in the world.

“i really do like you, ‘kuna.” you whispered to him softly, feeling warmth all over your face. “i promise, by next week…i’ll figure out what my nickname is for you….it can’t just be you who has a cute one for me.”

he could feel his blush intensify. he lowers his head. “y–you don’t have to say shit like that—fuck….”

“‘kuna, are you okay?”

“I…i’m fine! just…just keep letting my hands warm you, okay?....i warmed my hands to touch you….just…just let it warm you up.”

"alright, alright....tsundere."

"i am not a tsundere—babe!"

"hm...i believe you."

he blushed even more.

he knew you were right.

he just won't admit it.

".....just keep warm, okay?"

"okay." you smiled.

epilogue 

years later, olympic volleyball legend ryomen sukuna still warmed his hands before touching yours. it had become such an ingrained habit that he no longer consciously thought about it anymore. whenever the weather turned cold, whenever rain tapped against the windows or winter air slipped beneath doorframes, his body simply moved on instinct. rub his palms together. warm them against hot water or the fabric of his sweater. then reach for you.

you noticed every single time. this morning, rain drizzled softly outside the apartment while pale gray light filled the kitchen. the heater hummed near the corner, but apparently not enough for you, because you stood near the counter bundled in one of sukuna’s old hoodies with your hands tucked deep into the sleeves.

your nose was pink from the cold. sukuna thought you looked ridiculous. ridiculously cute for your own good. you frowned down at your coffee mug like it had personally betrayed you. “why is the floor cold?”

“because it’s winter, babe.” sukuna answered from the table without looking up. “bound to be cold iike this.”

“well i don't like it.....winter is evil.” you sniffle.

“you say that every year.”

“because every year it’s true.”

he finally glanced toward you then and immediately felt that familiar ache settle warmly in his chest. years later, and you still looked exactly the same whenever you were cold. the tiny pout. the way your shoulders hunched slightly. the way you curled your fingers into your sleeves like a disgruntled cat.

sukuna had once believed he would eventually grow used to loving you. nstead, it seemed to get worse with time. he still is overwhelmed each and every time by how much he feels for you, by how deep the depths get when it comes to you. yet he wouldn't trade this for the world. not one bit.

you sighed dramatically before shuffling toward him across the kitchen. “my hands are freezing.”

“that sounds like a personal problem.”

“you’re so mean to me.”

“do you want some hot cocoa?”

“.....yes, please. thank you.”

“already have it on the kettle, babe.” he says from his seat, smiling. “give it a few minutes, okay?”

“......okay.”

almost instinctively after that, you still moved directly between his legs where he sat at the table, leaning against him automatically. sukuna’s hands settled on your waist without thought.

then, after a brief pause, he clicked his tongue softly and pulled one hand away. you watched silently as he reached toward the sink, running warm water over his palms for several seconds first.

a smile slowly spread across your face. “still doing that, huh?” you asked quietly.

sukuna dried his hands with a towel before looking back at you. “doing what?”

“warming your hands before touching me.”

“your hands get cold.”

“so?”

“so i don’t like when you complain about it.”

you laughed softly beneath your breath, and sukuna immediately felt his heartbeat stutter in the same humiliating way it always had.

he still remembered being sixteen years old and internally panicking in the school gym because your fingers had gotten cold from his.

now, years later, he was married to you, living with you, waking up beside you every morning and somehow he still reacted exactly the same.

you reached for him the second he held his hands out, slipping your smaller freezing ones into his warm palms with an immediate relieved sigh. “there he is.” you murmured happily. “my human heater.”

sukuna rolled his eyes, but his grip tightened automatically around your fingers. then he noticed the tiny pleased smile spreading across your face while you warmed your hands against his.

fucking hell.

still cute.

still unfairly cute.

he leaned down to kiss your forehead, already feeling that familiar helpless warmth blooming in his chest, when tiny footsteps suddenly pattered through the path of the hallway.

both of you turned. ryomen sukumi stood there sleepily in oversized bear-print pajamas, one tiny fist rubbing against her eye while her stuffed rabbit dragged limply behind her.

sukuna froze immediately. because somehow, every single morning, seeing his daughter still caught him off guard. one-year-old sukumi was so much like you it was honestly ridiculous.

your rounded cheeks. the same whimsy in your eyes. your adorable expressions. your habits. especially your habits. she may be his carbon copy but everything she is, all he can see is you and only you.

right now, she stood in the middle of the hallway with her tiny hands shoved deep into her pajama sleeves exactly the same way you did. same pout too. same betrayed expression toward the cold air.

sukuna physically felt something cave in his chest at the sight. you noticed immediately and bit back a smile. “good morning, kumi, my baby.” you said softly. “you're already up?”

sukumi looked at you with watery sleepy eyes before mumbling miserably, “cold…”

and there it was. that same exact tone you used every winter morning. the kettle was sounding but all he could hear was that sound, like back then. that tenderness of his heartbeat at the sight of this wonder. sukuna stared at his daughter in complete silence while realization slowly settled over him all over again.

she was exactly like you, in everything.

sukumi waddled farther into the kitchen before lifting both tiny arms upward dramatically. “mama…'kumi cold.”

you crouched instantly, brushing her messy hair back. “your hands are cold?”

sukumi nodded sadly. “very cold.”

sukuna watched the entire interaction with narrowing eyes as he turned off the kettle. he could not take his sight of you and sukumi. because she even complained like you. this was unbelievable. and yet all he could think was, how wonderful this was. how the two pieces of you two made someone as lovable and tender and cute as you, his beloved wife.

you glanced over your shoulder at him, visibly trying not to laugh. “my love.”

“don’t.”

“you’re making the face again.”

“what face, pray tell?”

“the one where you realize your daughter inherited all my habits.”

“she’s dramatic.”

“you think i’m dramatic too.”

“because you are.”

before you could argue, sukumi suddenly turned toward him instead, tiny hands still hidden inside her sleeves “dada, dada.” she mumbled.

sukuna’s expression softened immediately despite himself. “what, kumibear? what do you need from dada?”

“warm, kumi...kumi want warm.”

goodness gracious.

he was doomed.

completely doomed.

because now she was looking at him with the exact same expression you used whenever asking him to warm your hands. same hopeful eyes. same tiny pout. same complete trust that he would take care of it. sukuna exhaled slowly through his nose before crouching in front of her.

“c’mere, kumibear.”

sukumi toddled forward instantly. and before even touching her, sukuna rubbed his palms together first. almost as if she just knew fully well that this was the best thing she can do to put herself at ease, almost so instinctive that she curls intp his warmth immediately.

he does same thing he’d been doing for years. he puts his warm touch on hers. you watched quietly from nearby while he carefully took sukumi’s tiny hands between his own warm ones.

the second the warmth reached her fingers, sukumi visibly brightened. her little shoulders relaxed. her eyes widened slightly in relief. then she smiled so big, so comfortably.

and sukuna genuinely thought his heart stopped. because it was your smile. exactly your smile. when gratitude was shared, when good moments were experienced, when love was wholeheartedly given without any boundaries. this was you. all that he had loved of you, in your daughter's smile.

“warm, dada.” sukumi whispered happily before immediately pressing his hands closer against her cheeks. "kumi loves."

you made a tiny strangled sound beside him, clearly trying not to laugh at his expression. sukuna glanced up at you flatly. “don’t start.”

“you look emotional.”

“i’m not emotional.”

“you absolutely are.”

because he was.

he really was.

he couldn't help it.

this was everything.

all he wanted then, as a kid.

he had it now, with you.

sukuna looked back down at sukumi happily holding his hands against her face while leaning trustingly into his warmth, and suddenly he was struck with the overwhelming realization that this was his life now.

you. your daughter. these cold hands every winter morning. the tiny domestic moments that somehow felt bigger than anything else. and worst of all, he loved it to bits. he loved all of it so much it honestly made him feel sick sometimes.

you moved beside him then, resting your chin lightly on his shoulder while sukumi continued clinging to his hands. “look at her, my love.” you whispered fondly. “she does the same face i do.”

“yeah, she does.” sukuna muttered quietly, unable to stop staring at her. “i noticed.”

you smiled knowingly. because you understood exactly what was happening to him. years ago, sixteen-year-old sukuna had nearly combusted over you holding his warmed hands in a cold gym after volleyball practice.

now he sat on the kitchen floor with your daughter clinging to his palms the exact same way while you leaned affectionately against his shoulder, and somehow he was even more hopelessly in love than before.

"does kumibear want hot cocoa too? like mama?"

sukumi nodded against him. "cocoa, papa."

"that sounds wonderful." you whispered, pressing a kiss on his shoulder.

[wifegideonnav]

“bits to use in everyday conversations”

[its-lilith]

·.⚛︎.Drag Path.⚛︎·.

One Shot - Frank Langdon x f!Reader

Summary: She has a habit of taking in strays. This time, it’s a recently divorced ER doctor with a complicated past, a stubborn need to handle everything alone and a dog. Letting him move in is supposed to be simple. Temporary. Just helping someone get through a rough time. But between shared routines, quiet moments, and the kind of care neither of them knows how to ask for out loud, things start to shift. Lines blur, walls lower, and what begins as an arrangement slowly turns into something neither of them planned for.

Masterlist

Warnings: no use of y/n, mentions of addiction, almost relapse, mentions of divorce, mentions of hurt animals, drinking (I know people in recovery shouldn't drink, but let me have this), swearing, a lot of angst, langdonmel/kingdon if you squint, I think they get a little codependent, a lil bit of a toxic relationship with work on her part, terrible depiction of therapists, happy-ish ending, english is not my first language (I don't know my ins, ons and ats or the difference between then and than :D). Author’s note: HI!! I haven't been posting on tumblr too long and this is my first time writing for The Pitt (PBall makes me feel things only Sebastian Stan has managed before). I named the dog Bones :D (genuinely don't remember if he's ever named in the show) and I'm a kingdon girly at heart, but really wanted to give this a try. This is a feel good type of fic, I guess. No real plot, I just really fanticize about giving that man a fucking break! I also feel like this is a little messy, but oh well... Feedback is always appreciated as well as likes, coments and reblogs! Thank you!!!

I DID NOT PROOFREAD THIS!!!

Word count: 10k

Drag Path - Twenty One Pilots

ــــــــــــﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ــــــــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ٨ـــــــــــــﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩـــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ــﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

She always had a terrible habit of bringing in strays.

Not in the way people found cute and joked about lightly, not the occasional soft spot that showed up when it was convenient. It was something deeper, something rooted so far back it had never really felt like a choice. 

Her mother used to say she was born with it, that instinct to notice what others walked past, to feel things too sharply and too quickly to ever pretend she hadn’t seen.

It started when she was six. 

A bird had fallen into their yard, its wing bent at an unnatural angle, feathers trembling with each shallow breath. She remembered the sound more than anything, the fragile, frantic flutter. She had cried immediately, a full-bodied, desperate kind of crying that made it seem like a piece of her body had been ripped off.

By eight, it had become impossible to ignore. 

A kitten came first, tucked carefully into her jacket after being found on the side of the road, all ribs and wide eyes. She had walked home with it like she was carrying something sacred, heart pounding with the quiet fear that someone might take it away before she could prove it deserved to stay.

A year later, it was a puppy. Then something else, and something else after that.

Her parents had tried, at first, to set limits. Practical ones. Reasonable ones. But they never lasted because every time she looked at them, eyes glassy and voice trembling with that same unwavering conviction, they understood what she could not yet explain. It wasn’t just about wanting a pet. It was about needing to ensure that nothing small and defenseless slipped through the cracks unnoticed.

That part of her never really changed. It just softened at the edges, learned how to stay quiet when it needed to, shaped itself into something that fit the life she had built. From the outside, it looked contained, intentional, like she had found a way to manage it.

People had told her, more times than she could count, that she should have been a vet. It always sounded logical when they said it, like it was the obvious extension of who she was. But they didn’t understand. She had never even considered it, not truly. The idea of facing sick, dying animals every day wasn’t something she could harden herself against. It would undo her in ways she wouldn’t be able to come back from.

So she chose people instead.

She built a life around listening, around understanding, around sitting with others in the moments when they no longer knew how to carry themselves. She learned how to hold space without falling apart inside it, how to offer steadiness without losing herself completely. Being a therapist was a version of care that looked more controlled, more sustainable.

But underneath it, nothing had really changed.

It was still the same instinct.

Which was how she found herself, many years later, standing in her apartment while one of her best friends stood in front of her asking for something she already knew she wouldn’t be able to refuse.

Another stray.

Only this time, it wasn’t small. It wasn’t wordless. It wasn’t something she could scoop up and protect with gentle hands and quiet reassurances.

This time, it was complicated.

“This is different,” Mel was saying, her tone carefully measured in that way it always became when something truly mattered. “He’s—”

“No,” she cut in, faster than she meant to, the word landing with a firmness that felt foreign even to her own ears.

Mel blinked. That alone was enough to make something twist uncomfortably in her chest. She wasn’t used to pushing back like this, not when it came to helping, not when it came to something Mel cared about.

But this was too big.

“Absolutely not, Mel,” she repeated, steadier now, even as something inside her already began to waver.

Because she could feel it, creeping in at the edges. That familiar pull. The quiet, persistent voice asking her to look closer, to understand, to consider what might happen if she turned away.

And she hated that it was already working.

Mel didn’t rush into it, which was how she knew it was important. There was a carefulness to the way she stood in the living room, like she was measuring every word before letting it exist, something that didn’t usually happen when they were alone together.

“You know I wouldn’t ask if there were other options,” Mel said, quieter than usual. “If there was anything I could do, I’d do it.”

She stayed where she was, arms loosely crossed while she leaned against the couch and looked at Mel. The first instinct had already been to say no, and she was still holding onto it, even as it started to feel less solid.

“You’re asking me to let someone I’ve never met move into my home,” she replied, trying to keep her voice even, reasonable. “To let a man live here. To exist in my space like that’s not… a massive thing.”

“It is a massive thing,” Mel admitted immediately, eyes wide behind her glasses and head nodding a little too fast as she played with her fingers more openly. “I know that. I do.”

There was no pushback, no attempt to minimize it. Just that steady, earnest look that had always been impossible to argue with.

“He’s not just someone from work,” Mel added after a moment, like she was trying to bridge the distance between stranger and something more human. “He’s—he’s one of the best people I know.”

The words came out softer at the end, uncertainty threading through them in a way that didn’t quite match the claim. Not doubt, exactly. More like she was struggling to translate something bigger into something that would make sense.

“That’s not exactly reassuring,” she said, though there was less bite in it now. “Everyone says that about the people they care about.”

“I’m not saying it because I care about him,” Mel said, and then paused, exhaling like she had stepped into something complicated. “Or maybe I am… I don’t know, but that’s not the point. The point is that he’s… good. Great, even. And right now that may not enough to keep him steady.”

She shifted her weight, gaze dropping briefly to the floor before coming back to Mel. “You’re still asking me to take a risk. Not a small one. I don’t know him. I don’t know what he’s like to live with, how he handles things, what happens when it gets bad.”

Mel nodded, looking anywhere but at her friend’s eyes, absorbing every word instead of pushing past it. “That’s fair. You’re right. You should be thinking about all of that.”

There was a pause, and for a second it felt like maybe, just maybe, Mel would let it go.

She didn’t.

“I just don’t think he should be alone right now,” Mel said finally, and something in her voice shifted again, like she was genuinely afraid. “I think if he is, there’s a real chance he won’t be okay.”

There’s a real chance he’ll relapse. It’s what Mel meant to say, she knew it.

The simplicity of it made it worse.

“You’re asking me to take responsibility for that,” she said, quieter now.

“No,” Mel shook her head immediately. “I’m asking you to give him a chance to not go through it alone. That’s different.”

It didn’t feel that different.

She let out a slow breath, pressing her lips together as she tried to hold onto her logic, her boundaries, all the things she knew were supposed to matter here.

“I can’t just fix people, Mel,” she said. “That’s not how this works.”

“I know,” Mel said, softer now. “I know you can’t.”

There was something in her expression she rarely showed, something that only surfaced when she was truly worried about someone she loved, a quiet tightness, like she was holding herself together with careful effort, keeping everything from slipping out all at once. She had only ever seen it when it came to Becca. 

“But you don’t fix people,” she continued. “You see them. You sit with them when things get ugly and confusing and they don’t know how to hold themselves together. You make it… less unbearable. Easier to navigate”

The words settled somewhere deep, uncomfortably precise.

Mel held her gaze, unwavering now, which was a rare occurrence.

“You did that for me,” she said.

There it was.

The memory came back instantly, uninvited but vivid. Late nights, shared silence, the quiet understanding that Mel didn’t need to explain everything to be understood, not by her. She had never thought of it as something extraordinary. It had just been what felt right at the time.

Mel had always moved through the world a little differently. She was shy at first glance and then, once she felt even a little safe, the words would come all at once. Too many, too fast, like she had been holding them in for too long. She was easily overwhelmed, struggled to balance everything life demanded of her, especially back then. College had stretched her thin in ways she didn’t always know how to handle.

And somehow, without ever making a point of it, she had become a constant in Mel’s chaos.

Not just someone who understood, but someone who stayed. Someone who showed up in ways that felt simple to her and essential to Mel. Rides across town without a second thought. Sitting side by side in silence just so tasks felt less impossible. Being there in the middle of the night when things went wrong, when fear took over and Mel couldn’t hold herself together long enough to act.

She never questioned it. Never weighed what it cost her or what it meant.

“Mel…” she started to say after a small sigh.

“He needs that,” Mel pressed, with a kind of quiet urgency that was hard to resist. “He needs someone who won’t panic when it gets hard. Someone who knows how to deal with it.”

Her chest tightened.

“I know it’s a lot,” Mel added, her voice softening again. “I wouldn’t ask if he wasn’t important to me. And I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t trust you to handle it.”

That did it.

Not the argument or the logic, but the trust behind it.

She looked away for a moment, gathering herself, already feeling the edges of her refusal begin to erode.

“Okay,” she said with a deep sigh. “But this hot-shot doctor friend of yours is paying half the rent.”

Mel lit up immediately, the tension dissolving all at once. She let out a small, disbelieving laugh and pulled her into a tight hug, relief written all over her.

“Thank you,” Mel said quickly, like the words had been waiting.

She rolled her eyes, though she didn’t pull away. “Don’t make it a big thing.”

Mel did anyway, if only for a second longer before stepping back, something else crossing her expression like she had just remembered a detail she wasn’t sure how it would land.

“Oh,” she added. “He has a dog.”

She paused, blinking once, then let out a quiet breath through her nose. That… wasn’t bad. Out of everything this arrangement could have been, that was almost reassuring.

“Okay,” she said again, softer this time.

And if anything, she trusted him a little more now.

⚛︎

It didn’t go as badly as she had prepared herself for.

That was the first thing she noticed and it unsettled her more than it should have. She had built this quiet expectation in her mind, something tense and fragile, a living arrangement that would feel intrusive, unnatural, like two people forced too close together without enough room to breathe. Instead, from the very first day, it settled into something softer. Not effortless, but not strained either.

Frank stepped into the apartment like he was aware of every inch of it, like he understood instinctively that he was entering someone else’s space and had no intention of disrupting it. There was a carefulness to him. Every movement felt measured, every word considered before it was spoken. It looked practiced, the kind of restraint that didn’t come naturally but had been learned over time, shaped by necessity.

The dog, on the other hand, had no such reservations.

Bones, the goldendoodle.

Bones crossed the distance between them without pause, all warmth and immediate attachment, pressing into her like he had already decided she belonged to him. She laughed softly, instinctively reaching down, her fingers disappearing into soft fur as the dog leaned into her like it was the easiest decision in the world.

“Little traitor,” Frank muttered, but there was no real complaint in it. Just that same fleeting smile, quick and unguarded before it disappeared again.

That was when she noticed it properly.

Not just that he was attractive, though that was obvious in a way that felt almost inconvenient. All tall and broad shoulders, the kind of physical presence that demanded attention even when he was trying not to draw any. There was something unpolished about him too, something softened by the slight disarray of his hair, the tiredness in his eyes that made the blue of them feel less sharp.

It would have been easier if he wasn’t so attractive. Mel had left that part out.

But that wasn’t the only thing she noticed.

The rest came automatically, instinctively, the way it always did. The tightness held in his shoulders, like tension had settled there permanently. The way his gaze moved through the apartment, not with curiosity but with quiet assessment, noting exits, corners, distances. The slight pause before he answered even the simplest questions, like there was a filter he had to pass everything through before letting it exist out loud.

Mel had not left that part out.

It was easy to see the fresh edges of a life that had come apart. The carefulness of someone who had spent the last year rebuilding something fragile. One year sober. A job that demanded more than it gave back. Chronic pain that lingered under the surface. And a divorce muffled somewhere in the background, never loud, but never gone either.

Their lives began to overlap in fragments rather than full moments. Early mornings where they crossed paths in the kitchen, both half-awake, sharing space without needing to fill it. Late nights where he came home long after his shift had ended, exhaustion written into the way he moved. Conversations that existed in passing, brief but steady, building something without either of them naming it.

Their lives began to overlap in fragments rather than full moments.

Early mornings where they crossed paths in the kitchen, both half-awake, sharing space without needing to fill it. Late nights where he came home long after his shift had ended, exhaustion written into the way he moved. Conversations that existed in passing, brief but steady, building something without either of them naming it.

She didn’t push.

And that mattered a lot to him.

Not because he would have resisted in any obvious way, but because he didn’t seem like someone who needed pushing at all. If anything, he was already too aware of himself, too careful about the space he took up. His things never spread beyond what was necessary, always contained, always in their place. The way he moved through the apartment felt deliberate, like he was trying not to leave a mark, not to take more than what had been quietly given to him.

And she was very aware that he didn’t know how much convincing it had taken for her to agree to this. As far as he knew, it had been simple. Mel mentioned, casually, that she had a friend looking for a roommate when he said he wanted something close to the hospital. She doubted Mel had been as effortless about it as she made it sound, but even so, even believing this was just a normal roommate arrangement, he still carried himself like he was borrowing the space rather than living in it.

It wasn’t what she had expected.

Some part of her had assumed, unfairly, that someone like him, someone who had built a life early might carry a kind of carelessness with him. That there would be habits formed from being taken care of, from having someone else fill in the spaces he didn’t have to think about.

But Frank wasn’t like that. If anything, he seemed determined not to need anything at all.

The only thing he ever asked of her barely felt like asking.

To walk Bones when he couldn’t.

And the truth was, he almost never could.

It became part of her routine before she realized it had.

The leash hung by the door, always in the same place, and sometime between his early departures and her quieter mornings, she started reaching for it without thinking. Bones learned the rhythm quickly, waiting by the door with a kind of patient excitement that made it impossible to ignore him.

Frank noticed, of course. He noticed everything.

“You don’t have to do that every day,” he said one morning, already halfway into his jacket, stethoscope tucked into his bag like an afterthought. “I can figure something else out.”

She clipped the leash onto Bones’s collar, glancing up at him briefly. “You say that like I’m being held hostage.”

“I’m just saying it wasn’t part of the agreement.”

She smiled faintly. “Neither was your dog adopting me on day one, but here we are.”

That got a quiet laugh out of him, the kind that came easily before he had time to think about it.

“He does like you,” Frank said, watching Bones wag his tail like that was the most obvious fact in the world.

“He has excellent judgment,” she said. Then, tilting her head slightly, “Also, I’m starting to think he’s figured out you’re not a reliable morning person.”

Frank looked down at the dog, then back at her, mock offense settling in. “You really just said that in front of him?”

“I think he already knows.”

“That’s messed up,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re turning him against me.”

“Oh please, he made that decision on his own.”

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth gave him away. “I bring him into this home, and this is how I’m treated.”

“You brought him into my home,” she corrected lightly. “Let’s be clear.”

He let out another small laugh, softer this time, his gaze lingering on the dog for a second before shifting back to her.

“Still,” he said, quieter now, “I appreciate it.”

She shrugged, standing up and reaching for the leash. “It’s not a hardship. He’s good company.”

“Yeah,” he said, almost to himself.

She waved him off. “Go save lives, Langdon. I’ve got this.”

He hesitated just for a second, like there was something else he could say, then nodded.

Then he was gone, and the apartment settled back into its quiet, Bones already pulling gently toward the door like he had somewhere to be.

⚛︎

They fell into each other’s routines without needing to define them, slowly turning into full moments.

Sometimes it was small things. A plate she left covered on the counter for him after a late shift. Coffee from her favorite place he brought home every now and then after an early gym session. Bones stretched out between them on the couch like a permanent fixture neither of them questioned anymore.

Other times, it was conversation. 

Easy, light, and somehow always meaningful.

“Did you eat anything today that wasn’t coffee?” she asked one night, leaning against the counter while he rummaged through the fridge.

He paused, thinking. “Define eat.”

“That’s not a good start.”

“I had… something,” he said, vaguely.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Frank.”

“It had calories,” he defended.

“A redbull is not a meal,” she said simply. “Trust me, I learned that the hard way in college.” 

He glanced at her over his shoulder, a hint of a smile forming. “You keeping track now?”

“Someone has to,” she said simply.

He huffed a quiet laugh, closing the fridge. “I’m doing fine.”

“Mhm,” she hummed, unconvinced. “You’re a ‘do what I say, not what I do’ kind of doctor, then...”

He hummed, closing the fridge and leaning back against the counter across from her, their hands almost brushing in the space between them.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said after a moment.

She tilted her head slightly. “That usually means something bad.”

“I just thought—” he paused, adjusting his words. “Mel made you sound… intense.”

She let out a quiet scoff. “Wow. Great start.”

“I mean it professionally,” he added, a hint of a smile pulling at his mouth. “Like you’d be analyzing everything I say.”

She considered that for a second, then gave a small shrug. “I mean… I am.”

He blinked. “You are?”

“It’s not on purpose,” she said. “I just notice things.”

He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’m starting to get that.”

She studied him for a moment. “You’re not what I expected either.”

“Let me guess,” he said. “A disaster.”

“Surprisingly functional and tolerable, actually,” she corrected.

He nodded once. “High praise.”

“Mhmm… The highest.”

Something settled in that moment, something just beneath the surface of the conversation. It caught her off guard, how natural it felt. How quickly the edges of uncertainty had softened into something that resembled comfort.

She had expected effort. Adjustment. The constant awareness of another person occupying her space.

Instead, it felt like he fit into it without forcing anything out of place.

And somehow, without either of them noticing exactly when it happened, they stopped feeling like two people sharing an apartment and started feeling like something that worked.

Friends, perhaps.

It happened on a night that felt heavier than the others.

She had stayed up longer than usual, not for any real reason she could name, just a vague restlessness that kept her in the kitchen with a mug growing cold between her hands. Bones was stretched out nearby, breathing slow and steady, filling the silence.

When the door finally opened, she looked up without thinking.

Frank stepped inside like he always did, controlled, contained, but more worn down than usual. There was a weight to the way he moved, subtle but unmistakable if you knew where to look. His shoulders were tighter, his expression more distant.

“Hey,” she said gently.

“Hey,” he replied, voice lower than usual.

He set his keys down, shrugged out of his jacket, moved toward the kitchen more out of habit than intention. For a moment, it seemed like he might just go through the motions and disappear into his room like he sometimes did on harder days.

Then he bent slightly to open a cabinet.

The movement stopped halfway.

It was small, almost nothing. A pause. A tightening. But she saw it clearly, the way his body resisted, the way he held himself still for a second too long before forcing the motion to finish.

She straightened slightly, her attention sharpening.

“You okay?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah,” he said quickly, too quickly. “Just a long shift.”

She watched him for a second longer, taking in the way he avoided fully straightening, the subtle way he adjusted his stance like he was trying to outrun the discomfort.

He wasn’t going to say anything.

Of course he wasn’t.

“That looked like it hurt,” she said slowly, setting her mug down.

“It’s fine,” he repeated, though there was less certainty in it now.

She hesitated.

This was the part that mattered. The line between noticing and stepping in. The moment where she could still pretend she hadn’t seen enough to act.

She never did well at that part. And with him, she was a little more careful. A little more aware of how easily this could feel like too much.

“You know…” she started, voice measured. “I used to have pretty bad back pain when I was younger. Years of terrible posture.” A small pause. “I picked up a few things that helped.”

That got his attention. He glanced at her properly this time, studying her with that same quiet caution. Not distrust, just hesitation. Like he was deciding whether to let her see something he usually kept to himself.

“It’s not a big deal,” he said.

“It doesn’t have to be a big deal to hurt,” she replied, softer.

The words stayed there for a moment.

He looked away first, jaw tightening slightly, like he was arguing with himself more than with her. She could see it, the instinct to brush it off, to keep it contained.

Then he exhaled.

“…What you got?” he asked.

She nodded once, keeping it simple, like this wasn’t anything unusual. “Go take a warm shower first,” she added, almost casually. “It’ll help.”

He blinked, a little caught off guard, then huffed a quiet breath. “Bossy.”

A beat passed, then he gave in with a small nod and disappeared down the hall.

When he came back, hair still damp, shoulders a little less rigid but not by much, she had already set everything out. The arnica cream, the patches. Things that looked almost underwhelming for something that he once had to resort to benzos to deal with.

“You’ll smell like you rolled around in a field of mint,” she said, glancing at what she had laid out. “But it’ll help you sleep.”

He let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh. “At this point, I’ll take anything.”

“You should.”

There was a shorter pause this time.

Then he nodded. “Okay.”

It was still awkward.

He sat at the edge of one of the kitchen stools, posture tight, like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself. When he lifted his shirt just enough, there was that brief, unavoidable awareness of how close this suddenly was. How different from everything before.

She ignored it, grounding herself in the task.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” she said, hands hovering for just a second before settling against his back.

His back was tense under her fingers, the muscles tight in a way that spoke of long hours and longer habits of ignoring it.

“It’s already too much,” he said dryly.

“That’s not helpful feedback.”

“It’s honest.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, and something in the tension eased just slightly.

She worked carefully, not too much pressure, just enough to start loosening what had been held too tight for too long. Under her hands, she could feel the resistance, the way his body held onto everything.

“You’re really tense,” she murmured.

“Comes with the job.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was focused, steady, like something had settled into place without needing to be acknowledged.

After a few minutes, she felt the shift. Subtle, but there. His shoulders lowering just a fraction, his breathing evening out.

“Better?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “A little.”

She reached for the patches, placing them carefully against his skin, smoothing them down with practiced ease.

“They should make it better,” she said. “At least a bit.”

He nodded, pulling his shirt back down slowly.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then he stood, testing the movement like he didn’t fully trust it yet.

“…Thanks,” he said, and there was something different in it. Not just politeness. Something more grounded.

She shrugged lightly, stepping back to give him space again. “I may not be a doctor, but I know some things.”

He let out a soft breath that almost became a laugh, shaking his head.

“Yeah,” he said. “You do.”

He lingered for a second, like he might say something else, do something else… but nothing came.

“Goodnight,” he settled on.

“Goodnight, Frank.”

He walked away a little slower than before, but steadier.

And when the apartment fell quiet again, it didn’t feel quite the same.

Something had shifted.

⚛︎

A few nights later, the rhythm shifted again.

He came home earlier.

Early enough that the light outside hadn’t fully faded yet, the sky still holding onto that soft in-between color, something not quite day and not quite night. She noticed it immediately, the sound of the door opening at an unfamiliar hour pulling her out of the quiet focus of whatever she had been pretending to read.

“You’re home,” she said, a little surprised as she stepped into the living room.

“Yeah,” he answered, and there was something lighter in it this time. Not unburdened, but not weighed down in the same way either. “I got a day off so I decided to actually leave when the shift ended for once.”

He held something up slightly, almost like an afterthought. A bottle.

It took her a second to recognize it, and when she did, her brows lifted just a fraction.

“That’s—”

“Your favorite, right?” he said, not entirely certain, like he was bracing for the possibility that he had gotten it wrong.

She stared at it for a second longer than necessary, something quiet and unexpected settling in her chest.

“You remembered.”

He shrugged, like it hadn’t taken any effort. “You mentioned it.”

That felt like more than it should have.

She shoots him a small smile. “I’m impressed.”

“Don’t make it a big thing.”

“Too late,” she said, but there was no teasing edge to it this time, just something warmer.

A pause settled between them, not awkward, just open.

“Do you—” he started, then nodded toward the door. “It’s… nice out.”

She didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Okay.”

The rooftop was quiet and empty. The city stretched out around them, lights slowly flickering on as the evening settled in. There were some old couches that looked improvised and they sat close enough that the space between them felt… intentional.

He opened the bottle with more focus than necessary, like it gave him something to do with his hands. She watched him for a second, noticing the absence of urgency in him tonight, the way he didn’t seem to be racing against time or exhaustion.

He handed her a glass.

“Thanks.”

For a while, they didn’t say much.

They didn’t need to. The quiet between them had started to feel like something they both understood.

Then, after a moment, “Can I ask you something?”

She tilted her head slightly. “Shoot.”

“When you look at me like that,” he said, more carefully now, “what are you thinking? What do you see?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Not because she didn’t know, but because she did and saying it felt like crossing into something more honest than they had been before.

“You really want to know?” she asked.

He nodded.

She took a slow breath, turning her glass slightly in her hands as she chose her words.

“I see someone who’s always aware of himself,” she said quietly. “Every movement, every word. Like you’re trying to make sure you don’t take up more space than you’re allowed.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I see someone who doesn’t like asking for things,” she continued. “Even when he probably should. Someone who’d rather deal with pain than admit it’s there.”

A small shift beside her. Subtle, but there.

“And I see someone who’s tired,” she added, softer now. “Not just physically.”

The silence that followed was heavier this time, but still not uncomfortable.

He let out a slow breath, gaze fixed somewhere far off.

“That’s… annoyingly accurate,” he admitted.

She glanced at him. “Sorry.”

“No,” he shook his head slightly. “Don’t be. It’s just—” He hesitated, searching for something. “I didn’t think it was that obvious.”

“It’s probably not,” she said. “Not to everyone.”

He was quiet for a while after that, like he was deciding whether to stop there or keep going.

“I don’t really know how to… not be like that,” he said finally. “The whole… holding everything together thing.”

“You don’t have to all the time,” she said gently.

He huffed a faint laugh. “Kind of feels like I do.”

There was something in his voice that made her chest tighten.

“I messed things up,” he went on, more quietly now. “My marriage. Myself, for a while.” His grip tightened slightly around the glass. “I don’t trust that if I let things slip again, I’ll catch it in time.”

She didn’t rush to fill that. Just let it exist between them.

“That’s fair,” she said after a moment. “But there’s a difference between being careful and isolating yourself.”

He looked at her then, really looked.

“And you?” he asked. “What is your big character flaw?”

She takes a long breath in, pressing her lips together before setting her eyes on him.

“I take in strays,” she smiled lightly as she said it, like it was an inside joke.

He mimicked her smile, but didn’t let her deflect completely. “Seriously.”

She hesitated. It was easier to observe than to be seen. Easier to understand than to explain.

“I… stay,” she said after a moment. “With people. With things. Probably longer than I should sometimes.”

“Sounds like a good thing.”

“It can be,” she said. Then, quieter, “It can also mean I don’t always know when to step back. Not even when it's hurting me.”

He nodded slowly, like he understood more than she had said out loud.

For a moment, neither of them spoke again.

Then, almost absentmindedly, his hand shifted slightly where it rested between them, brushing lightly against hers.

It wasn’t intentional. Or maybe it was, just not fully conscious.

She didn’t pull away.

Instead, her fingers adjusted just slightly, the contact becoming something steadier, something acknowledged without needing to be pointed out.

They stayed like that, side by side, the city stretching endlessly in front of them, the quiet no longer just silence but something shared.

⚛︎

The knock at her door was very soft a couple nights later.

She sat up slighlty, the room dim and quiet around her, and waited for a second knock.

It came, just as quiet.

“It’s open,” she called, voice still thick with sleep.

The door pushed in slowly.

Frank stood there, and for a moment neither of them said anything. The faint hallway light framed him just enough for her to see the tension in the way he held himself, shoulders tight.

“Hey,” she said, softer now, already more awake.

“Hey,” he replied, and there was something in his voice that made her fully sit up. “Sorry. I know it’s late.”

“It’s fine,” she said, pushing the covers back. “What’s wrong?”

He exhaled, glancing down briefly before meeting her eyes again.

“My back’s… bad tonight,” he admitted. “I tried to just wait it out, but it’s not—” He stopped, jaw tightening slightly. “I can’t sleep.”

There was something almost frustrating about the way he said it, like he was annoyed with himself for needing to be there at all.

She didn’t hesitate.

“Come here,” she said, shifting to make space.

He stepped in, slower than usual, and sat carefully at the edge of her bed, posture rigid, like even sitting didn’t quite help. For a second, he seemed unsure of what to do next, then he reached down and lifted the hem of his shirt slightly, like he had the first time, like that was as far as he was willing to go.

She watched him for half a second.

Then shook her head.

“No,” she said gently. “Take it off and lay down.”

He froze.

It wasn’t dramatic, but it was immediate. His hand stilled where it was, his shoulders tightening again, something flickering across his face that wasn’t just pain this time.

“What?” he asked, caught off guard.

“You’re not going to get much relief sitting like that,” she said, calm, like this was the most obvious thing in the world. “Lay down. It’ll be easier.”

He hesitated.

She could see the hesitation clearly now. Not discomfort with her, not exactly. More like the idea of letting himself be that vulnerable, that unguarded.

“Hey,” she said quietly, tilting her head just enough to catch his attention, her hand landing on his shoulder lightly. “Do you trust me?”

He looked at her properly then, really looked, like he was weighing the question instead of deflecting it.

“…Yeah,” he said after a moment.

“Then lay down,” she replied, just as gently.

There was still a flicker of uncertainty, but it didn’t hold.

He exhaled slowly, like he was letting go of something internal, and pulled his shirt off, setting it aside before shifting carefully onto the bed. He lay on his stomach, one arm bent under his head, still holding some tension like he wasn’t entirely sure how to relax into it yet.

Her pillow smelled overwhelmingly like her, he noted but didn't say anything.

She moved closer, settling beside him, grounding herself in the familiarity of the task even as the setting made it feel different. More personal. More… intentional.

“Tell me if it hurts,” she said, hands hovering for just a second before making contact.

He let out a quiet breath as her hands pressed into his back, the reaction immediate, like his body had been waiting for something to break the tension.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Okay.”

This time, she didn’t rush it.

She worked slower, deeper, letting her hands follow the tension instead of just easing it at the surface. His back was worse than before, muscles tight in a way that felt almost stubborn, like they had been holding on for too long.

The scent of arnica filled the room, sharp and medicinal, but it barely registered for him. It faded into the background, overtaken by something warmer, something closer. All he could focus on was the steady pressure of her hands, the way the tension in his back slowly gave way under her touch, the quiet relief settling into his body in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“You’ve been ignoring this,” she said quietly.

“Yeah,” he admitted, voice muffled slightly against the pillow.

“You can’t just power through everything.”

“I know.”

“You don’t act like it.”

That earned a faint huff of something that might have been a laugh.

“I’m working on it,” he said.

She softened her pressure slightly, adjusting as she felt the tension begin to shift under her hands.

“You can ask for help,” she said, not as a correction, just as a fact. “You don’t have to wait until it gets this bad.”

There was a pause.

Then, quieter, “I’m starting to realize that.”

Something in the way he said it made her slow down, just slightly. Not because she needed to, but because the moment felt like it deserved it.

She kept working, steady and careful, until his breathing began to change.

At first, it was subtle. A little deeper. Less controlled.

Then more.

The tension under her hands eased in a way that wasn’t just physical anymore, his body finally letting go of something it had been holding too tightly.

“Frank?” she murmured softly.

No answer.

She paused, leaning slightly to look at his face.

He was asleep.

Not the light, restless kind. Fully out, like the relief had caught up to him all at once and pulled him under before he had a chance to resist it.

She stayed still for a moment, just watching, something quiet settling in her chest.

Then she carefully reached for the patches, placing them gently against his back, making sure not to wake him. Her movements slowed, deliberate, like she was handling something fragile.

When she was done, she hesitated.

Then reached out, brushing a strand of hair that was falling on his face back.

“Good,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

She didn’t wake him.

Instead, she adjusted the blanket over him, turned off the dim lamp beside the bed, and moved carefully around the room, making space for him to stay exactly where he was.

Because for the first time, he hadn’t just asked for help.

He had trusted her enough to fall asleep.

For a while, she just stood there, watching the slow rise and fall of his back, making sure it wasn’t the kind of sleep that would break at the smallest shift. It wasn’t. He had gone under completely, like his body had finally given up the fight the moment it felt safe enough to.

That alone made the decision harder.

She glanced at the clock. It was too late to think about alternatives that made sense. Too late to wake him, too late to move him without undoing whatever fragile relief he had finally reached.

And if she was honest with herself, that wasn’t the only reason she stayed.

For a moment, she hovered at the side of the bed, considering the distance she could keep, the space she could create to make it feel less like something it wasn’t supposed to be.

Then, carefully, she slipped back under the covers.

She stayed on her side, angled slightly away from him at first, giving him as much space as she could. The mattress dipped just enough to remind her he was there, but he didn’t stir. Not even slightly.

It should have felt strange.

It didn’t.

There was something steady about it, something that settled into her chest in a way she hadn’t expected. The quiet wasn’t empty anymore. It felt… shared.

At some point, without realizing when, she shifted just slightly, turning onto her other side.

Closer.

Not touching. Not quite. But near enough that she could feel the warmth of him, the quiet presence of someone who, for once, wasn’t holding himself so tightly together.

Her eyes drifted shut not long after.

When Frank woke up, it took a second for anything to make sense.

The first thing he noticed was the absence of pain.

Not completely gone, but dulled, distant in a way that felt almost unfamiliar. His body felt heavier, relaxed in a way he hadn’t experienced in a long time, like something had finally loosened its grip.

Then he noticed where he was.

The room wasn’t his.

That realization came slowly, his mind catching up in pieces. The unfamiliar angle of the light, the faint sweet scent that wasn’t his own, the softness of the sheets that didn’t belong to him.

And then...

Her.

She was there, just a few inches away, still asleep, her breathing even, her face softer in a way he hadn’t seen when she was awake. For a moment, he didn’t move at all, like shifting might break something he didn’t fully understand yet.

Memory settled in gradually. The knock. The way he had stood in her doorway, unsure and exhausted. Her voice, steady and calm. The warmth of her hands against his back.

The way she had said 'do you trust me?' as if it were even a question, when the answer had already been there, unquestioned, like he would have said yes before even thinking about it.

His chest tightened slightly at the thought.

He turned his head just enough to look at her properly, careful not to disturb her. There was something quietly overwhelming about the scene, about the simple fact of it. That he had come to her like that. That she had let him. That he had fallen asleep without even realizing it.

He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.

Something shifted in his chest, subtle but real.

Gratitude, maybe. Or something close to it.

He stayed still for a while, longer than he probably should have, just taking it in. The quiet, the closeness, the unfamiliar lightness in his chest instead of the usual weight waiting for him when he woke up. The faint scent of her around him, subtle but grounding, and the soft, unguarded way she slept, almost unreal in how beautiful she looked.

Eventually, he exhaled slowly, careful and controlled, and started to move.

He eased himself up just enough to sit at the edge of the bed, testing his back as he did. It held. Not perfect, but better.

Before he stood, he glanced back at her one last time. Something softened in his expression, something unguarded that no one else was there to see.

Then, quietly, he got up, pulling his shirt back on and moving toward the door with the same carefulness he always carried.

But this time, it felt different.

Less like he was trying not to take up space, more like he was trying not to lose something he hadn’t realized he needed.

⚛︎

Something feels off when he reaches to open the door.

He can’t explain it in a way that makes sense, but there’s a quiet instinct that’s been sharpened over years of walking into rooms where something is definetely wrong. The apartment is too still. Too quiet. Just… off.

When he steps inside, he finds her on the couch.

At first glance, she looks like she always does after a long day, curled slightly into herself, shoes kicked off carelessly, head tipped back. But it takes him less than a second to realize it’s not that.

“Hey,” he says, already moving closer.

She opens her eyes slowly, like it takes effort. “Hey.”

Her voice is wrong.

That’s all it takes. Everything in him shifts. The exhaustion from his shift disappears into the background, replaced by something sharper, more focused.

“How long have you felt like this?” he asks, already reaching out.

She frowns slightly, like she’s trying to catch up. “Like what?”

“This,” he says, his hand brushing briefly against her forehead before she can lean away.

“Frank—”

“You’re warm,” he cuts in, more to himself than to her. His hand lingers for a second longer, confirming it. Not just warm. Feverish.

“I’m fine,” she insists, pushing herself up a little too quickly. The movement wobbles, just slightly.

He notices.

“Don’t do that,” he says, steady but firm, one hand hovering near her arm like he’s ready to catch her if she tips too far. “Sit back.”

“I said I’m fine,” she repeats, more insistent now, like saying it louder might make it true.

He ignores that.

“When did it start?” he asks instead.

She exhales, already frustrated. “It’s just a cold.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

She presses her lips together, clearly weighing whether to answer or keep resisting.

“…Last night,” she admits finally.

“You went to work like this?”

Silence.

He lets out a breath, something tight pulling at his expression. “Of course you did.”

“I had patients,” she says, like that explains everything.

“It doesn’t mean you ignore being sick,” he replies.

“It’s not that bad.”

He looks at her. Really looks.

Her eyes are glassy, her movements slower than usual, the way she’s holding herself just slightly off like her body doesn’t feel entirely stable.

“Headache?” he asks.

She sighs. “Frank—”

“Headache?” He repeats, not raising his voice, but it's more insistant.

“…Yes.”

“Sore throat?”

“Yes.”

“Body aches?”

She hesitates.

“That’s a yes,” he answers for her.

“This is unnecessary,” she mutters.

“No, what’s unnecessary is pretending you’re not sick,” he says, already shifting in front of her.

Before she can protest again, he crouches down slightly, reaching up to tilt her chin just enough to get a better look.

“Open your mouth.”

She blinks at him. “Are you serious right now?”

“Yes.”

She lets out a disbelieving breath but does it anyway, more out of reflex than agreement.

He leans in closer, focused, clinical, completely in it now.

And that’s when she notices the way he's bending down.

“Frank,” she says quickly, her hand coming up to his arm. “Don’t—your back.”

He pauses, just for a second.

Then straightens slightly, the movement controlled, measured.

“It’s fine,” he says.

“No, it’s not,” she pushes, more alert now despite everything else. “You shouldn’t be bending like that, you just—”

“Can you stop?” he snaps.

The words come out sharper than anything he’s said so far, cutting clean through the space between them.

She goes still.

He exhales immediately after, running a hand through his hair, the frustration not aimed at her so much as the situation itself, the way she’s deflecting even now.

“Can you just let someone take care of you for once?” he says, quieter now, but no less intense.

Her hand falls back into her lap, defeated.

“You don’t have to do that right now,” he continues, his voice steadier, but there’s something under it now. Something real. “You don’t have to be the one holding everything together all the time.”

She looks at him, something shifting behind her eyes.

“But I’m fine,” she tries again, but it sounds weaker now. Less certain.

He shakes his head. “No, you’re not.”

A pause.

“Just… let me help,” he adds, softer.

The room goes quiet.

She could still argue. Push back. Insist.

But she’s tired and he’s right there, steady, unwavering in a way she recognizes too well.

It’s what she does for everyone else.

“…Okay,” she says finally, the word quiet, reluctant.

It’s enough.

He nods once, like that’s all he needed.

“Okay,” he repeats, already shifting back into motion.

He stands, moving toward the kitchen, pulling things together with practiced ease. Water. Medicine. Something light for her to eat.

When he comes back, she’s still sitting there, but there’s less resistance in the way she holds herself now.

“Take this,” he says, handing her the glass.

She does. No argument this time.

He watches her for a second, making sure, then sits on the edge of the coffee table across from her, close enough to step in if she needs it.

“You should rest,” he says.

“I am resting.”

“You were passing out on the couch,” he counters.

“Same thing.”

“Not the same thing.”

A faint, tired smile pulls at her mouth despite herself.

“You’re very intense,” she murmurs.

He reached toward her without thinking, pulling the blanket higher around her shoulders, tucking it in like it was the most natural thing in the world.

For a second, he looked at her.

Really looked.

And it felt almost overwhelming in its clarity. The closeness, the quiet care in the gesture, the strange, steady feeling of not being alone anymore.

“And you’re a ‘do what I say, not what I do’ kind of therapist,” he said.

She shook her head softly, a small smile forming, her eyes never leaving his.

He stays where he is. Doesn’t move away or fill the silence unnecessarily.

Just there.

And for once, she doesn’t try to carry it on her own.

⚛︎

It doesn’t happen all at once.

If it had, she would have caught it immediately. Named it, confronted it, forced it into the open before it had time to settle into something harder to reach. But that’s not how it unfolds with him.

With Frank, things slip.

Quietly. Carefully. Almost politely.

At first, it looks like nothing more than a bad stretch of days. Longer shifts. Less sleep. The kind of exhaustion that comes with his job, something she’s learned not to question too quickly.

But then the small things start to add up.

He stops bringing coffee in the mornings.

It’s subtle, easy to miss if she wasn’t already paying attention, but the routine disappears.

He starts coming home later again.

Not just late, but off. The kind of late that doesn’t follow a pattern, the kind that suggests he’s lingering somewhere before coming back. Bones waits longer by the door some nights, restless in a way that mirrors something she can’t quite see yet.

And then there are the objects.

Not hidden. Never hidden.

A receipt left on the counter, crumpled but not thrown away. A pharmacy name she recognizes immediately, even if what he bought isn’t listed. A few too many bottles of over-the-counter painkillers placed just a little too deliberately on the kitchen surface, like it’s both there and not there at the same time.

A question without being asked.

She notices all of it but she doesn't say anything. Not yet.

Because there’s a difference between catching something and understanding how to approach it. And with him, pushing too soon feels like it might make him pull back in ways that are harder to reach later.

So she watches.

Listens.

Waits.

He still laughs sometimes. Still moves through the apartment with that same quiet awareness. Still thanks her when she does small things, still asks about her day in that low, steady voice.

But there’s something underneath it now.

One night, she finds him sitting at the kitchen table long after he should have gone to bed.

The lights are low. The apartment quiet in that deep, late-hour way that makes everything feel more exposed.

He’s not doing anything. Just sitting there, elbows resting on the table, staring at nothing in particular.

“Frank,” she says softly.

He looks up, like he hadn’t heard her approach.

“Hey,” he replies, and for a second, it almost sounds normal.

“Why are you still up?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

It’s a simple answer.

She steps closer, leaning lightly against the counter, studying him without making it obvious.

“You’ve been saying that a lot lately.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Comes and goes.”

It doesn’t. She knows it doesn’t.

Her gaze shifts briefly, catching on something near his hand.

A small piece of paper.

Folded. Unfolded. Folded again.

She doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t need to. The edge of it is enough to recognize what it is.

Another pharmacy receipt.

He notices her looking and his hand moves, not quickly, just enough to slide it slightly out of view.

Not hiding. Just… acknowledging.

There it is.

The line drawn quietly in the sand.

She exhales slowly, keeping her tone even. “You want tea?”

It’s not the question she wants to ask but it’s the one he might answer.

He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. Sure.”

She moves through the kitchen, the routine grounding. Gives her something to do while her mind works through what she’s seeing, what she’s not saying yet.

“You’re working tomorrow?” she asks, glancing back at him.

“Yeah.”

“What time?”

“Early.”

She hums softly. “You should sleep.”

“Yeah.”

She pours the water, sets the mug in front of him, their fingers brushing briefly as he takes it.

The contact lingers for a fraction of a second longer than usual.

Then it’s gone.

“Thanks,” he says.

She nods, staying where she is, not leaving him alone just yet.

The silence stretches. It's not uncomfortable but it's not easy either.

He stares into the mug for a while, like he’s expecting something to settle there.

“Back bothering you again?” she asks, finally.

It’s a careful question. Close enough to the truth without touching the center of it.

“A little,” he says.

Another half-answer but she nods, accepting it for now.

She doesn’t miss the way his hand tightens slightly around the mug. The way his shoulders are holding more than just physical tension.

The way he doesn’t look at her when he says it.

By the end of the week, she doesn’t need more proof. She already knows.

He’s slipping.

Not in a way that’s loud or obvious but in a way that leaves traces behind.

A path.

Subtle and intentional like he doesn’t know how to ask for help directly so he’s leaving pieces behind instead.

Hoping someone will follow them.

Hoping she will.

⚛︎

It’s around 8 p.m. when Mel calls.

Late enough that the office has emptied out, the quiet settling in around her in that familiar, end-of-day stillness. She’s halfway through a report she’s no longer really reading when her phone lights up, Mel’s name cutting through the calm in a way that immediately feels wrong.

She answers without hesitation.

“Hey,” she says, already shifting in her chair.

“Is Frank home?” Mel asks, skipping any greeting.

The question makes her pause.

“No,” she says slowly. “I don’t think so. Why?”

There’s a beat on the other end. Not silence exactly, but something close to it. The kind that fills with too many thoughts at once.

“I’m still at the hospital,” Mel says, and that alone doesn’t make sense. “Our shift ended a couple hours ago. We all stayed back a bit to help the night shift and then…” She exhales sharply. “He just left. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t tell anyone where he was going.”

Something in her chest tightens.

“That’s not like him,” she says.

“I know,” Mel replies quickly. “That’s why I’m calling. He’s been off all day. Snappy. On edge. I thought it was just… stress or lack of sleep or something, but...” She stops, like she’s trying to organize the feeling into something concrete. “It didn’t feel right.”

She leans forward slightly, her focus sharpening.

“Did you try calling him?”

“Yeah. Straight to voicemail.”

Another pause.

“I went down to the parking lot,” Mel adds, quieter now. “His car’s still here.”

For a second, neither of them says anything.

“Okay,” she says finally, already pushing her chair back. “Okay, I’m going to check.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” she cuts in gently. “But I’m going anyway.”

Mel exhales, something like relief slipping through. “Can you just… call me if you find him?”

“I will.”

She hangs up before anything else can be said.

For a moment, she just stands there, the phone still in her hand, the weight of the conversation settling in. All the small things she’s been noticing over the past few days start lining up too quickly, too clearly.

The late nights. The distance. The way he’s been leaving things behind without saying anything directly.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

She grabs her bag, her keys, not bothering to finish anything she was doing.

By the time she’s out the door, she’s already calling him.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Straight to voicemail every time.

“Come on,” she mutters under her breath, her grip tightening slightly on the phone as she walks faster, her pace picking up without her realizing it.

She tries again as she reaches her car.

Nothing.

The drive to the hospital feels longer than it should.

Every red light feels like an interruption, every second stretching just enough to let her thoughts spiral into places she doesn’t want them to go. She calls again. And again.

Still nothing.

By the time she pulls into the parking lot, her heart is already beating faster than it should be.

Mel was right. His car is still there. Parked exactly where it should be.

She doesn’t stop to think about it.

Just gets out and heads inside, already knowing she won’t find him where she’s supposed to.

The stairs to the roof feel endless, her pace quickening the higher she climbs, breath catching not from the effort but from the growing certainty settling in her chest.

Please be there.

When she pushes the door open, the night air hits her immediately.

And then she sees him.

Sitting on the low wall, shoulders hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees, staring out at nothing in particular. The city stretches in front of him, but he doesn’t seem to be seeing any of it.

She stops for a second. Just watches.

He looks… lost.

She walks toward him slowly, the sound of her steps quiet against the concrete. When she reaches him, she sits beside him without asking, close enough to be felt but not enough to startle.

“Hey,” she says softly.

He doesn’t look at her right away.

“Took you long enough,” he says after a moment, his voice rough.

Something in her chest tightens. “Yeah,” she replies, trying to keep it light. “Next time I’ll follow the clues faster.”

That earns the faintest hint of a smile. It fades almost as quickly as it appears.

Silence stretches between them.

He turns to look at her then, and up close it’s harder to ignore. The exhaustion in his eyes, the kind that sits deeper than just a long day. The honesty in it, stripped down in a way he rarely allows.

“I didn’t,” he adds after a moment, quieter now.

She holds his gaze. “Why not?”

He hesitates, like the answer is more complicated than it should be. His jaw tightens slightly before he exhales.

“I knew you’d notice,” he says, voice low, almost unsure. “Not right away, maybe. But eventually.” A small, humorless breath leaves him. “And I didn’t… I didn’t want to see that look on your face.”

“What look?” she asks, softer now.

“Disappointment,” he says simply. Then, after a beat, “Or worse. Concern.”

She can almost feel her heart tightening.

“I didn’t want to let you down,” he finishes.

For a moment, neither of them speaks.

Then she shakes her head slightly, her voice gentler when she answers. “You didn’t have to leave pieces behind for me to find, you could've said something.”

He lets out a quiet breath, something caught between a laugh and frustration. “I didn’t even realize I was doing that, at first.”

She studies him for a second, then nods faintly.

“I feel like I have nothing left,” he says after a moment, his voice quieter now. “No marriage. No… normal life. Just work and... this...” He frowns taking a deep breath in. “This never ending pain.”

Her throat tightens, and for a moment she doesn’t dare look at him, afraid he’ll see the tears she’s barely holding back.

“Well... you have me,” she says simply.

The words come out steadier than she feels.

He blinks looking at her properly now, like he hadn’t expected that.

She meets his eyes this time.

“You have me,” she repeats, softer. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

There’s a slight tremor at the end of her voice, but she holds his gaze.

“Why?” he asks quietly. “Why do you care this much?”

She exhales, slow and unsteady, the answer already there, heavy in a way that makes it hard to say out loud. For a moment, she looks down, like she’s gathering something fragile before offering it up.

“I know I have a tendency to care too much,” she admits softly. “About everything. I don’t always know where the line is, when it’s mine to carry and when it isn’t.” A small pause, her voice catching just slightly before she continues. “But this isn’t just that.”

She lifts her gaze back to him, and there’s nothing guarded in it now.

“You matter to me,” she says, quieter, but more certain. “More than I expected. More than I think I was ready for. In a way I didn’t even remember was possible.”

He stares at her, searching her face like he’s trying to find something that will make it easier not to believe her.

She doesn’t give him that.

“And I know you think there’s something wrong with you,” she continues, the words coming a little faster now, like they’ve been waiting too long. “Like you’re broken in some way that can’t be fixed. But I wish you could see yourself the way I do.” Her voice softens. “Because I see someone who’s trying. Someone who keeps going even when it’s hard. And that… that matters more than you think.”

The silence that follows stretches, fragile, uncertain, like it could shift in either direction.

Then, very quietly, almost like it surprises him as much as it does her,

“I care about you too.”

The words settle into her, deep and steady, like something finding its place.

He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for far too long, and something in his expression softens in a way she hasn’t seen before. Not guarded, not careful. Just open.

They don’t move at first.

They just sit there, close enough that the space between them no longer feels accidental, but chosen.

Then, slowly, his hand shifts, brushing against hers before settling there. This time, she doesn’t just let it happen. She turns her hand slightly, fingers threading with his, grounding the moment into something real.

He looks at her again.

Closer now.

There’s no hesitation left in it. Just something steady, something certain in a way he hasn’t been in days.

She doesn’t pull away, doesn’t overthink it, and when he leans in, it’s careful at first, like he’s still giving her time to stop him.

She doesn’t.

The kiss is soft, hesitant only for a second before it settles deeper, something that carries everything they haven’t said out loud yet. Relief. Fear. Want. The quiet understanding that this has been building for longer than either of them admitted.

When they pull back, it’s not far.

Foreheads touching, breaths still uneven.

Neither of them speaks.

They don’t need to.

Because for the first time in a long time, neither of them feels lost.

The end.

Author’s note: I think my brazilian side just randomly activates sometimes, because the second I wrote that first “massage” scene, my brain went: “HE JUST DID A THOUSAND-HOUR SHIFT AND HE’S NOT SHOWERING??? WDYM???” Like... girl, chill, it’s fanfiction, be practical... But also, I cannot. I cannot chill. So yeah, I added the shower.

[flowersforjude]

─ ❛𝐆𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭❜

➳ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Frank Langdon x Fem!Reader

➳ 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | Having sexual relations on workplace grounds is highly frowned upon and in most cases can lead to immediate termination. Someone needs to remind your boyfriend of that.

➳ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 7,984

➳ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Mature Content-Explicit Descriptions Of Sex | Improper use of on-call rooms, Established relationship, So divorced!Frank Langdon, Tbh Frank is kinda mean in this, Risk of getting caught, Touched starved behavior, Mild possessiveness, Workplace romance, Medical inaccuracies, Possible boundary pushing, Reader and Frank are both freaks, Smut: PIV sex, Fingering, Soft dom Langdon, Hair pulling, Praise kink, Light choking, Clit slapping/pinching.

➳ 𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | This doesn't have much substance to it, but it was an idea I couldn’t get out of my head. I'm gonna be working on a Frank request I got next, and then possibly starting my two part fic idea for him as well. I still have a Jake Sully fic I need to finish and post so I'm gonna try and get that out soon too.

masterlist | currently playing: High On Heaven─Nessa Barrett

THERE ARE LINES YOU DON’T CROSS WHILE AT WORK. Even at PTMC, where every shift feels like a continuous loop of all the worst things life has to offer people.

There are rules, written and unwritten, but ones that everyone understands. Lines that are drawn between professionalism and personal. You and Frank have always managed to exist together just on the safer side of it, keeping things contained to lingering glances, light brushes of your hands, and the occasional quick kiss on the cheek when you could get away with it. Nothing that could be called out and nothing that could be labeled as inappropriate.

Tonight, though, your boyfriend seems determined to cross all of them.

It’s not all at once or too in your face. He’s sly enough not to draw immediate attention to either of you, but you notice it. You piece it together little by little, the way you always do with him. Gathering your small collection of his tells that you added up to the inevitable conclusion.

Frank had been touchy all evening. Not unusually so, not at first glance at least. He’s always been a little handsy with you, always finding an excuse for some kind of contact. But he knows to dial it back while you’re both at work. He’s never had an issue reining in it before it became unsuitable for the ER floor.

You don’t know if it’s the uncommon night shift you’re working or what, but he doesn’t seem to know where the line is anymore. That or he just doesn’t care.

Night shift was short two residents, both call-outs, which is how you and Frank ended up working a double. The first few hours passed the way they always did. A little hectic, a bit chaotic with minor emergencies tangled with the occasional complication, but nothing that you couldn’t handle. You treated some patients together and some apart, just flowing to and from wherever you were needed.

By eleven o’clock things hadn’t slowed much, but you’d settled in enough to not really notice. What you did notice, though, was Frank’s odd behavior.

Hidden just out of sight around the corner of the east hall, you were digging through a supply cart. Your current patient needed a few stitches down her thumb. Nothing too complicated but enough to require more than a quick patch job. So you gathered gauze, saline, and a suture kit. You had just grabbed a pack of steri-strips when hands came around your waist. You startled enough that the package nearly slipped out of your hand, a sharp breath catching in your throat before you even turned your head.

You knew it was Frank; there was no one else it could’ve been. No one else would’ve touched you like that, never mind the fact that you were standing in the middle of the hospital mid-shift.

His touch wasn’t brief either. It lands, firm and heavy, his hands resting against you like he had all the time in the world. His thumbs move absently over your side, slow and unhurried. 

“Jesus, Frank,” you gasped, the words more breath than sound.

“I didn’t scare you that bad,” he murmured, voice plaited with amusement.

You shift in his hold, adjusting the supplies in your hands more for just something to do than anything else, your pulse not having evened back out yet. “You can’t just sneak up on me like that.”

“Uh huh,” he hums in a way that tells you he’s not paying full attention.

Which is admittedly odd, because Frank had always been many things. Persistent, occasionally insufferable, and too charming for his own good. But he was never careless when it came to things like this. Not here, the place where an innocent peck could turn into a conversation with HR neither of you wanted to have.

You angle your head just enough to look at him properly, your brows pulling together as you try to figure out what’s going on with him. “Frank,” you say softly, urging him to meet your eyes.

He doesn’t move right away. For a moment, he just stays there behind you, close enough that you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of him bleeding through your scrubs. He nudges his nose into your hair and idles there. It was grounding and distracting at the same time. It would be so easy to lean back into him, to let yourself have a second of the comfort he brought you during a shift that’s leaving you bone tired.

But unlike him, your common sense hasn’t left you.

“We’re at work,” you remind him. “Let go.”

“I know,” he replies easily, like the words alone are enough to excuse the fact that his hands are digging into your hips like he wants to bury himself in your skin.

“Come on,” you coax. “I’m pretty sure Robby’s still hanging around here somewhere, and I can’t talk my way out of things with him like I can with Abbot.”

Still nothing.

You let out a hushed breath through your nose, the sound catching on reluctant amusement. If there was one thing you knew about Frank Langdon, it’s that pushing him head-on rarely gets you anywhere. He’ll double down, turn it into something lighter than it is until you’re the one questioning whether it was ever worth correcting in the first place.

So instead, you shift your weight, just slightly, but with enough force to put space between you. His hands have no choice but to fall away, and they do so reluctantly.

His fingers trail along your sides as they go. Not really suggestive on their own, but paired with everything else, it’s enough to make your stomach tighten with a heat that you pointedly ignore.

You turn to face him then, fixing him with a halfhearted glare. You shove the medical supplies you took from the cart into his now empty hands. “North Twelve,” you say in retaliation. “They need sutures.”

His mouth curves with a grin, knowing exactly what you’re doing. And he lets you because even for all the trouble he is, he’s not very good at saying no to you.

“Yeah,” he says with a chuckle, already stepping away. “Got it.”

You stay there for a few seconds after he’s gone, trying to clear the cloud in your head now. You force your attention back into place even though it still feels a bit more messy than before. You just hope Frank got whatever was up with him out of his system.

FOR THE NEXT HOUR, IT ALMOST FELT LIKE YOU IMAGINED IT. The ER had always been good at distracting you, swallowing things like that whole and grinding them down until they seemed like figments of your imagination.

Frank keeps his distance after you send him to North Twelve with his punishment. He hasn’t disappeared completely, but enough that it registers in your mind. He’s still around, still moving through the same spaces you are, brushing past you in ways that feel familiar and entirely appropriate. If anything, he seems almost normal again.

Which is why he’s able to catch you off guard again the second time.

You took advantage of a lull of incoming patients to update the charts you’ve been putting off. Settling in by the nurse’s station, you pull up the file of the little boy you examined not ten minutes ago, the glow of the computer screen harsh on your eyes as you begin typing out your notes.

Six-year-old male presented with nasal pain and mild irritability. Upon examination, obstruction located within the nasal cavity, identified as a plastic foreign object. Recommended treatment: Administer numbing spray, and extract the item using alligator forceps.

Around you the ER hummed as your fingers glided across the keyboard. Nurses chatting behind the desk, the phone ringing, and monitors beeping down the hall.

You were right about Robby still being here, because he appears a few feet away at some point, checking something on another monitor. You catch pieces of a conversation between him and Lena, something about him still being here and whether he’s planning on going home anytime soon. Though, the answer is lost on you.

He directs a question at you after a moment, something about bed turnover, and you nod along absently. Your attention split between the conversation and the notes you’re still typing. 

A shadow drapes over you from behind, and you don’t think much of it until you feel his hands on your shoulders. Your fingers pause mid-sentence as you crane your head just enough to look at him.

“Can I help you?” You mutter, a warning built into the words.

Frank’s thumbs rub gently on the back of your shoulders, a slow, distracted motion. A touch that might pass for casual if you didn’t know better.

But you do know better, which is precisely why your body refuses to relax under his touch, even as his thumbs continue their leisurely movement against your tired muscles. Working in small circles that feel far too intentional to be thoughtless. It’s the kind of touch that, had you been at home, would’ve had you melting for him and probably ended up with you pinned under him in bed.

Your skin heats at the image as it flashes through your mind. You're quick to put a lid on it, though, not fast enough that it doesn’t serve to sharpen your awareness of him. The warmth in your stomach battles with the reality of where you are.

“Frank,” you say, turning back to the computer, the ending of his name coming out on more of a whine than you intended. Your eyes flick briefly toward Robby, who still stands a few feet away, half-turned to face Lena as their conversation drifts in and out of your field of attention. Close enough to notice, if he bothered to look, close enough that this should’ve already stopped.

He shifts his weight behind you and then his hands pause for a second before one of them presses more firmly into your shoulder. It anchors you, while the other adjusts enough to keep you exactly where you are.

You’re about to say his name again as his lips brush just beneath your ear. It’s not a lingering press, he doesn’t stay there long enough to draw attention from anyone. But it’s suggestive enough that it makes your breath catch, your fingers stalling over the keyboard as the cursor blinks impatiently at the end of an unfinished sentence.

Before you can react—before you can turn, or pull away, or do anything that might reestablish the workplace boundaries he seems intent on ignoring—he stamps another kiss below the first, at the slope of your neck where it meets your shoulder. He’s slower about it this time, holding there for a fraction longer.

Your pulse spikes rapidly, the sensation of it radiating outward in a way that feels totally at odds with the clinical environment around you. You draw in a steadying breath, trying to regain control, and turn your head back to look at him again. Your expression fighting to remain neutral despite the goosebumps tickling your skin.

“Are you out of your mind?” you mutter, low and quiet, so you don’t draw unwanted eyes. You think he genuinely might be, because you don’t have a reasonable explanation for his sudden lewd behavior. Sure, you haven’t had much alone time here lately. Neither of you have the energy for quality time after shifts that didn’t involve you both snoring. But there’s gotta be more to it than that.

Frank lingers in his place behind you for a few more minutes. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of his presence at your back even through the chair you sit in. The proximity of him knocking on your awareness so insistantly that it makes focusing on anything else difficult.

Finally, you gather your senses enough to lean away from him. Your shoulders slip out of his grasp as you straighten in your chair before spinning around to face him.

“That wasn’t funny,” you admonished, trying to keep your voice measured. The cadence is off, though, your thoughts lagging.

He exhales softly, a sound you know is a laugh he’s attempting to hide. “You didn’t seem to mind,” he replies, the amusement clearly there, but it’s threaded with something heavier.

You let the silence answer for you. Not because you don’t need to, but because you refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s getting to you. You’re not going to give him anything that will tip the balance further in his favor.

So you let the quiet sit and fester between you, turning your botched attention to the chart on the screen. You thought he’d given up, but you’re quickly proven wrong.

His hand comes up so suddenly you don’t have time to dodge him. His fingers tangle at the base of your hair, not tentative or playful, as he grips hard enough to make your stomach flip in that all too familiar way before he tugs. Pulling your head back a fraction with such control, it sends a jolt down your spine.

“Frank!” you snap, louder than you intend, the reaction born from immediate shame as your hands come up to pry his fingers free, disentangling yourself from him with force.

The sound of your raised voice carries. It cuts cleanly through the ambient noise of the floor, drawing the attention you were trying so hard to avoid.

You feel the eyes on you before you look, the conversations stuttering for half a second before resuming. When you do look, it’s worse than you’d hoped it would be.

Robby is staring at you both, and so is Lena. A couple of others nearby have stopped long enough to take in the scene before averting their gazes to pretend they didn’t.

A flush floods your cheeks instantly, ugly and unforgiving, embarrassment settling in right along with the violent urge to strangle Frank with your bare hands. It sits there, vivid and oh so tempting, curbed only by the fact that you have too many witnesses around you.

“You two okay?” Robby asks, his tone hovering somewhere in the middle of mild curiosity and thinly veiled suspicion as his eyes move between you and your pain in the ass boyfriend.

“Yeah,” you answer quickly, the words tripping over themselves as you straighten in your chair. Hands smoothing down your scrubs like that might make the situation less obvious. “He’s just being annoying.”

“Shocking,” Robby mutters, clearly sarcastic, already turning back to what he was doing. Either the answer satisfies him enough not to dig further or he’s too tired to give a crap. “Get back to work.”

Beside you, Frank lets out a muted laugh under his breath, the sound deep and entirely unbothered. His untroubled stance only makes the heat under your skin burn hotter. “Am I?” he whispers, just loud enough for you to hear, the question edged with that same infuriating amusement he’s been carrying all night.

You turn on him then, fixing him with a look that would have landed harder if not for the lingering attraction and humiliation running rampant in your chest. “Yes,” you shoot back, the word clipped and tight, before pushing yourself up from the chair. You don’t give him a chance to respond or even look back at him as you put as many rooms between you and him as you could.

You don’t stop until you’re out of immediate sight of the nurse’s station. Your shoulders feel tense now and your already tired feet ache with the fast pace you walk at. Rounding the corner, you push through the door to the break room.

The space is empty when you step inside. The lights are dimmer in here than they are on the floor. The closed door offers a bit of silence from the constant noise of the ER. The hum of the refrigerator fills the room instead, low and strangely calming, accompanied by the faint buzz of the overhead lights that have seen better days.

You exhale, long and exhausted, dragging a hand down your face as you attempt to shake off the lingering fever under your skin. The frustration and embarrassment and begrudging excitement you wanted to pretend didn’t exist.

You’re leaning your weight into the counter, waiting on the coffee pot to heat up when the door opens.

“Hey,” Frank says, his voice more neutral now, stripped of the teasing amusement he’s been tormenting you with.

“Hey,” you echo back, though yours comes out a bit flatter.

He huffs out a small breath, one hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck in a gesture that would almost read as sheepish if not for the faint curve still threatening at the corner of his mouth. “Okay,” he starts, like he’s working through it as he goes. “Maybe I… pushed it a little.”

You raise a brow, indifferently. “A little?”

“Alright,” he concedes, the hint of a grin breaking through despite himself. “More than a little.” You can tell he doesn’t truly feel bad about his actions, more for the fact that he upset you. 

You let out a stifled breath through your nose, shaking your head as you push yourself upright off the counter. “You think?”

He steps up next to you, being smart enough to do so cautiously like he knows he might not be welcome. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“I know,” you admit, because you do. That part at least you don’t need to question. It’s everything else that’s the issue. You lean in closer to him, your hand coming up to land a light, reprimanding hit against his chest.

“You’re a pain in my ass,” you mutter.

He catches your wrist before you pull it back. His fingers wrap around it easily, and before you can argue, he uses the hold to tug you forward the last bit of distance between you. Your chest comes flush to his, his hands finding their way back to your hips, and his breath tickling your cheek.

You let out a soft groan, rolling your eyes even as the corner of your mouth betrays you. A reluctant smile cracking your irritated mask despite your best efforts to hold onto your annoyance. “Frank—”

“I said I was sorry,” he murmurs in that low, alluring voice that you knew meant trouble.

“I know,” you sigh, the fight in you already fading in the face of him, because it always does, because he knows exactly how to disarm you without even trying that hard.

You don’t actually mind the affection. You just don’t understand what has him so wound tight that he can’t keep his hands to himself for more than a few minutes at a time.

By the time you register his movement, he’s already leaning in. His mouth finds yours with a kind of urgency that knocks the breath from your lungs. It’s not tentative or teasing or even softly apologetic like he was just a second ago. He slots his lips with yours firm, and intent, like he’s been holding back doing exactly this all night and has finally decided he’s done with it. There’s nothing careful about it; it’s all heat and pressure, his hands digging into your waist to pull your hips flush against his, like proximity alone isn’t enough.

The fever is immediate and consuming as it comes alive in your core. It leaves very little room for thought beyond the fact that it’s happening and you are very much a part of it. Your hand presses into his chest, not to stop him but to steady yourself against the sudden shift. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his scrub top as your body catches up with your mind.

It’s instinctive, the way you give into him. The way your lips move with his without thinking too hard about the consequences. About the fact that you’re still at work, that there’s a door a few feet away that anyone could walk through at any second. Because right now, that doesn’t feel real.

What feels real is him, close and solid and entirely too much all at once. His grip tightens at your waist just like it did earlier, as if he wanted to crawl into your skin. The kiss deepens without hesitation, like he’s chasing something he hasn’t had in so long.

It builds quicker than it should. That professional line you’ve been trying to hold onto all night blurs almost instantly. It slips further out of reach with every passing second, with every scorching slide of his lips on yours.

It isn’t until one of his hands inches off your waist and down into the band of your scrub pants that reality comes crashing back in.

You pull back with a gasp of uneven breath, your hand pushing more firmly at his chest. You create only enough space to think, breathe, and remember where you are.

“What are you doing?” You ask, voice soft as you catch your breath. Your tone fringes with something more serious as your eyes search his, trying to make sense of what’s happening. Of the way he’s looking at you like he’s not finished with you yet. “What’s gotten into you?”

The air between you feels thick, charged with all too familiar tension that under any other circumstances you’d feed into. But you weren’t in the privacy of your home; you were at work, and emotions like that didn’t belong here.

It takes him a minute to answer you, and that alone tells you plenty. How he’s searching his brain for something to say, hopefully something good enough to explain everything. He just looks at you with those blue eyes, darkened around the edges, and you think about his lips on your neck. The same hands that rested temptingly on your shoulders still splayed across your waist.

“What?” he says finally, simple and easy, like he’s trying to downplay it. “Can’t I show my girlfriend affection?”

You automatically don’t buy it. Not when you can still feel the imprint of his lips and when the look in his eyes doesn't match the casual shrug in his voice. Your brows pull together as you scan his face, your breathing only just starting to steady as you shake your head.

“We can’t make out in the break room, Frank,” you tell him, speaking quietly but no less firm. Your hand stayed braced against his chest, maintaining the distance to keep your thoughts in order. “That’s a violation waiting to happen.” There’s a short pause before you add more pointedly, “I’m serious, what’s going on?”

He exhales a deep sigh, the sound heavy, his gaze darting away from yours for a second before bouncing back, like even under your scrutiny he couldn't stray far from you. “I miss you, baby,” he admits, the words stripped of the smooth humor he likes to lean on. “That’s all.”

The strain in your expression eases a fraction as you search his face again, trying to pinpoint if that's really it, if it’s truly that simple. “We live together,” you point out, though there’s hardly any bite to it now.

“Yeah,” he huffs, a faint, sardonic smile pulling at his slightly kiss swollen mouth. “And we pass out the second we hit the bed. Or one of us is on call. Or we’re here.” His thumb draws circles on your side, more to ground himself than anything. “We haven’t had time to ourselves in… what? Three weeks?”

You can’t argue that as the truth of it settles, threading through the exhaustion you’re both running on.

“I had plans,” he adds, his tone dipping, like he’s letting you in on some lifelong secret he’s been holding onto. “For tonight. Thought we’d finally get a night where we weren’t dead on our feet.”

Your lips press together in a frown, a small breath slipping out as realization clicks into place, smoothing out the confusion. “And then we got stuck on a double,” you finish for him.

 “Yeah,” he says, a humorless laugh following. “And now I’m here, and you’re here, and apparently I’ve got zero self-control.”

You keep your breaths slow, your gaze dropping concisely to the space between you before lifting back to his face. “Yeah, that’s kind of the problem.”

There’s a few beats of silence that come after, not tense so much as full, overflowing with all the things neither of you has said yet. Because truthfully, you get it. You’ve been getting it for weeks now, pushing it down every time it bubbles up. Every time you caught yourself staring too long at the muscles of his back while he changed or following the movement of his hands around the kitchen, half-awake, running on little sleep and too much caffeine.

You’ve just been better at ignoring it up until now. Your hands shift, sliding up from his chest to fidget with the short hair at the nape of his neck. “I’ve missed you too,” you admit, dropping your forehead to rest against his chest.

“Oh baby,” he murmurs sympathetically, the words cushioned as his hands slide up your back, palms warm through the fabric of your black scrubs. His touch is just as slow and torturous as before, but the frantic underlining of it has calmed, like he’s trying to soothe the ache he stirred up instead of worsening it. “Why didn’t you say something?”

You let out a quiet groan, your forehead still pressed to his chest, the steady rise and fall of it doing little to settle the way your thoughts are starting to slip. “Because we’re both exhausted all the time,” you mutter, your voice muffled in his shirt. “And we’re at work. It’s not exactly the right moment to tell my boyfriend I’m needy for him.”

The admission dangles there for half a second before it actually registers for him, and when it does, you feel the change in him immediately.

Frank laughs under his breath, and there it is again, that familiar string of cockiness weaving its way back in now that he’s got something to work with. His hands don’t stop their movement, dragging heavily up and down your back with a new deliberateness. 

“Needy, huh?” he repeats, like he’s testing the word out, turning it over on his tongue.

You huff into his chest, already regretting the phrasing. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” he answers, though the vague humor in his tone says otherwise. His right hand raises a bit higher, fingers brushing along the back of your neck before resting again. “Just didn’t know you were struggling so bad.”

You lift your head just enough to look at him, trying to keep your expression detached even as there’s that ever-present heat under your skin. “I’m not struggling,” you correct, “or at least I wasn’t until you started teasing me.”

“That so?” His brows lift slightly, skepticism written all over his face.

“Yes,” you insist, your fingers tugging lightly where they sat in the hair at the nape of his neck. “Some of us have self-control.”

He hums at that, unconvinced, his gaze swiftly dropping to your mouth before lifting back up. “I’ve noticed,” he says, almost in a whisper.

There’s something in the way he says it that makes your stomach tauten. The implication sitting somewhere in between, balanced on the line he likes to walk with you. His hands still their journey at your lower back, and for a second you think he might actually behave himself. Then his thumbs dig into the dimples of your back, drawing you closer with a single tug.

“My poor girl,” he murmurs, tone low and woven through with sympathetic amusement. His gaze drags like simmering heat over your face, like he was trying to beguile you after realizing rushing would get him nowhere. “Trying so hard.”

You exhale a shaky breath, your fingers tightening in his hair in an attempt to calm yourself. It doesn’t really work. “Don’t,” you warn, but it’s weak as it leaves your parted mouth.

“I haven’t been taking care of you, have I?” he continues, dropping his voice softly but no less intentional. He knew what he was doing, and you were letting him. His hands migrate again, skating lightly along your sides before settling back at your waist. 

The words land heavier than they should, making home deep in your stomach and curling there, making it hard to think about anything past that feeling. You can sense the challenge in his touch, trying to see how much you’ll let him get away with. 

You should tell him to stop, but you’re tired. You’ve been tired for weeks, and worse than that, he isn’t wrong. You shake your head, but no words make it far enough to be voiced. Your thoughts become one messy cluster that you can’t unravel. The reality of it sits right there alongside the argument you keep trying to make. You could wait; you should wait—that’s the reasonable choice.

Wait to go home to the privacy of your shared bedroom. Except you already know how that ends.

You both drag yourselves through the front door half-dead on your feet. Barely managing a shower before collapsing into bed, too exhausted to do anything but sleep. Maybe a kiss or two, maybe a half-hearted attempt that fizzles out before it even starts. And then you’d wake up to another shift, another day, and another stretch of ignoring how much you needed him. Your resolve starts to wear thin the longer you think about it.

“D’you want me to take care of you?” Frank asks, dropping his face closer to yours, his lips grazing your cheek as he speaks. 

The question and his proximity pull a quiet sound from you, frustrated and hushed. “Frank,” you whine, your forehead dipping forward again. “We can’t.”

“Not what I asked, baby.”

His hand squeezes more firmly at your hip to hold you there, keeping your attention exactly where he wants it. “Do you want me to take care of you?” He repeats slowly.

Your hesitation is brief, not sticking around too long in the face of your growing desire. Your earlier determination withered away as the truth refused to be ignored anymore.

Your fingers curl deeper into his hair, sliding up farther to the longer strands as you pull yourself closer to him. “Yes,” you whisper.

The word barely leaves your mouth before he groans. “On-call room,” he says, “ten minutes.” His tone makes it clear that it’s not a suggestion.

You don’t fight as his hand comes up to your jaw, fingers gripping while he tilts your face to his. He kisses you, quick compared to before but deep enough that it reaches inside your lungs and snatches the air from them. It was only four seconds at best, but it felt like four hours with the way his mouth lingered, leadened, on yours. His thumb stroked lightly over your skin as he pulled back, looking at you to make sure you were still with him.

You nod, not trusting your voice at the moment and that’s all he needs.

He detached himself from you, the loss of his touch immediately causing your body to sag, missing the press of him against you. “I’ll see you in ten,” he says, already turning toward the door, like if he stayed a moment, more he’d end up fucking you on the counter. This was going to be a long ten minutes.

YOU SLIP BACK OUT ONTO THE FLOOR LIKE NOTHING HAPPENED. 

Thankfully things actually seemed to have slowed down. None of your patients are critical; all of them are taken care of for the time being, so they need nothing from you. You work on a chart to pass the last six minutes, but you only get half a sentence typed before your mind is unable to properly focus. 

When you finally step away, stretching your shoulders as you glance toward the nurse’s station, it’s alarmingly easy to play it off.

“I’m gonna grab some sleep while I can,” you say to no one in particular, already turning down the hall. There’s a vague acknowledgment from someone behind you, nothing more than a distracted hum.

By the time you reach the door to the on-call room, your pulse has picked up again, that ache coiling low in your stomach as your hand wraps around the knob. You push it open and slip inside, the dim lighting a stark contrast to the fluorescent glare of the ER.

Your eyes haven’t even fully adjusted, the door barely shut, before he’s there. Frank moves fast, quicker than you anticipated, his hand catching the door as it swings closed and pressing it firmly shut behind you before the lock clicks into place. The sound is muted, but it echoes in the small room all the same.

His hands grip your waist, and the next second you’re pressed back against the door, the solid surface hard on your spine as he eats up the distance between you completely.

“Right on time,” he breaths, his voice rough with the task of holding himself back.

The air leaves you in a quiet rush, your hands shooting up to brace on his chest as you look at him. There’s a dark shine to his eyes that you’ve seen countless times before; he lets it live there now that you’re out of sight of everyone else.

His face disappears into your neck, lips stamping heavy kisses across your skin. Your hands twisted into the fabric of his scrubs as his slithered under your shirt. You grabbed at each other, the fact of where you were vanishing as soon as you got hands on him.

“You locked it?” you asked, gasping when his hands tightened on your ribs.

“It’s just me and you, baby,” he promised into your throat.

You try to draw in a breath, but it gets caught when his teeth nip over your pulse point. Your head tips back against the door as your eyes close. You can feel the growing wetness between your thighs already.

“Frank.” His name leaves you as his hips lean hard into yours.

“I know,” he responds, his hands coming out from under your top to brush along your jaw. He tilts your face to his, your eyes meeting, and whatever he was looking for, he finds quickly.

When he kisses you, it’s deep and intense in a way that things haven’t been between you for a while. One of his hands slides down to curl around your neck, holding you there with a pressure that sends instant arousal to your core. The other goes to grip your hip, pulling you more firmly into him.

Your response comes just as instinctively as before, but there’s less resistance tangled up in it now. You moan into his mouth, hands threading into his hair, pulling him closer as your body relaxes into him.

All you can register is him. The warmth of his mouth, the press of his body, the way his breath hitches a little when you lean into him. The desire builds, faster than earlier, without the interruptions and attempts to pull away.

This time when his hand trails down to dip into the band of your pants, you don’t stop him. The drag of his fingers over your clothed center pulls a surprised mewl from you, one that seems to go straight to his head if the way he reacts is anything to go by.

He breaks this kiss, breath ragged as he teases your clit through the cotton of your panties. “You’re so wet already,” he rasps, applying more pressure over the bundle of nerves. “Can I take these off?”

You’re nodding even as you’re quickly toeing off your shoes, your socks following while he unties your scrub pants. Once they’re forgotten somewhere on the floor, he’s working on your underwear. Pulling the fabric down your legs for you to sling off one ankle.

His hand slips between your legs again, nothing separating your cunt from his touch now. Wet heat welcomes his fingers as he parts you open for him. He strokes his fingers through you, slowly, eyes watching the way your breath snags. He circles your clit, causing your hips to jump toward the pleasure. He repeats those same movements, teasingly sliding through your folds, gathering your slick to smear over your swollen clit.

While his fingers worked, his lips dragged down your jaw, peppering kisses across your flushed skin. His breath was warm, coming in uneven bursts.

You shivered, your nails digging into his scalp. “Frank,” you whined, your hips trying to meet the light pressure of his touch. You didn’t know how much more of this you could take.

“What d’you need, sweetheart?” he urged, face still buried in your throat, lips sweeping over every inch of flesh he could reach.

“Quit teasing,” you pleaded, brows drawing together. “Just touch me.”

“I am touching you,” he spoke into your skin, pulling some between his teeth and biting before soothing it over with his tongue. He chuckled at your frustrated cry. “Gotta tell me what you need. Where do you need me t’touch you?”

“Inside,” you breathe out. “I need your fingers inside me.”

A grin pulls at his mouth when he raises his head to look at you, taking in your desperate expression. “Yeah, okay, baby.” He hitches one of your legs around his hip, your foot dangling behind him as he finally stretches you open.

He worked one finger into you, the digit gliding along your walls. He curled the tip of it up, nudging against that spot deep within you that had your eyes screwing shut. A second was added the warmth of pleasure licking over your skin. He pumped them in and out, his thumb rubbing fast circles over your clit matching the rhythm.

“Oh god,” you moan, head thrown back on the door as you try to conceal the volume of your cries. You clutch at him, hands leaving his hair to tug at his scrub top. You wanted to feel him, run your palms over the planes of his chest. In place of not being able to do that, you sneak your hands under, coasting up his abdomen, piercing his skin with your nails when he hits the good spot again.

And then he just stops.

You feel genuine tears building at your lashes. His fingers remained inside you, the heavy weight of them not helping the frenzy of emotions boiling in your blood. “Please don’t do this right now, Frankie.”

“I think you should apologize,” he declared, free hand reaching up to tangle in your hair. He maneuvers your head to look at him, the grip he has on you not tight enough to hurt but to send a thrill of reluctant delight down your spine.

“What?” You whine, wanting to wiggle your hips but knowing that’s probably not a good idea.

“Say sorry,” he says, fingers twitching with just a hint of movement. “Say sorry for being so mean today.” He tapped your clit with his thumb in three quick strikes, making you jerk in his hold. “Apologize and I’ll keep going.”

“Frank—”

“Nope.” He sighed, pulling his fingers out just to bring two of them back to your clit, pinching the sensitive nerves before swiftly kissing your cheek to comfort you. It always made your head spin when Frank got like this. More controlling than he was normally and using the power he had over you to be particularly unfair. You could tell him to stop; one word from you and his hands would fall away. But you didn’t want him to. You needed this so bad even if you didn’t want to admit it out loud.

A new wave of desire flowed through you when he nipped at it again. The tears falling slowly down your face as your core throbbed for attention.

“That’s okay, baby,” he hushed, lips layering affection across your jaw. “Try again.”

You clenched your thighs together as best you could in a feeble attempt to gain more friction. He caught on, giving you a stern look before delivering a slap to the inside of your thigh. A cry ripped from your throat, your hips bucking towards him. “Say sorry, or I’ll keep you like this long enough for someone to come looking for us. Let ‘em find you spread open on my fingers.” With that he shoved two digits back inside you, he wasn’t gentle with it and he didn’t give you the satisfaction of moving them.

“I’m sorry,” you gasp, the words flying out before your stubborn dignity could talk you out of it. “Please, I'm sorry.”

A loud sob sounds from you when he begins to move his fingers again. Going deeper than before, curling the tips of them up and pressing insistently on your g-spot. The heel of his hand rubbing against your clit with each thrust causing your walls to tighten hard around him.

“Good girl,” he praises, mouth right at your ear.

He fucks his fingers into you eagerly now, a wave of heat flushing through you, spilling from your core running all through your veins. Your thighs itch to close around his hand, but with one leg still hooked around his hip, you had no choice but to stay still.

“I’m close,” you gasp, hips writhing in his hold. “Frank—”

You're breaking before you can get the words out. Your fingers digging into the skin of his stomach, leaving indentions behind for him to find later. He guides you through it, never stopping the twisting of his fingers as he draws out your pleasure. It isn’t until you’ve relaxed back into him, your forehead dropped to his shoulder, that he removes his hand.

“Oh my god,” you heave as he takes his fingers into his mouth. He licks them clean with a deep groan before setting his eyes on you once more.

“As much as I love the taste of you, honey,” he starts, letting your leg fall from his hip. “We need to be quick.” Which is funny coming from him, given how hard he made you work for that first orgasm.

Before you can say anything, he’s spinning you around by your waist. He backs you up, pulling your scrub top over your head as you go, until you're falling down on the small bed. You watch splayed out on the mattress while he takes off his shirt, then his shoes, and lastly undoing the string of his pants.

You lean up to meet him as he crawls between your legs, pushing down his boxers just enough to let his cock spring free. You can feel it heavy and warm on the inside of your thigh while he nips and suckles at your neck. He kisses you as he nudges the tip at your soaked entrance, licking into your mouth in a way that sends your head reeling.

You jumped back from him with a gasp when he eased in just plenty enough to stretch you. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him down chest to chest. The hair dusting his pecs makes you shiver as he folds your legs over his waist.

“Need you,” you whimpered, bucking up your hips to meet his, telling him what you need without so many words.

“I’m right here, sweetheart,” he coos, slowly pushing himself inside of you. His words were muffled in your throat, his breath ghosting over your skin as he panted. 

Your body yielded to him like it has so many times before. You can feel your cunt opening for him, welcoming him back like he never left in the first place. Every vein and ridge of his cock throbbing inside you as he bottoms out. He pauses for a moment, allowing you both time to gather what little wits you have left. The feeling of him is so overwhelming after those long weeks without him.

He’s gentle at first, moving with deep glides of his hips that had your mouth dropping wide with silent cries. He’d pull out leisurely until only the tip remained, and then grind back in. All the while his lips kissed and nipped at your neck. He’s all you can think about; your mind is empty beside the singular chanting of his name inside your head.

“Feels so good, Frankie,” you whined, knowing what those words would do to him. “So good to me.”

His hips stutter, his eyes snapping up to meet yours. The blue of his irises almost completely gone in the haze of his lust. Suddenly he’s taking a fistful of your hair, pulling at the scalp until you’re face to face. The sharp pain sends a fresh wave of heat to your center. He starts driving into you with punishing thrusts, making the bed frame squeak under you.

“That right, baby?” he asks, voice rough. “Making you feel so good you’re gonna cum again, aren’t you?”

The new pace is forceful, filthy as you both chase your highs together while you still have time. You try to watch him, his lips parted around deep moans coming from his chest, the sweat beading at his forehead, his cheeks red with the strain. But when his tip brushes against your cervix for the first time, you can’t control the shutting of your eyes.

Frank pulls at your hair again. “Open your fucking eyes,” he groans, hips snapping into you, your walls taking him to the hilt in a brutal thrust that yanks a keening wail out of you. “Wanna see the look in your eyes when you cum on my dick.”

“Fuck, don’t stop.” Your hands come to push on his stomach, not to shove him away but because you don’t know what else to do. Your back arches as the coil in your belly grows tighter and tighter with every passing second, your warmth clenching around him.

He reaches a hand between you to rub at your clit, having to hold off his fast approaching climax when you squeal. “S’that good?” he asks as you nod. “C’mon then, baby, cum for me.”

Your orgasm sneaks up on you, like a wild fire burning away the cord inside you. The heat bursting in your stomach traveling through your entire nervous system. Tears spill over your lashline as you keep eye contact with him through the whole thing. You feel his cock twitch as he quickens his movements. A gasp of his name slipping out as you grow a bit sensitive.

You know he’s about to finish when he grips your hair again and his hips stutter through his previously precise pace. When it happens, his entire body stalls, cock throbbing as he fills you up. There’s a single low growl of your name before he relaxes, dropping his weight a bit more on top of you.

Frank kisses along your collarbone as you both calm down. Your fingers running across his back in the soothing way you know he likes. When he pulls out, you wince, but he’s quick to appease you by gathering you to his chest, covering your bodies with the thin hospital blanket. He strokes your hair where he pulled it, massaging the tender scalp while you both take a minute to enjoy the blissful aftermath of finally having each other again.

He’s the first to speak, his voice quite in the dark on-call room. “We’re never going a month without sex again. It might actually kill me.”

You giggle, but whatever retort waited on your tongue was cut off by a knock at the door.

﹙taglist﹚ @moonjellyfishie @superawesomecool @ggoodluckk @lizzyturner @frankiesprettygf

So the tags changed a bit by the time I was actually finished with this. It got away from me, as you can probably tell.