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✎﹏imaginary lover, lover﹏ | 21 years of age, she/her, mostly multifandom x reader fics | other shit can be found @lunarsmonth

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Hi! I'm Lunar, and I made this blog to engage with fanfic author's works. Generally, things that are not fanfiction are on my other blog (aka my replacement for twitter acct) @lunarsmonth

Most (if not all) of the fics I reblog will be of the x reader variety. The next time I'm in a Tumblr flow state I'll make a master list!

Some of it will probably be smut or contain trigger warnings, so I will encourage minors or those with triggers to filter the tags.

If I like a fic but haven't reblogged, that is because I am still picking out tags/writing comments!

Feel free to reach out with recommendations or just to chat!

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[optimisticplb]

What Happens in Vegas Never Stays in Vegas

Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch x Reader

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Summary: After a drunken Vegas wedding, Robby disappears by morning, leaving you with nothing but a ring and a mistake that was supposed to stay in Vegas. But when a pregnancy and state paperwork force you to track down the husband who vanished, Robby learns the truth and this time, walking away isn’t so easy.

WC: 5K

Tags: Drunken Vegas Wedding, Runaway Husband, Unexpected Pregnancy, Forced Reunion, Second Chance Romance, Robby Wants to Stay, Romantic Comedy vibes with some Angst, No use of Y/N

You wake up wrong.

Not slowly.

Not gently.

Not even all the way at first.

Just, awake.

It hits you all at once. Awareness slamming back into place like something dropped from too high, too fast. No adjustment period. No soft landing. Just your body snapping into consciousness like it forgot to ease you into it.

Your head throbs immediately. Deep. Pulsing. Unforgiving. Like something is knocking from the inside of your skull, trying to get out. Your mouth is dry in that specific, awful way that feels like you forgot to drink water for a week straight, and the light cutting through the blinds.

God.

The light.

It feels aggressive. Personal. Like it chose you specifically to ruin.

You groan, dragging your arm over your face, pressing your forearm hard into your eyes like maybe you can force yourself back under. It doesn’t work. Nothing does.

You lie there for a second, breathing through it. Slow. Careful. Like if you move too fast, something worse might happen.

Something’s wrong. You don’t know what yet, but you can feel it. That quiet, creeping sense that something doesn’t line up.

“…okay,” you mumble. “Okay.”

Last night. There was a shift. 

You latch onto that first because it’s easy. 

Familiar.

The bar, loud, packed, sticky floors, bad music, worse perfume, tourists who thought volume counted as personality.

You’d been tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind that makes everything feel like it’s happening half a second too late.

And then, there was a guy.

Dark hair.

Tall.

Quiet in a room full of people performing. He hadn’t been trying to get your attention. That’s why you noticed him.

Your stomach flips faintly.

And then memory slips in, warm, bright, loud—

You remember leaning against the bar across from him, one hand braced on the sticky wood, watching him over the rim of someone else’s drink.

“You look miserable.”

His eyes had lifted to yours. Slow. Steady.

“That your opening line?”

“It felt honest.”

He tipped his glass slightly. “You always this rude to strangers?”

“Only the hot ones.”

That had caught him off guard just enough to matter.

Not a full smile. Not yet. Just that small shift at the corner of his mouth that told you he was trying not to laugh and maybe losing.

“Good to know your screening process is thorough,” he’d said.

You’d leaned on the bar. “You gonna tell me I’m wrong?”

He’d looked at you for one beat too long.

“No,” he’d said. “I was gonna tell you I’ve had worse openings.”

You exhale slowly.

Yeah. That part. You talked to him. 

Not just talked. 

Flirted. 

A lot.

“Where are you from?”

He’d looked up at that, one forearm resting against the bar. “Pittsburgh.”

You huffed a quiet laugh and shook your head, setting the bottle in your hand down. “And you’re still this unimpressed?”

He glanced up at you. “You just met me.”

You stepped closer without really meaning to, your hip brushing the edge of the bar as you tipped your head at him. “Maybe. But I can already tell you’re bad at this.”

His mouth twitched. “At what?”

“Having fun.”

He swirled what was left in his glass once, eyes still on yours. “Am I?”

“Yeah,” you said, leaning in just a little more. “You’re doing Vegas wrong.”

That had gotten a real smile out of him.

Small. Crooked. Better than the first.

“So why are you here?”

He’d hesitated just long enough to make it feel like a choice.

“Traveling.”

“Traveling,” you’d repeated. “Like fun traveling or divorced-man-with-a-duffel-bag traveling?”

That had gotten him.

A laugh. Low. Warm. Quick.

“Neither.”

“Okay, mysterious. So what kind?”

He’d taken a sip, then, like he wasn’t sure why he was telling you at all.

“Just taking a break at life. Figured I’d disappear for a while.”

You blinked at him once, then snorted.

“Wow. That’s either mysterious or deeply concerning.”

His mouth tipped slightly. “That what that sounds like?”

“You’re in Vegas alone talking about disappearing,” you said. “Yeah. I have questions.”

“Do you?”

“Several.”

A beat.

Then you leaned in just a little, grin creeping back in.

“Should I be worried or intrigued?”

Another small pause, just enough to feel intentional.

“Which one are you going with?” he asked.

You held his gaze.

“Definitely intrigued.”

That one still lands.

You smile despite yourself and instantly regret it because your head protests. Still, you remember leaning farther over the bar. Remember the way he looked at you when you stopped feeling like part of the crowd and started feeling like the only interesting thing in the room.

“So what, you’re soul-searching your way across America?”

“Something like that.”

“In Vegas?”

He’d tipped his head. “Didn’t say I was good at it.”

And you, God, of course you—

“Oh, honey. If you actually want a soul-searching experience in Vegas, you need a local.”

His eyes had come back to you sharper then. Interested.

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely.”

“And where exactly would I find one?”

You’d leaned in just enough to make it obvious.

“You’re looking at one.”

His gaze had dropped, quick but not quick enough. Straight to your mouth, then back up.

“That so?”

“Mhm.”

“And you’d be willing to help me with my ‘soul searching’ sabbatical?”

You’d smiled. Slow. Shameless.

“I’d be honored to be part of your journey.”

That had gotten him. A real grin that time. Not hidden. Not accidental. Warm.

“Very generous of you.”

“I’m community-minded.”

“Are you?”

“Only when I think it’s worth it.”

That had landed. You could see it in the way his expression shifted, subtle, but there. Less detached. More aware.

“And you think this is worth it?”

You’d held his gaze.

“I think you’re bored,” you’d said. “And I think I could fix that.”

He’d let out a quiet laugh, but his eyes hadn’t left yours.

“That sounds like false advertising.”

“Probably,” you’d said. “But I’m fun.”

“I’m getting that.”

“And you’re curious.”

“About what?”

“About whether I’m as fun as I think I am.”

That had hung there. A beat too long. Not awkward. Just charged.

His fingers had tapped once lightly against his glass before he set it down.

“And if I am?”

You’d shrugged, casual, like you hadn’t just tilted the whole conversation.

“Then I’ll show you around.”

“And if you’re not?”

You’d smiled, just a little sharper.

“Then you can go back to your very serious sabbatical and pretend this never happened.”

He’d huffed a laugh, shaking his head once.

“You always this confident?”

“Only when I’m right.”

“And you’re right now?”

You’d leaned in just enough to drop your voice.

“Yeah.”

Another beat. Closer this time. The noise of the bar fading just slightly around the edges.

He’d looked at you like he was deciding something.

“Alright,” he’d said.

Your eyes open. The ceiling is too bright. The room too still. And then the sheets shift against your bare skin.

You freeze.

Slowly, you look down.

Yeah.

Okay.

That explains part of it.

You’re naked.

Completely.

“…great.”

You let your head fall back.

“Fantastic.”

Your brain keeps going anyway. Because of course it does.

You’d smiled at him. Slow. Satisfied.

“Alright?”

“Show me around.”

“Careful,” you’d said. “That’s how bad decisions start.”

He’d picked up his glass and finished it in one go.

“That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”

You sit up slowly. The room tilts. Hard. Then settles in a way that doesn’t feel reassuring at all.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Think.”

Walking. You remember walking. Warm air. Neon. Crowds. Music spilling into the street. His shoulder brushing yours once, then again and neither of you moving away after.

That part.

It feels important now.

“Do you trust me?”

“I trust you enough to be interested.”

“That’s kind of sexy of you.”

He’d laughed under his breath. “You say that to everyone?”

“Only the handsome, emotionally unavailable ones.”

“And you got all that from one drink?”

“One look.”

His brows had lifted. “Confident.”

“You like that.”

A beat.

Then, easy, amused, and just drunk enough to be honest:

“Yeah,” he’d said. “Enough to get myself into trouble.”

Your stomach turns over. Not from the hangover. Or not just from that.

Casino.

There was definitely a casino.

Of course there was.

You’d dragged him through one. Probably more than one.

“This one,” you’d announced, slapping a slot machine like it owed you rent.

“This one looks cursed.”

“That’s why it’s lucky.”

“That logic feels unstable.”

“You’re in Vegas with me at…” You’d checked an invisible watch. “…whatever time it is. Stability is over.”

He’d leaned against the machine beside you, close enough that when you turned your head you caught the clean, sharp scent of him under the casino air.

He’d been smiling like he hated that you were funny.

You’d shoved money into the machine.

Lost immediately.

You’d looked up at him in outrage.

“You did that.”

“I did not.”

“You were doubting me with your whole body.”

He’d laughed. “That’s not how gambling works.”

“You don’t know. Maybe I’m spiritually responsive.”

“I believe that.”

You’d narrowed your eyes.

“Was that flirting?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

He’d looked at you for one beat.

“Is it working?”

You’d smiled before you could stop yourself. “Maybe.”

His mouth had tipped at one corner.

“Dangerous answer.”

“For who?”

This time his smile had come quicker.

“Still figuring that out.”

You swing your legs over the side of the bed and freeze. Something white is on the floor.

Crumpled.

Your eyes narrow. You lean down slowly.

Fabric.

Thin. Cheap. Short.

A dress.

Not yours. Definitely not yours.

And next to it—

a veil.

Small.

Ridiculous.

Plastic-edged.

Your brain goes very, very quiet.

“…no.”

Your gaze drops to your hand. And there it is.

A ring.

Silver band.

Cheap diamond.

Your breath catches.

“No—”

Memory slams back harder this time.

Blackjack table.

You absolutely should not have been at a blackjack table.

The dealer looked exhausted.

You leaned toward him, dropping your voice like this was life or death. “What do I do?”

“You’re asking the wrong person.”

“You have kind eyes and a trustworthy face.”

“That feels manipulative.”

“It is.”

He leaned in anyway, shoulder brushing yours as he glanced at your cards. Close enough that you felt it, warm, steady, not pulling away.

A beat.

“Hit.”

You didn’t hesitate.

The card slid across the table.

You leaned in. He did too. Your arms bumped, neither of you moved.

“…wait,” you said.

The dealer flipped.

Busted.

You won.

For half a second, you just stared at the table, then your head snapped toward him, grabbing his arm without thinking.

“You did that.”

“I did not—”

“You absolutely did.”

“That was luck.”

“That was us,” you shot back, still holding onto him.

That got him.

A real laugh. Head tipping back slightly, hand coming up like he was trying to contain it and failing.

You pointed at him, grinning. “Don’t play humble now. You told me to hit.”

“You listened,” he said, still smiling.

“Because I trust you,” you said, a little too easily.

That shifted something. Just slightly.

He looked at you for a beat longer than before.

“Dangerous decision.”

“Worked out.”

You leaned in closer, not letting go of his arm yet, lowering your voice like it mattered.

“You wanna double down?”

His brows lifted. “Already pushing your luck?”

“I’m on a streak.”

“You won one hand.”

“Confidence is important.”

“That’s not what that is.”

You smiled. Slow.

“It is if you’re doing it right.”

Another beat.

You tilted your head toward the table, playful, reckless. “Hit me again.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head, but he stayed right where he was.

You played again.

Won again.

This time you didn’t even try to pretend you were calm about it.

“Oh, come on—” you laughed, grabbing his arm again, closer now. “That’s not normal.”

“That’s still luck.”

“No, this is a pattern,” you insisted.

“That’s not how patterns work.”

“That’s because you’re not thinking like a winner.”

He looked at you, amused, a little sharper now. “And you are?”

“I just proved it twice.”

A beat.

Then you leaned in just enough to blur the line between joking and not.

“That was foreplay.”

That had gotten him.

A real laugh. Head tipping back slightly, hand over his mouth like he was trying to contain it and failing.

You watched him, delighted.

“Oh, you are fun drunk.”

He looked back at you, eyes warm, something a little looser there now.

“You say that like you aren’t.”

“I’m always like this.”

“Then I’m definitely in trouble.”

“You’re still standing here.”

His gaze dropped, quick, not quick enough, then came back up.

“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “Don’t think I’m trying that hard to leave.”

And for a second, just one, the noise of the casino felt farther away.

You stand too quickly.

The room tilts. You catch yourself on the nightstand.

“Okay,” you breathe. “Okay.”

Your eyes go back to the dress. The veil. The ring.

Your heart is moving too fast now. Because your brain is finally catching up.

A gift shop.

No—

a bridal gift shop.

Or some tiny Vegas store built entirely to profit off impulse and intoxication.

You’d been half laughing, half stumbling through one of those tiny Vegas stores where every shelf looked like it had been stocked by somebody going through a public breakdown.

Plastic tiaras. Rhinestone veils. Shot glasses with phrases nobody should say out loud.

You’d turned toward him with a rhinestone tiara on your head.

“Be honest.”

“No.”

“That’s not honesty.”

“That’s self-preservation.”

You’d put it on anyway.

“Now?”

He’d looked at you.

Actually looked.

And this time he hadn’t answered right away.

“What?” you’d asked.

He’d leaned one shoulder against the shelf, looking at you in the tiny veil like he was trying not to say exactly what he was thinking.

“You always this committed once you start a bad idea?”

“Only if I look good doing it.”

That small smile again.

“You do.”

You had frozen for half a second.

“Wow. Was that a compliment?”

He tipped his head slightly, watching you. “You always push like this?”

You stepped a little closer, closing the space between you like it was nothing, adjusting the edge of the veil where it sat in your hair, just enough to give yourself a reason to be near him.

“Only when it’s working.”

Your hand dropped, brushing lightly against his where it rested at his side, not quite lingering.

You glanced up at him through the mirror, a small smile pulling at your mouth.

“Is it working?”

His eyes dropped, quick, not quick enough, then came back to yours in the reflection.

A beat.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It is.”

You close your eyes.

Oh, this is bad. This is very, very bad.

Because this would all be easier if he’d been boring.

Meaner, too.

God forbid the man you accidentally married in Vegas had been easy to dismiss.

Then, the chapel.

Your stomach drops straight through you.

You were standing outside the doors with him, both of you staring at the sign like two people who absolutely should not be here.

White trim. Fake roses. Gold script.

You glanced at it, then at him, already smiling.

“Well?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah?”

You stepped closer, your hand catching his arm like it belonged there.

“You coming or what?”

His mouth tipped. “You always this convincing?”

You pulled him with you. “Only when I want something.”

That got a look out of him.

A real one this time.

“And you usually get it?”

You stepped in closer instead of answering, your hand sliding down his arm before letting go.

“You tell me.”

His eyes dropped, then came back to yours.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think you do.”

You smiled, then turned and pushed the door open.

That one lands even now. Because that’s the thing: you both could have left.

You didn’t.

You scan the room fast.

Bed. Bathroom. Closet. Chair. Floor.

Nothing.

No him.

No clothes that aren’t yours.

No note.

Then your gaze catches on the small table by the window.

A photo.

Face down.

And next to it, paper.

Your stomach drops so fast it feels like you missed a stair. You don’t move right away. Like if you don’t go near it, it won’t become real.

Then you do.

Slowly.

You pick up the photo first. Turn it over. And there you are.

You.

And him.

Standing in front of a chapel backdrop with fake flowers and soft bad lighting.

You’re laughing.

He’s looking at you instead of the camera.

There’s a small, unwilling smile on his mouth like it escaped without permission.

Dark hair a little wrecked.

Tie crooked.

The both of you looking like exactly the kind of trouble that should come with a legal warning.

Your thumb presses against the edge of the photo.

“…oh my god.”

You set it down and pick up the paper. It’s heavier than it should be.

Official-looking. Real.

Marriage Certificate.

Your name.

Clear.

Undeniable.

And underneath—

Michael Robinavitch.

You stare at it.

Blink once. Then again.

Michael Robinavitch.

The stranger from the bar has a name.

A real one. A whole one. A deeply legal-sounding one.

Michael.

Your husband.

Your grip tightens.

“No,” you whisper.

But there’s no weight behind it. Because it’s right there. And the memories won’t stop.

The officiant asked something about vows. You both said no at the same time. You looked at each other.

Laughed.

The officiant sighed.

Then his name—

Full. Formal. Too serious for the room. You turned toward him, already smiling, already gone.

“That sounds fake.”

A beat.

“Oh my god—”

You grabbed his arm, laughing, bending into him like you couldn’t hold yourself up.

The room went quiet.

He turned his head toward you slowly, eyes on yours, something sharp tucked behind the amusement.

“You’re being very disrespectful to your future husband.”

That made it worse.

You laughed harder, clutching at him, forehead nearly hitting his shoulder.

“Oh my god—future husband?”

“You’re the one in a veil.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means enough.”

He was laughing now too, closer, leaning into you like he’d stopped pretending to keep any distance at all.

You pointed at him, still breathless.

“There you are.”

His attention locked on you. Didn’t move. Didn’t drift.

“You’re trouble.”

“You like me.”

You stepped in closer as you said it, no space left now, your hand still curled in his sleeve.

His eyes dropped to your mouth. Came back up.

“Yeah.”

Simple.

Not a joke anymore.

Your fingers tightened slightly in his shirt.

“Too late.”

“For what?”

You leaned in just enough that your voices didn’t have to carry.

“Anything else.”

That did it.

His hand found your waist, firm, like he wasn’t guessing anymore.

Then the kiss.

Quick at first, crooked, both of you still laughing into it, breath uneven, mouths not quite lining up because neither of you slowed down enough to make it neat.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, still close, still holding onto him.

“How was it, husband?”

His hand stayed where it was.

Thumb shifting once.

“Rushed.”

You laughed, softer now.

“Oh, you want another?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Just looked at you.

“Yeah.”

That was all it took.

You kissed him again, this time slower, still smiling when you leaned in, until you weren’t.

The room is suddenly too quiet.

You look up again.

Nothing.

No note.

No shoes.

No jacket.

No Michael.

Just the evidence.

And somehow that’s worse.

You walk back to the bed slowly, certificate still in your hand. Each step feels heavier than it should. Like something shifted while you weren’t paying attention. Like you crossed a line somewhere between last call and sunrise and woke up legally tied to a man whose laugh is still stuck in the back of your head.

You sit down.

The sheets are still warm in places.

Your stomach twists.

You don’t think about that. Not even a little. Because that leads to other thoughts. And you are not emotionally equipped for that right now. More memory anyway. Because your brain is not on your side.

There had been room service fries.

Something salty between you on the bed while you sat cross-legged in that tiny white dress, still wearing the veil because taking it off had somehow become part of the bit.

You leaned forward, reaching across without asking, fingers sliding into his space to steal a fry from his side.

His hand shifted just slightly under yours.

“You have your own.”

You didn’t move back.

“These are husband fries.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, slower this time. “That supposed to mean something?”

You smiled, small. “It already does.”

You ate it, still watching him.

A beat.

Then you reached again, slower now. Your fingers brushing him this time. Not accidental. Not quick.

His hand didn’t move away.

“Careful,” he said, voice lower than it had been a second ago.

“Why?”

Your thumb grazed the edge of his knuckle as you took another fry.

“Because you’re starting to sound like you mean it.”

You leaned in just a little, close enough that your knees brushed his under the table.

“Maybe I do.”

That changed something.

Subtle.

But there.

His gaze dropped, your mouth, your hand, the way you were still in his space, then came back up slower than before.

“You married me,” you added, softer now.

His jaw shifted once.

“That’s what happened.”

You tilted your head, studying him like you were figuring something out in real time.

“Then I get to take what I want.”

His hand turned slightly under yours. Not pulling away. Not quite holding on.

“You’ve been doing that all night.”

“Yeah,” you said, just as quiet.

Another beat.

Your fingers lingered this time when you reached across again.

Didn’t pretend it was about the fries anymore.

“Still here.”

His thumb moved, barely, against your hand.

“Yeah.”

That one landed different.

Closer.

Heavier.

And for a second neither of you smiled.

That’s the part that gets you.

Not the chapel.

Not the kiss.

Not even the certificate.

That.

That tiny little pause in the middle of all the chaos where, for one second, it had almost stopped being a joke.

You exhale slowly.

This would be so much easier if the whole thing had been stupid in a simple way. Instead, it had been stupid and fun and weirdly good.

Which, frankly, feels rude.

You look down at the certificate again.

Michael Robinavitch.

You don’t know him. Not really. But you know how he laughs. You know the way he looks at you when you say something ridiculous. You know he flirted back like it was somehow your fault he was enjoying himself. You know he stayed.

All night.

And now—

he’s gone.

You fall back onto the bed, arm over your eyes.

“…well.”

A beat.

“Well fuck.”

The room, unhelpfully, remains silent. You lie there for another second.

Then another.

Then, because apparently the universe has decided humiliation is a full-service experience, your stomach gives a long, ugly roll.

You slap a hand over your mouth and sit bolt upright.

“Oh, no.”

You scramble out of bed, half blinded by light and panic, grab the sheet because modesty apparently matters again now for some reason, and lurch toward the bathroom.

Cool tile under your feet.

Too-bright mirror.

A version of yourself that looks exactly like somebody who got drunk, married a handsome stranger, and woke up alone in a hotel room with legal documentation.

You glare at your reflection. Your hair is a crime scene. Your mascara is somewhere below your eyes now. There’s glitter on one shoulder. You don’t remember wearing glitter.

That feels insulting.

You lean over the sink and breathe through the nausea until it passes just enough to leave you shaky instead of actively dying.

Then you straighten, slowly, and look at yourself again. At the ring. At the sheet you’re clutching around yourself like that’s the thing preserving your dignity.

“You’re an idiot,” you tell the mirror.

Mirror-you looks unconcerned. You rub a hand over your face. Then, because self-pity is apparently not stronger than curiosity, you go back out into the room.

The dress is still there. The veil too.

And now that you’re looking at them with slightly more functioning eyesight, the whole thing is somehow worse.

The dress is cheap in a very specific Vegas way. Not ugly exactly. Just aggressively committed to the bit. Short hem. Thin straps. White fabric with just enough shimmer to look bridal under bad lighting and suspicious under natural light.

You crouch carefully, very carefully, and pick it up between two fingers like it might accuse you. There’s a price tag still attached. You stare at it. Then bark out one shocked laugh.

“You bought the clearance dress?”

You don’t know who you’re asking. Michael is not here to defend himself. The room remains unsupportive. The veil is even worse. Tiny comb. Rhinestone trim. One sad little layer of tulle.

You hold it up.

It looks like something a bachelorette party would dare the least stable friend to wear on Fremont Street.

You did wear it. You wore it while getting legally married.

“Unbelievable.”

You let it drop back to the floor and straighten with the dress still in hand. There’s a chair by the window with your regular clothes draped over the back of it. At least one of you had the sense, or Michael had the sense, to put them somewhere that wasn’t the hallway.

Your shoes are under the chair. One upright. One on its side. Your purse is on the desk. You immediately cross to it and check.

Phone.

Wallet.

Keys.

Cards.

Everything seems to be there. No mysterious missing money. No evidence that you were robbed by your husband, which feels like the kind of standard you shouldn’t be relieved about and yet.

You unlock your phone. Battery at twelve percent. The screen is a graveyard of unread texts.

One from your coworker asking if you got home okay.

One from another asking if you can take her Saturday shift, which at this point feels emotionally offensive.

A blurry selfie of you and two girls from the bar at the start of the night, all eyeliner and bad intentions.

No messages from an unknown number.

No “had fun last night.”

No “sorry I vanished.”

No “by the way we’re legally married.”

Nothing.

You check your recent photos.

There are too many.

Of course there are.

The first few are normal.

Bottles lined up behind the bar.

A shot of somebody’s ridiculous birthday sash.

Then it devolves.

Fast.

A picture of a slot machine.

A close-up of your own face, smiling too wide.

A blurry shot of Michael from across what looks like a blackjack table, his head slightly turned, expression unimpressed, one eyebrow halfway up like he’d caught you taking it.

You stare at that one longer than you mean to.

Even blurred, he looks like himself. Quiet. Sharp. Mildly exasperated by everything around him.

There’s another one.

The Elvis.

You and Michael on either side of him, both looking deeply unconvinced in very different ways. You’re beaming. Michael looks like he’s accepted that resistance has failed him spiritually.

You laugh despite yourself.

Then there’s the gift shop.

A picture of Michael holding the BRIDE tiara with exactly two fingers, looking assumed.

Then—

the chapel sign.

Then—

oh no.

A selfie of you in the veil and him in the background, slightly out of focus, jacket off, tie crooked, caught mid-look in your direction.

Your stomach flips. Because even there, even in a half-blurred phone photo, it’s obvious.

He’d been in it. 

Not just physically there.

In it.

With you.

And that makes everything worse.

And then the final one. The photo of the certificate after it had been signed.

Apparently you documented that too.

“Jesus Christ.”

You drop the phone onto the bed and sit down beside it.

The mattress dips.

The ring catches the light again.

You twist it once around your finger.

Cheap. A little loose. Cold.

Still there.

There is a wildly irresponsible part of your brain that wants to laugh. The larger, more functioning part wants to scream into a pillow. You settle for putting your face in your hands.

Think.

Okay.

Okay.

What do you know?

You know his name is Michael Robinavitch. You know he was real. You know you liked him. Not in a profound, life-altering way. You’re not insane.

But you liked him.

You liked talking to him. You liked dragging reactions out of him. You liked the way he flirted back like he wasn’t planning to and then suddenly very much was. You liked the way his face changed when he laughed. You liked the way he looked at you when he stopped pretending this was just entertainment.

You know he left.

That part sits the heaviest. 

Not because he owed you forever. But he sure as hell owed you something.

A note.

A number.

A five-second conversation before disappearing into the Nevada morning like some kind of emotionally constipated magician.

Something.

Because this?

This was bullshit.

You got drunk and married each other.

That feels like the kind of thing that should come with at least the bare minimum of follow-through.

Instead, he just—

left.

No explanation. No number. No scribbled note on hotel stationery. No hey, ‘last night was insane, call me when you’re less hungover.’

Nothing.

Just gone.

And no, actually, that was rude as hell.

You stare at the marriage certificate in your hand, then at the empty room again like he might somehow reappear just so you can be mad at him properly.

Because what the fuck was that?

You don’t get to marry someone in Vegas and then vanish before they wake up like this was some kind of weird tax scam.

And that shifts it. Just slightly. From hilarious disaster to something that doesn’t sit right. Something sharper around the edges. Because now it’s not just ridiculous. Now it’s embarrassing.

Now it’s you waking up naked in a hotel room with a ring on your finger and a legal document in your hand while your husband, your actual husband, God help you, is nowhere to be found.

You don’t like the way that thought lands. 

You shove it away immediately.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

You are not going to spiral about the emotional cowardice of a man you accidentally married before you’ve had water, aspirin, and maybe divine intervention.

You grab the complimentary hotel pen from the desk. Then the hotel notepad. Then stare at both of them.

“What am I doing.”

Still, you write it down anyway.

Michael Robinavitch.

The letters look strange in your handwriting. Too formal. Too real. Too much like something that exists outside this room.

You stare at the name. Try to hear it the way the officiant said it. Try to hear your own laugh right after.

It doesn’t help.

Nothing about this looks better written down.

You set the pen aside and flop back onto the bed, one arm thrown over your face.

The room is still too bright.

Your head still hurts.

You’re still naked under a hotel sheet with a clearance bridal dress on the floor, a marriage certificate on the bed, and no idea where your husband went after apparently deciding basic decency was optional.

The absurdity of it finally crests.

A laugh slips out.

Small at first.

Then another.

It hurts, God, it hurts, but it’s there anyway, because what else are you supposed to do?

You got blackout-adjacent and married a man with the name of a tax attorney and the face of a very tired sin.

In Vegas.

After a shift.

Because apparently your survival instincts took the night off and left your dignity unsupervised.

You laugh again, then groan and press your palms into your eyes.

“This is so bad.”

It is.

It really, really is.

And yet, underneath the pounding headache and the anger and the rising logistical nightmare, there’s still that faint leftover spark of the night itself.

The joy of it.

The stupidity of it.

The reckless, bright, completely unhinged freedom of deciding, for a few hours, that consequences were for other people.

You don’t know if that makes it better or worse.

Probably worse.

Definitely worse.

You roll your head toward the window without moving your arm.

Too much light.

Too much day.

Eventually, you’re going to have to get up. Eventually, you’re going to have to shower, get dressed, and figure out what the hell you just did to your life. Eventually, you’re going to have to decide whether this is a funny story, a legal emergency, or the opening act of a full-blown personal crisis.

But not yet.

For one more second, you just lie there in it.

The ring on your finger.

His name on the paper beside you.

His laugh still caught somewhere in the back of your head.

And the last thing you said to him, maybe, dragging itself up through the haze with humiliating clarity:

“Don’t ditch me, husband.”

You go still.

Then very slowly lower your arm from your face and stare at the ceiling.

“…oh, you asshole.”

And then, because really there is nothing else left to say:

“Fuck me.”

[lunar-month-library]

LOOOOOVE this concept!

[docrobinavitch]

i'm your summer girl

dr. robby x f!reader masterlist content: 18+ mdni, sexually explicit content, swearing, alcohol, age gap, established mohabbot, other character cameos, robby has tattoos based on this quote from noah, um idk u guys this one is pretty light for once nothing too scary i don't think!! summer romance baby words: 18.6K synopsis: (based on these two prompts: one, two) reader and samira have been best friends since they did their undergrad together nearly ten years ago and have been in constant contact since graduation. which is why you already knew plenty about her grumpy senior attending even before you met him. but you're surprised to find when you do actually meet him that he's a lot softer than anyone has given him credit for. and hotter. so when samira invites you to a week long getaway to the poconos a year later, you can't stop yourself from asking if robby will be there. little do you know, robby's asked jack the same question about you. a/n: thank you to @dancingtruffle for the prompt! and another thank you to @gemmahale (ah sry, tag isn't working!) for suggesting the poconos as our vacation spot <3. is it realistic that this many doctors can get this amount of time off at the same time? probably not but we are doing it anyway because it’s Fun. similarly, do not ask me what year it is that's literally none of my business. alright um anyway... i am asking the age old question... is this anything?? i hope u like it but if u hate it don't tell me i am rejection sensitive ok bye <3 syd

Robby still remembered the smell of your cherry perfume, the way it settled heavy in his nose with the humid August air. Whenever he was in a crowded place afterwards, he thought he’d catch a whiff and his head would follow after, but it was never you.

It was pathetic, really, the way he still thought about you when nothing special had even happened that night. Just a single conversation over beer on a porch swing before it got to be too much. Before he started noticing how your tongue darted out between your lips when you were thinking or the way you avoided eye contact when you were embarrassed. And noticing too many of these things was going to get him in a lot of fucking trouble.

Which was why he disengaged from the conversation and went home without asking for your number. There were a few moments he thought about asking Samira for it, but he knew he’d never hear the end of that. Then, he thought about asking Jack to ask Samira and by the time that thought popped into his head he realized he was being insane.

You had been sitting on the porch swing by yourself, beer in hand and the blue glow of your phone lighting up your face. He had told himself he would only come for a single beer, mostly because Jack had asked him to.

Samira was having—not a party, exactly—but she had invited anyone who was available for a few drinks and pizza at the house she was renting. He guessed it was more of a way for her to spend time with Jack without having to ask him directly. They were both still dancing around whatever thing was going on between them, pretending it was more casual than it was.

And you were sitting alone on the porch swing, the only face Robby didn’t recognize from the Pitt. Thinking maybe you were a new hire he had missed, he made his way over to you, “This seat taken?” He asked, gesturing to the empty spot on the swing next to you.

Slowly, you raised your eyes from your phone to look up at him, and then you peered around him, as if you were wondering if it were possible he was speaking to someone else.

Finally, you shrugged, “Nope.”

A smirk tugged at his lips, “I don’t want to bother you, I can sit somewhere else if you want to be alone—“

“No, sorry—“ You sighed and shook your head, “Sit, please. I should really stop being an unapproachable loner.”

He huffed a laugh as he sat down, “This is going to sound terrible, probably, but, uh… Are you… Did you start recently? At the Pitt? I don’t recognize you, so—“

“Oh—No,” You laughed, “No, I don’t work at the hospital. Samira and I did our undergrad together, we used to be roommates. I’m just visiting.”

“Ah,” He said and hung his head, “Well, that would explain it. Where are you visiting from?”

“Los Angeles.”

He let out a low whistle, “You from there?”

“Born and raised.”

“And you went to undergrad here?”

You nodded, “Yeah,” You looked up at the moon, “I miss the east coast.”

“Why’d you go back to California?”

You sighed, “Um, things just didn’t pan out here. The pandemic. Ran out of money. Had to go back to live with my parents.”

He nodded, “I’m sure you’ll end up back here. If it’s what you really want.”

He felt your eyes on him, the way they paved a path down his face to his hands, that were lazily tearing at the label on his beer bottle, “You must be Robby.”

He raised his eyebrows as he looked back up at you, “How’d you figure that out?”

You gave him a lopsided smirk and took a sip from your beer, “Samira talks about you a lot. It’s not hard to put the pieces together.”

He looked back down at his beer bottle. Fighting the disappointment that coursed through him, he rubbed at his beard, “Well, I imagine your perception of me isn’t all that favorable, then.”

You hummed, “She really looks up to you, you know?” You leaned a bit closer to him, close enough that he could smell the beer on your breath as it tangled with your cherry perfume in a way that made him dizzy. You whispered conspiratorily, “But as her friend, you think you could ease up on her?”

He turned his head to look at you and found that you looked almost surprised at how close your faces were, although it was you that had closed the distance. You bit your lip and in the moonlight he saw the way your pupils dilated as you looked at him. And then quickly, your eyes darted away from his and he knew he was fucked.

He cleared his throat, “I’m hard on her because she’s so good. I want her to be the best.”

“You ever hear of this thing called positive reinforcement?” 

He chuckled, “Yeah, okay, if it’s that important to you, I’ll try to be nicer to her.”

You raised your eyebrows, “Damn, it was that easy?” You shook your head, “She didn’t say you were such a softie.”

Robby sighed, “I’m not, normally.” He turned his head to look at you, “You must bring it out of me.”

You blinked a few times and then quickly broke eye contact, looking down at your hands. The movement got him a whiff of your shampoo and fuck if he wasn’t like a moth to a goddamn flame. It took all of his self control not to lean into you, not to push his knee against yours, just to see what you would do. 

But you were Samira’s friend. And you were far, far, too young for him. It would create mess and he hated mess. So he cleared his throat and stood, “Thank you for the conversation, I should be going.”

You opened your mouth as if to say something else, but he was already gone, disappeared into the house, leaving you dumbfounded.

“‘Thank you for the conversation…?’” You repeated and then laughed to yourself.

Later that night as you were relaying the interaction to Samira, she informed you that he had been flirting.

You raised your eyebrows and scoffed, “Right, yeah. He didn’t even ask for my name.”

Jack came up behind Samira and twined an arm around her waist and you watched as she flushed. It was sweet, seeing her like this. In the ten years you had been friends, you had never seen a man so casually fluster her.

“He was flirting.” Jack confirmed as he scooped Cheez Itz out of the plastic bowl between you, “He’s just a little rusty.”

Samira shrugged, “Doesn’t matter, you’re going back to LA soon anyway. But, it would have been nice to get Robby laid.” She sighed mournfully, “I bet he’s much nicer after a good fuck.”

Jack began to choke on a Cheez It and you chuckled as Samira banged on his back until it came back up, “Please… don’t talk about him like that in front of me, alright?” He said, rubbing at his throat.

Samira gave him a half hearted apology and then turned back to you, smirking once he had left, “He’s not really your type anyway, is he?”

He wasn’t. Not the usual guy you went for. You were into older, but usually not that much older. You were also into unstable and mean and heavily tattooed, which Robby appeared to be none of the above. But there had been a moment, fleeting, where you had wanted to kiss him. Where you had thought he wanted to kiss you. 

“Nope,” You sighed, “Not my type.”

Samira scrutinized you for a few moments and then sighed, “A shame. So I can’t give him your number if he asks?”

You laughed, “He won’t ask, but sure, you can give it to him.”

You were right. He didn’t ask. But not because he didn’t want to, because he didn’t think he should. He did, at least, manage to get your name from Samira. It ran laps around his brain for weeks after, and then it slowed, only reappearing every so often. And even though he knew you had gone back to LA, he found himself looking for you occasionally throughout the next year.

Until Jack told him you were back in Pittsburgh as a way to convince him to go to the Poconos getaway Samira was planning.

“She’s going?” Robby asked, eyebrows raised. They were on the roof, genuinely just getting some air. Robby hadn’t found Jack on the wrong side of the railing since he had started seeing Samira. The shifts were still hard, but he had someone to go home to after. And that seemed to make the difference.

Jack turned to him and smirked, “Oh, so now you wanna come, huh?”

Robby shook his head, “I didn’t say that.”

Almost all of his residents and Jack were going to the Poconos in August at Mohan’s invitation and Robby felt he had no business there. Jack was only going because of Samira. What excuse did he have? He would just make them all uncomfortable by being there. Who wanted their boss on their vacation?

“Samira said she asked if you were coming.”

Robby turned his head at that and then scoffed, “Don’t fuck with me.”

“I’m not.” Jack said, but had a self satisfied smirk on his face, “Honest to God.”

“And she lives here now.”

Jack nodded, “Started a new job here a month ago.”

Robby leaned over the railing on his forearms. He still wondered about you, still thought about whatever magnetism that existed between you that night. If it was just alcohol induced or if it really was something. And yes, you were way too fucking young for him. But Samira and Jack seemed to be happy. Maybe… Maybe he could at least try. You had asked after him, that had to mean something. That you still thought of him, too. 

And so that was how Robby ended up pulling into the driveway of the house on the edge of the lake a few weeks later.

After Samira had informed him of what room was his and he had set all his things down, he followed her and Jack out to the patio overlooking the lake, “Is she here yet?”

Samira smirked and looked down at her phone, “Should be pulling up any minute according to her location.” Just then, the distant roar of a car in distress grew louder and louder and Samira’s grin widened, “Yeah, that’s her.”

Robby raised his eyebrows, “Does she drive a fucking Ferrari?”

Samira frowned, “I don’t know what that means to you, but no, she drives a Yaris.”

He laughed, “A Yaris? Making all that racket? Jesus Christ.” And with that, he was heading to the driveway.

Sure enough, a bright red, ancient looking Yaris was idling in the driveway. You pushed your sunglasses onto the top of your head as you turned your car off and then looked up to see Robby standing a few feet away from your car. Frowning, you opened the door and stepped out, “...Hi.”

“Are you aware that your car sounds like the engine is about to explode?”

Your frown deepened, “I don’t know, sounds fine to me.” 

Robby circled your car, looking for other sources of the noise, until he got to the back of your car. Bending down, he saw your muffler was badly corroded, and was that… Chicken wire securing it to your car? He laughed softly to himself and stood again, “Do you know your muffler’s completely rusted out?”

You stared at him for a moment, pulling your bags out of the backseat of the car, “Uhh, no? Is that bad?”

He scratched the back of his head, “Someone wrapped some wire around it to try to keep it on, but it mostly fell off.”

“Oh,” You said slowly, “Yeah, I think my roommate did that for me.”

“You think?” Finally, he approached you to help with your bags, slinging one of your duffels over his shoulder.

You shrugged, “I don’t know, I know he said something was wrong with the car and that he fixed it temporarily. I can’t afford a mechanic right now. It’s okay to drive, though?”

“Well, yes.” They began walking towards the house, “It’ll just be… loud.”

“Okay,” You smiled at him, “I can handle loud.” 

He held the door of the house open awkwardly with one arm, which you ducked under to get in.

“I could, um,” He sighed, “I could fix it for you. Order you a new muffler and attach it when we’re back in Pittsburgh.”

“Oh, I—That’s really nice, but I couldn’t pay you—“

“For free, I meant.”

You paused in the entryway and took off your backpack, “Why would you do that?”

He shrugged and lowered your duffel to the floor, “Why not?”

You stared at him a moment longer, perplexed, before you turned to see Samira in the entryway, smirking.

Within seconds, you were both squealing and your arms were wrapped tightly around each other, “This place is insane,” You said to her, “How did you afford this?”

Samira opened and closed her mouth and then blushed, “Um… Jack and Robby split it, actually.”

When you spun to look at Robby, he smiled in confirmation, a hand on the back of his neck, “Oh. Cool. Thanks.” You turned back to Samira, “Where should I put my things…?”

“Yeah, about that, so… I ran into Trevor last week…”

You tilted your head to the side in question. Trevor, your ex roommate from when you and Samira were in undergrad, Trevor? Your years-long situationship, Trevor? The same Trevor whom you had ghosted once you moved back to LA?

“And…” You could read the fear on Samira’s face as she continued, “Jack may have, not knowing the situation, invited Trevor to come?”

“Mira,” You whined, “Seriously?”

“I know, I know,” She said quickly, “And unfortunately, Jack also invited him without considering that we were already out of rooms… So…”

She allowed you to fill in the blanks and your brain was beginning to short circuit, “Okay,” You laughed, “This is a joke, right? Are you saying I’m sharing a bed with him?”

“No, no. Separate beds, same room.”

You covered your face with your hands, “I think…” You sighed, “I think I might just drive home.”

“What? No, come on. It’ll be fine, I thought you and Trevor were good? You don’t even have to be in the room that much, just to sleep–”

“You could stay in my room.” You both started at Robby’s voice behind you, having forgotten he was still there. He cleared his throat, “I could stay in the room with… Trevor, is it?”

You sighed, “That’s… sweet of you, but Trevor snores. And besides, you paid for this place, I’m not going to kick you out of your own room–”

“Really, I don’t mind. Besides, it’ll be dark soon anyway and it’s a long drive back to Pittsburgh.”

He was looking at you almost a little desperately and you started to wonder if the only reason he had come in the first place was to see you. But that was insane, right? You didn’t even know each other.

And yeah, maybe the only reason you had come was because Samira assured you Robby would be here. Maybe that one interaction had played on a loop in your mind for the whole year until you started wondering if he had really looked at you with lust and awe that night or if it was just a trick of the light.

You bit your lip and then turned back to Samira, “I’m mad at you.” You said as you bent to pick up your backpack.

“But… You’re staying?”

Samira knew you could never stay mad at her. And she had never been able to stay mad at you, either. The few times you had had disagreements you had always been able to resolve them peacefully. It was part of the reason you adored being her friend, there was never any drama and always a shoulder to cry on if you needed it.

So you bit your lip and gave her a knowing look, “Yes, under duress.”

Robby slung your duffel back over his shoulder, “C’mon, I’ll show you the room.”

You trailed after him and up the stairs, still a bit apprehensive about this whole set up. He led you to a room with a king sized bed. The room was large with big windows on one wall and a long, brown leather couch that took up almost the entire wall opposite the bed. 

You stood in the threshold of the door, stunned, but Robby didn’t seem to notice. He placed your duffel on the floor and moved his bags from where he had put them on the bed.

“There’s an en suite bathroom over there,” He gestured to the door next to the couch, “So you don’t need to share with anyone.” 

“Robby,” You said breathlessly and then started shaking your head, “This is too much. You paid for this and it’s your vacation too, you shouldn’t have to share a room with Trevor—“

“What’s your deal with this guy? Trevor?”

You smirked and tilted your head a bit. Was that jealousy? “I don’t know if that’s your business.”

He shrugged, “Well, I just thought, since you’re feeling so guilty about taking my room this could be my payment.” He said lightly, the corners of his lips beginning to tug up into a grin.

“Ah,” You laughed, “Well, if you must know, he was mine and Samira’s roommate for about three years and then we slept together on and off for a few years afterward. Until I moved back to Los Angeles.”

He stared at you for a few moments, “Okay, so you occasionally slept together, but he’s not an ex boyfriend or anything?”

You shook your head, “Nope. But not for lack of trying on his end.”

He raised his eyebrows, “Oh? So you were the heartbreaker then?”

You smirked, “Oh, I don’t know about that. I’m sure he was just fine.”

“Why wasn’t he good enough for you?” Oh, so it was jealousy.

Good. You liked playing. Maybe this vacation wouldn’t be a total wash. “You worried you might make the same mistakes?”

His grin widened, and then he shook his head, “That wasn’t an answer.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, “I think I’ve answered enough of your questions for today.” You picked up his duffel from where it sat in front of him and pushed it into his arms.

“Are you kicking me out of my room?” He asked, still with that teasing lilt in his voice.

You moved close enough to him that he finally caught a whiff of your perfume. Still cherries. He thought his knees might buckle. “I thought it wasn’t your room anymore?” You said softly.

You pushed gently on his chest until he was out of the doorway and closed the door.

Robby stood out in the hallway for a moment, staring at the door with a stupid grin on his face. He had just given up his room to share one with some loser kid who had made the catastrophic mistake of fumbling you, and he had the toothiest smile on his face.

Maybe he’d end this vacation sleeping in that king sized bed with you.

***

Robby was trying very hard not to seem too desperate, but Trevor had arrived hours ago and you were still in your room.

The rest of his residents wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow, most of them having had to work a shift today, so it would just be you, Trevor, him, Mohan, and Abbot.

He had sized Trevor up immediately when he got here and, well, Robby was confused to say the least. The kid was scrawny, almost every inch of skin tatted up, and was a tattoo artist. He had long and dark hair that curled around his ears. He had a nose ring and a mustache.

It was mind boggling. If this is what you were into, why had you been flirting with him? You had been flirting with him, right? There’s no way that was your fucking baseline.

Samira was across the patio with Trevor and Robby sat with Abbot in front of the fire pit. One of Robby’s hands stroked his beard absently while he watched Trevor.

“Why’re you looking at that guy like you wish he’d give you a reason?”

Robby dragged his gaze away from Trevor and back to Jack who was fucking smirking, “This is your fault.”

He shrugged, “I didn’t know they had history, okay? Samira never mentioned.”

Before, Robby had been confident he’d win you over by the end of this week. Now, there was a roughly 5’10 problem that you were avoiding so diligently you were spending your first night of vacation hiding away.

“I’m gonna go talk to her.” He said finally, standing.

And that’s how he ended up back at your bedroom door, knuckles rapping gently against the wood.

A moment or two passed and then he heard the sound of feet padding across the floor. Then the door began to crack open, “Mira, I told you already, I don’t feel like seeing him ton–” You froze when you saw Robby standing there, “Oh. You’re not Mira.”

Robby’s mouth was slightly agape and he was, unfortunately staring at your bare legs and then back up to the skimpy sleep set you were wearing. A flowy pastel flowered camisole that fluttered just above your belly button and matching shorts that were so tiny, they may as well have been panties.

By some miracle between him and God himself, he managed to tear his eyes back up to yours. And you looked very smug right about now. He felt a flush begin to work his way up his neck and he cleared his throat, as if to push it back down, “Is it me you’re avoiding or Trevor?”

You hummed, “Why would I be avoiding you?”

He shrugged his shoulders up to his ears, “My irresistible charm and rogueish good looks?”

You choked out a laugh, “No, no, it’s Trevor I’m avoiding.”

“That’s a shame,” He sighed, “It’s really beautiful outside.”

You crossed your arms and smirked, “It’s the first night and you’re already trying to guilt me into having a drink with you?”

He scoffed, affronted, “I’m doing no such thing–”

“Fine, fine,” You said dramatically, “Twist my arm, why don’t you? Just let me change into something more… appropriate.”

A tragedy, really. He could stare at you for hours in that sleep set and never get tired of the view. Luckily, you closed the door before he said something stupid.

Five minutes later you were following him out onto the patio, a spiked seltzer in your hand.

Trevor immediately stood and made a big show of greeting you. Robby watched with some apprehension as his arms slid lower and lower down your back as he hugged you— Until you slapped his hands away, scowling at him.

Robby ran a hand over his mouth and beard to cover his smirk.

“What?” Trevor asked, laughing, “I can’t touch you now, either? I can’t text or call you? Had to find out from Mira’s boyfriend that you were back in town. Are we even friends anymore?”

“Trevor,” Samira inserted herself between you both, “You said you wouldn’t do this.”

“We were never friends,” You sneered, “You were always just biding your time until you could fuck me.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jack muttered softly from next to Robby.

“Really? And who led on who in the end?” 

“That’s enough!” Samira said sharply, looking back and forth between her friends, “Look,” She said, softer now, “We’re all adults here, okay? We used to have fun, the three of us. Can’t we just… put all that shit aside for one week so we can have fun? Like old times?”

You sighed heavily and looked at Trevor, “I have no problem with you as long as you keep it platonic.” 

He huffed a laugh and ran a hand over his jaw, “Don’t worry, message was received loud and clear when you ghosted me when you left.”

“Guys…” Samira said lowly in warning, still between them.

But you couldn’t stop the incredulous laugh that burst from your throat, “You waited until I flew across the country to text me—text! Not even call!—that you were in love with me and you think that warranted a response?”

Robby and Jack shared a look, attempted to hide their faces behind their respective drinks, and Samira grimaced before turning to Trevor, “Seriously? That’s kinda embarrassing.” She said softly.

You shook your head and started to walk over to sit near Robby.

“You don’t exactly make it easy for people to tell you what they’re feeling.” Trevor said, flushed.

“Yeah,” You took a sip from your drink as you settled next to Robby, “Or maybe you’re just a pussy.”

Samira sighed and looked at you, “Really?” 

But you only shrugged your shoulders. 

“Whatever, I don’t have to listen to this,” Trevor grumbled, “I’m going to bed.”

He muttered a goodnight to Samira and you waited for him to close the sliding door behind him before you gestured after him, “See? Pussy behavior.”

Jack and Robby were both fighting grins, but Samira frowned at you, “Can’t you try to be nicer?”

“That was me being nice. And he’s the one who started it, trying to fucking grab my ass like it hasn’t been, like, three years since we last spoke.”

Samira raised her eyebrows, “He tried to grab you?”

“He did,” Robby affirmed, “I saw it.”

“Well that’s not acceptable,” Samira looked towards the door that Trevor had disappeared into, “I’m gonna ask him to leave—“

“No,” You said immediately, “No, it’ll just create more of a mess. It’s fine.”

Samira stared at you for a moment longer, “Are you sure? Look, I’m sorry we invited him I didn’t realize— You’ll always come first for me. I will kick him out.”

The smile you gave Samira was adoring and tender. “I know,” You said softly, “It’s alright, I promise.”

Finally, she nodded, and went to sit next to Jack, sighing as she did. 

“The two of you ever fight like that?” Jack nodded to you and Samira.

You met Samira’s eyes over your drink and you both broke out into smiles, “No,” You said, “I think our biggest fight was when she took the last spot in the orgo class we were both trying to take sophomore year.”

Samira grinned at you, “Yeah and to make it up to you, you made me give you all my study materials the next semester, so I think it worked out for you.”

“What about you two,” You nodded towards Jack and Robby, “You guys seem like you’ve been friends for a long time. Any brawls?”

Robby chuckled, “No, definitely not.”

“Yeah, because he knows he’d lose.” Jack teased.

“Yeah, right,” Robby said and shook his head as he tossed back the rest of his beer, “Love you  brother, but I don’t think so.”

“Oh, really?” Jack chuckled and turned to Samira, “What d’you think? Who’d win?”

“Oh, come on,” Robby bemoaned, “Of course she’s gonna pick you.”

Samira looked affronted, “I resent the fact that you think I’m incapable of being objective just because we’re together.”

Robby raised his eyebrows, “Alright then, what’s the verdict?”

Samira’s eyes traveled back and forth between Jack’s wide pleading ones and Robby’s expecting ones until she sighed, “Jack. But only because he was in the military.”

“He was a medic.” Robby complained as Jack kissed on Samira’s neck in victory, causing her to squeal.

“Still went through basic training, brother.” Jack managed, adoring eyes still on Samira.

“And what about you?” Robby asked, turning to you.

“What about me?” 

“Who do you think would win, me or Jack?”

“Oh,” You laughed, “I don’t want to get in the middle of whatever weird hypermasculine competition you’ve got going on here.”

“That’s code for she doesn’t wanna hurt your feelings, Robby.” Jack said.

You scoffed, “That is not true,” Your eyes darted to Robby’s, “I have no problem hurting his feelings.”

A lie. You looked at the crinkles by his eyes, the flush in his cheeks when he smiled at you, and those big brown eyes that looked as warm as tree bark that had baked in the summer heat all day and your immediate thought was you’d rather drown yourself in this lake than hurt his feelings. 

Alternatively, you’d also rather drown in this lake than admit that that was true.

So where did that leave you?

You swallowed and looked at Samira, “I think Jack would win.”

Jack laughed loudly and Robby eyed you with disappointment as he shook his head.

It was teasing disappointment, but you were surprised by how much it bothered you. You were realizing quickly how desperately you wanted him to like you. 

“What?” You said to Robby, “He was in the military and he carries around a knife for fun. What’re you gonna do, hm? Blink your pretty doe eyes up at him and hope it distracts him long enough for you to run away?”

Slowly, a smile stretched across Robby’s face and he nudged his knee playfully against yours as he leaned his face down close to you. Your breath hitched in your throat at his closeness and he casually reached out to push a loose strand of your hair behind your ear.

When he spoke, lowly enough for just you to hear, his voice was husky and it sent chills across your arms, “You think my eyes are pretty?”

The laugh that escaped you was breathless and nervous and you quickly tore your eyes from his and looked down at your hands, trying not to think about the way his fingers, cold and wet from his beer bottle, felt against the shell of your ear or the way they dragged against the sensitive skin of your neck before he pulled away.

What the fuck was this guy doing to you? A man had never made you a giggly mess like this. This was bad. This was very, very bad.

“As if you didn’t know.” You said finally, as casually as you could manage, avoiding looking at him.

“You’re pretty hard to read, actually.”

Normally, that would be true. But with him, it felt different. It felt like you were shouting it at him with every lilt of your voice, every smile, every laugh. Every time he looked at you, you felt your skin heat. 

You looked over at Samira and Jack for a moment, thought about your friendship with Samira. Everything seemed to tumble forward, all the moments you were so painfully proud of her, but also envious. How you had both wanted the same things, once. She had gotten everything and you had tripped four hundred meters out from the finish line. She was incredible, intelligent, beautiful, ambitious. The whole package. It was no wonder Jack was so obsessed with her. 

Your eyes flitted back to Robby, who was no longer looking at you, but silently staring ahead. His knee was still touching yours. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d wanted someone this badly. Someone smart and capable, someone who seemed like he could take care of you if the conversation about your dumb muffler was any indicator, someone who would be good for you.

He deserved better than you, though, he deserved someone like Samira. And even if you just slept with him, you had the faintest inclination that he might ruin you for other men for good.

You cleared your throat, “I, um, I should go to bed.”

When you stood, he followed, “Are you okay?” He asked softly, blocking your exit with his broad chest.

Christ, you were going to fold so quickly if he kept this up, “I’m fine,” You forced a smile, “Just tired.”

You stepped around him, but still he followed, steps soft and careful as he traced your path up the stairs, “Did I say something wrong?” He asked once you were at the bedroom door.

“No,” You said and almost laughed as you turned to him, “No, it’s not you.”

“Then what?” His eyes carefully searched your face, “Because I can be patient if you’re just not ready, but–”

You shook your head, “I can’t. It’s not a good idea.”

He scoffed, “You see what I mean about being hard to read?” He tilted his head as he narrowed his eyes at you, “Is it… because I’m old?”

You smiled and bit your lip, “No, I think I actually really like that bit.”

He shook his head, “Can you just tell me what it is that’s bothering you? I’m pretty good at problem solving.”

You laughed again, “I don’t think I’m a problem that’s solvable, unfortunately.”

He watched you for a while longer before sighing heavily, “Okay, just to be clear, we’re not done with this conversation. But I’ll let you get some sleep. Goodnight.” He said softly and began to walk away, down the hall to where you assumed Trevor was.

You watched after him, fought an internal battle with yourself, and then sighed, “Robby, wait.”

He froze and turned back towards you. The look of hope on his face absolutely wrecked you, “I wasn’t kidding about Trevor,” You said, “He really does snore. Very loudly. You should stay in here. I’ll sleep on the couch,” You added quickly.

He shook his head, “I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”

You threw up your hands in exasperation, “Fine. You sleep on the couch, then. You’ll get more sleep than sleeping in the same room as Trevor.”

And so that’s how the two of you ended up awkwardly dancing around each other as you got ready for bed.

You were unable to tear your eyes away as he pulled his shirt over his head and you were granted a full view of his chest. Your mouth dried out as you stared. He was so large, but everything about him was soft, the tufts of hair that grew on his chest and by his belly button, the gentle curve of his stomach. All of this turned your yearning from a gentle smolder to a raging inferno.

But what your eyes snagged on were the two tattoos over the planes of his chest. On the right side of his chest read MEMENTO MORI and on the left side AMORI FATI.

When your eyes traveled back up, Robby was looking at you with a smug look on his face.

You cleared your throat and looked away, conscious of the way heat burned in your cheeks, “Your tattoos,” You gestured to your own chest, “You’re a fan of Stoicism?”

A slow smile stretched across his face, “You know what they mean?”

You nodded, “Memento mori: remember that you will die and amor fati: love thy fate.” You were a bit ashamed by how pleased with yourself you were when an impressed smile flitted across his face, “I took a few philosophy classes in undergrad.”

“And what did you think?”

You shrugged, embarrassed now and not wanting to seem like you were showing off, “I liked them. Once, I took an ancient Greek literature class at the same time and they tended to overlap a lot.” You nodded towards his tattoos, “Memento mori and amori fati always reminded me of my favorite line from the Iliad.”

“Which is?”

You hesitated, and then, shyly, you lifted your shirt just slightly so he could see the tattoo that decorated the side of your ribcage. 

An intricate tracing of Icarus and his infamous fall, a hand still stretching out towards the sun. On either side of his falling form, in delicate scrawl read:

Everything is more beautiful 

because we are doomed

Robby was close to you now, so he could better see your ink, and when he reached out his fingers and ghosted them over the skin of your ribcage. Your breath stuttered as goosebumps rose across your flesh.

Noting the way your breathing faltered he looked up at you and pulled his hand away, straightening. He cleared his throat, “It’s beautiful.”

You dropped your shirt, covering up the tattoo again, “Thank you.”

“What was your major in college anyway?”

“Biology.”

He frowned at that, “And you took classes for philosophy and ancient Greek lit?”

You dug through your duffel, looking for your toiletry bag, “At first, they were just electives, but then I took enough of them to grab a minor. My counselor said it would diversify me for med school or whatever,” You sighed, “Fat load of good that did me.”

Finally locating your toiletry bag, you pulled it out and turned back around to see Robby eyeing you curiously, “What?” 

“I—“ He scratched the back of his head, “Samira didn’t mention you went to med school.”

You hummed, “That’s because I didn’t.” You dug your toothbrush out of the bag, “I didn’t get in.”

When you looked up at him again, he was still staring at you, frowning. You could almost hear the glass breaking in his head. Whatever shiny impression he had of you shattering on impact. You weren’t good enough for med school, why would you be good enough for him?

“Well—“

“I’d really rather not talk about this right now, or ever, if you don’t mind.” You said softly and brushed past him to get into the bathroom.

Or, you meant to just brush past him. But he tried to brush past you at the same time, you assumed to allow you space to get into the bathroom. You both tried to shimmy sideways through the bathroom doorway and ended up chest to chest, stuck for a moment too long.

He had, in the time you had been talking, put a shirt back on. Still, as your breasts slid across his chest, you felt your nipples peak in response. 

Through the thin fabric of your shirt, it wasn’t hard to notice, even if he hadn’t already been hardwired to notice everything about you since he first saw you alone on that porch swing a year ago. You let out a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a moan as you desperately tried to sidle past him. 

Used to this sort of thing happening at work, he instinctually settled a firm hand on your hip to try to help you get by, but this only seemed to panic you further. In your rush to move away from him, you inadvertently pushed yourself harder against him, your other hip gliding over his crotch and causing him to hiss.

“Sorry, fuck–” You cursed and finally slid by him, breathing hard as if you had been running for miles instead of having just moved through a doorway. 

The moment passed. You were at the sink, putting toothpaste on your toothbrush with the focus of a surgeon. If you weren't desperately avoiding eye contact and trying to level your breathing, he might have assumed you weren’t affected at all.

And fuck him if his brain wasn’t immediately rushing to calculate all the ways he could get your body to react like that again. He thought of your pupils dilating in the moonlight the first time you met, the way you shivered whenever his fingers brushed across your skin earlier, the way you got flustered sometimes just when he looked at you intently enough, and now this. He wondered what sort of touches would make you writhe beneath him, cry out his name, rake your nails across his skin, beg him to go faster, harder.

Oh, he had been thinking for too long if the aching sensation in his pants was any indication. He cleared his throat and with a hand on the back of his neck he left the bathroom.

***

Robby was tracing the tattoo on your ribcage again, this time with his tongue. Your back arched up off the mattress and you were moaning his name. He kissed up until he reached your breasts, first taking a sensitive nipple between his fingers and pinching lightly until you gasped. He took it in his mouth, then, swirling the bud around his tongue.

His hard cock was pressed to your slick folds, sliding back and forth against you, his tip nudging your entrance, but never fully sinking in. You were begging now, a single tear escaped from your eye as you looked up at him. The only reason he was able to stop himself from fully sinking inside you was because he loved the sight of you like this, absolutely drenched and fucking ruined, at his mercy. No more coy looks, no more avoiding his gaze so you could pretend not to want him, no more pulling away from his touch in fear it would give you away.

No, you were completely, fully, his now and he needed to make sure you knew it. You would only cum if he decided you could. If you asked nicely, if you did what he asked, if you were the good girl he told you to be.

He slipped his fingers between your thighs and sank two of his digits into your hole, watched as you bit down on your lip to stop the moan from crawling out. Just as quickly as he started, he pulled out his fingers and ignored your whine at their absence, sliding his cock against you again.

He brought his fingers, now drenched in your juices, up to your face and gently pressed his thumb to your chin, “Open.” He commanded. You hesitated for just a moment before obeying, taking his fingers into your mouth. You looked up at him as you sucked the way he imagined you’d take his cock. He hadn’t even had you fully yet, but he thought he might cum just like this, with you humming against his fingers. He rutted his hips faster, barely registering it when you reached a hand between you to hold your folds tighter around him, creating more friction and Jesus fucking Christ he was going to cum–

Robby awoke to the sound of the box fan in the window. The sun hadn’t yet fully risen and he could hear your soft snores from the bed, less than ten feet away from him. As consciousness returned to him and he shifted on the couch, he registered the sticky dampness between his legs and his eyes flew open.

No fucking way. There was no fucking way he had– He pulled the blanket he had been using off and was confronted with an absolute mess in his boxers. He ran a hand down his face in frustration. What sort of fucking grown man came in their pants like that and over a woman sleeping not ten feet away that was at least two decades younger than him? 

He tried to quietly get up from the couch and escape to the bathroom, but the couch was leather and creaked loudly with his movement. He froze and waited, eyes closed, and sure enough, you stirred.

“Robby?” Your voice was heavy and rough with sleep and he tried to ignore how much he liked the sound of it, “S’that you?”

“Just going to the bathroom,” He said softly, “Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

The endearment slipped from him without his permission and he hung his head when his brain caught up with his mouth. But you hadn’t seemed to register it, or perhaps didn’t mind, as you silently settled back against your pillow. He sighed quietly in relief and then headed to the bathroom to clean up.

If this was how it was going to be, if just seeing an inch of your skin and brushing up against you on the way to the bathroom was going to prompt wet dreams that had him coming in his pants, he had no idea how he was going to make it through this week without convincing you to let him in your bed.

And now his residents would be getting here today, would be witnessing him desperately trying to get laid by a girl who they’d played beer pong with once. Humiliating.

But as he stood in the bathroom and rolled that dream over in his head again, he thought it’d probably be worth it. If he could have you even once, just a taste, maybe it would satiate him long enough to move on when they got back to Pittsburgh. Maybe. 

Or maybe it would never be enough. Maybe there was something about you that would keep him coming back, keep trying to find new ways to make you laugh so you’d let him in, like a stray at the door looking for scraps.

There was only one way to find out.

***

“You slept with Robby last night?” Samira’s voice had you turning your head from the paperback in your hand.

The two of you were laying on the dock, sunbathing, along with Trevor. You and Trevor had called a truce that morning and so far, he had been abiding by the conditions. Of which, there was really only one: not to touch you in a way that wasn’t strictly platonic. 

Jack had gotten a new prosthetic extension that allowed him to swim properly (thoroughly researched and recommended by Samira) and was in the lake with Robby.

Trinity, Dennis, Victoria, and Parker had all arrived a couple of hours ago. Parker had set up a volleyball net nearby and the four of them were attempting to play a match.

“No,” You scoffed, “He slept on the couch because I knew this one would keep him up with all his snoring.” You playfully shoved Trevor’s shoulder next to you.

“Ow,” Trevor murmured, rubbing at his shoulder. Then he turned on his side to face you, “Mira, are you trying to set her up with your boss?”

Samira scoffed, “Didn’t have to try, they’ve been obsessed with each other since they met, but neither of them will admit it.”

You felt your cheeks heat up again and attempted to cover your face with your paperback, “I am not obsessed with him, I just think that… he’s kinda cool… and we… vibe.”

Samira and Trevor both looked at you blankly, “You are hearing yourself, right?” Samira said eventually.

You groaned, “Whatever! I’m not gonna sleep with him, it’s a bad idea.”

“And, pray tell, why is that?”

“I–” You quickly looked to see if anyone else was around, but Jack and Robby were still in the water and the other residents still preoccupied, “Because I’m not good with relationships, Trevor can attest.”

Trevor pursed his lips, “This feels like a trap,” He looked at Samira, “No comment.”

“Look, you don’t even know if he wants a relationship. At least sleep with him, just once. I know you’re dying to.” You rolled your eyes and didn’t respond. But you were dying to, especially after accidentally rubbing up against him like that last night and seeing him shirtless. “I don’t know what you said to him that first night you met him, but he was so nice to me, for like, weeks after. And you spoke to him for what? Five minutes? If you won’t do it for yourself, think of me! Do you know how nice he would be if he got to actually sleep with you?”

You sighed, “I will… consider it.”

Samira smiled, “Excellent.”

Just then, Jack swam up to the dock, to Samira, and rested his arms on the edge as he floated, “Samira, come swim with me.”

Samira wrinkled her nose as she considered, “It’s cold in there.”

“I’ll keep you warm,” He said lowly, leaning up to kiss her. Samira smiled against his mouth, laughed when he wrapped his arms around her middle and pulled her down into the water with him. They continued kissing, Samira’s legs wrapped around Jack’s waist.

You sighed and turned back to your book, “Gross.” You muttered to Trevor.

“You know, we could make out in the lake.” He said in a voice you knew to mean he was trying to be seductive. It used to work on you, but now it only grossed you out, “Give your new boyfriend something to worry about.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” You said, voice bored, “And I’m not interested.”

You heard splashes coming from the ladder and looked up in time to see Robby pulling himself out of the water and onto the dock. Your stomach flipped again, seeing him shirtless. The water had weighed down his bathing suit so that it hung dangerously low on his hips. You were shocked when the first thought that came into your mind was that you longed to bite his hips and you cleared your throat as if it would cleanse your impure thoughts. You turned back to your book.

A moment later, a giant shadow in the shape of a man was blocking your sun and you felt the cold lake water dripping all over your body, “You’re getting my book wet.” You said, trying to sound bored as you looked up at him.

He had a boyish grin on his face as he ran a hand through his hair, shaking it like a wet dog and causing more droplets to splatter all over you, “Sorry,” He said, sounding anything but.

It was such a childish thing to do, but he looked stupid handsome as he smirked at you and you wondered if this was the type of thing he used to pull when he was your age. How many girls had he gotten into bed with that gorgeous smile and big brown eyes?

“You can swim, right?”

You watched him for a moment before looking back down at your book, “Of course I can swim, I grew up in Los Angeles.”

“Come in the water with me.” He said, still blocking your sun.

“No thanks,” You turned the page of your book, “It’s too cold.”

“Oh, come on,” He whined, “It’s not so bad once you’re in. It’s not the Pacific Ocean, I’ll give you, that, but it’s still nice. Have some fun.”

It was certainly not the Pacific Ocean, but you were more so worried about being able to keep your hands to yourself once you were in the water with him. Once no one would be able to see your hands on his waist, or better yet, in his shorts–

You were determined to keep your eyes on your book, “No thank you.”

He let the silence hang there for a moment, then finally he sighed, “Fine. Could you hand me my towel, then?”

You placed your book down on your towel and leaned over Samira’s now empty one to grab one of the dry towels meant for Robby and Jack. 

In retrospect, you probably should’ve realized what he was about to do. It was the oldest trick in the book. But you also hadn’t been a teenager in many years and so hadn’t had to worry about boys pulling goofy shit to flirt with a girl.

So for half a second, when you reached out the towel to him and his hand clamped around your wrist rather than the towel, you were just confused. But then in the next moment, he had pulled the towel from your hand, and dropped it back down to the dock and it was then that you realized how you had fucked up.

You tried to wrench your wrist back, “Robby–”

Smirking, he pulled you by the wrist and with a bend of his knees, had thrown you over his shoulder and began walking.

You squealed, “Put me down.”

He stopped walking, “Okay,” You heard the smirk in his voice, and again realized your fatal error too late.

“Don’t you dare–”

You were suspended in the air for a moment, before you hit the water, cold and unforgiving. Your head plunged beneath the surface for a second before you got your bearings and broke the surface again. The water was shallow enough that you could stand and while you gasped for air, you saw that Robby had jumped back in and was wading over to you, smirk still on his face.

“See? Not so bad.” He said smugly.

You scowled at him, “I’m very upset with you.”

Even as you said it, you had to fight a smile. Jesus fucking Christ, it was pathetic the levels of infatuated you had achieved because if this were any other man, if it was, say, Trevor who had pulled this shit, you wouldn’t have spoken to him for the rest of the night. Maybe not even for the rest of the vacation.

But Robby had thrown you in the lake and with just a smile, you were on the verge of giggling again. Oh, you were so fucked. 

“Really?” He was close to you now, close enough to touch, “You don’t seem that upset.”

“Yeah, well, I’m furious.” You said mildly. It was dangerous to be this close, so you moved to take a step back, but your foot landed on a particularly slimy rock and you slipped—

“Woah—“ Robby secured an arm around your waist before you could slip under the water and pulled you flush to his chest, “Careful, it’s slippery right there.” He said, teasing.

You huffed and looked up at him, conscious of every place your bodies touched. He had draped your arms around his neck and was now looking at you innocently, like he hadn’t fully manufactured this.

Your tongue darted between your lips and you ran your hands through his wet hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, “You can let me go, now,” You said softly, “I won’t slip again.”

His eyes were heady with desire, “I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.” He lowered his hands until they gripped the back of your thighs and then hiked you up until you were straddling his waist, ankles tangled behind his back. Like this, your face was level with his, and his jaw was clenched as he watched you. As if he was restraining himself from something. From you.

“What’re you doing?”

He smirked and nudged his nose into yours, your breaths intertwined in the minimal space between you. Even drenched in lake water, you still smelled faintly of cherries.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” He whispered.

He leaned towards you, mouth searching for yours, and you pulled back slightly, “C’mon sweetheart,” He said softly, “Enough of the games. Let me in.”

It wasn’t a game, not to you. And that’s what was so scary. Because it had always been a game to you. There had never been anyone you had wanted more seriously than that. With Trevor he only wanted something more when he realized you didn’t want him like that. He didn’t really love you and you had never loved him. But now you were staring at Robby, shivering in the frigid water and you thought maybe you could love him.

Nearly thirty, you had started to wonder if maybe you just weren’t capable of feeling that deeply for someone else. And still, you didn’t know if you were. But Robby was the first man that made you curious to find out.

“You might not like what you find.” Your voice wavered.

He tilted his head slightly, “Why don’t you let me worry about that?”

Let me worry about that. You thought about his offer yesterday to fix your car. Thought about his willingness to swap beds with you so you could be comfortable. Let me worry about that. What would it be like to have someone else to help take care of things? To lighten the load, even just a little?

So when he leaned in to kiss you again, this time you didn’t stop him. It felt like relief, with his mouth finally on yours. When you sighed into him, he took the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth and your nails dug into his shoulders in response.

You felt his hands tighten their grip on your legs under the water. He seemed torn between keeping you wrapped around his waist like this or dropping you so his hands could wander.

Before he could make a decision, a wolf whistle split the air and the both of you froze. Robby broke his mouth away from yours, turning his head to follow the sound and saw Jack smirking at the two of you, Samira also looking smug from behind him with her arms draped over his shoulders. A moment later, there was whooping coming from the rest of the residents who were playing volleyball near the shore.

Feeling your cheeks heat, you buried your face in Robby’s shoulder.

“Ignore them,” Robby said softly, “Do you want to go inside?”

You pulled your head back from his shoulder so you could see his face. He looked like he was seconds away from devouring you here, in the lake, with everyone watching. Seemingly so desperate for you, he didn’t mind all of his coworkers and subordinates watching. 

“Is that what you want?”

He gave you a knowing look, “I want you in whatever capacity you’ll allow. So, do you want to go inside?”

He had to know that now, having tasted him, you wouldn’t be able to deny yourself any longer. The dam you had built between you had sprung a leak. Several, in fact. It was only a matter of time before it was completely eviscerated.

“Yes.” You said eventually.

A giddy smile transformed Robby’s face and he leaned in to give you another quick kiss, “Get on my back.” He murmured against your mouth.

You laughed, “What?”

Rather than explain further, he shifted your weight, spinning you until you understood he wanted you on piggyback.

“You know,” You laughed, pressing kisses up the side of his neck, “I told you I can swim.”

“I know,” He said as he began wading to the shore, “But isn’t this more fun?”

It was a bit embarrassing, if you were honest, drawing more stares and attention from the others. Once close enough to the shore, Robby seemed to give the residents a look you couldn’t see, but must have been scathing as they all abruptly returned their attention back to their volleyball game.

Robby let you off his back and grabbed a dry towel for you, wrapping it around your shoulders and rubbing his hands over it to help dry you before grabbing his own towel.

“You kids be safe now,” Jack was leaning on the edge of the dock, Samira doing the same next to him, both of them smirking at you, “Wrap it before you tap it and all that.”

Robby sighed heavily, “She’s gonna change her mind if you don’t be quiet.”

“No she won’t.” Samira said, “I’ve never seen her this obsessed with anyone. Not even Trevor, whom she slept with for years.”

“Mira!” You hissed indignantly.

“Heard that,” Trevor called, “Hurtful and unnecessary.”

“Let’s go,” Robby draped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side and beginning to walk towards the house, “You’re obsessed with me, huh?” He said quietly.

You rolled your eyes, “Whatever. As if you’re not obsessed with me.”

“Of course I am,” He opened the back door of the house for you, waited for you to walk inside before following, “But I’m not ashamed of it.”

He blew past you as his words stopped you in your tracks. For the first time, it struck you what it all must’ve looked like to him. How you had been flirting with him, but then pushing him away, over and over. 

You trailed after him up the stairs, “I’m not—I’m not ashamed.”

At the top of the stairs, he turned to face you, “I don’t particularly want to have this conversation right now, when I’m finally about to have you naked in my bed—“

“My bed,” You teased, smirking, “Remember?”

He huffed a short laugh and shook his head, “You’re impossible.”

You pressed your lips together firmly, your eyes transfixed by his mouth, “Do you think you’ll still want me?” You asked quietly, your voice small, “After you’ve had me?”

He narrowed his eyes at you, “Is that what this is about? You’re worried I won’t like you after?”

It hadn’t been something you had thought about before, with other partners, because usually you didn’t care enough. You liked being desired, of course, who didn’t? But more often than not if partners disappeared afterwards, you shrugged it off and moved on to the next one. 

But with Robby… You had only really known each other for a day or so, but there was something that seemed to pull you to him. The chemistry was easy, effortless as it seemingly flowed back and forth, infinite. With him, you also had a desire to impress, to prove yourself. Like with the tattoos last night. You wanted him to think you were more than just someone to fuck. Another new feeling, one you weren’t used to. You wondered how badly it would hurt if he carelessly let you slip through his fingers and crash back to earth. 

He was looking at you now with the patience of a saint, never mind the fact that he had finally convinced you to let him touch you and you were making him wait again. It made you feel stupid, so you quickly shook your head. 

“Nothing, forget it. Forget I said anything. Kiss me, please.”

For a second, you thought he might refuse, might make you talk to him, but then he was kissing you again, hard and sloppy as he pushed you through the doorway of your shared room. Never taking his mouth off yours, he half carried, half pushed you towards the bathroom.

With his tongue in your mouth, you were desperate to feel him, to see how needy he was so you ran your hands down his chest and past his waist. When you palmed him over his bathing suit, he groaned and took your lip between his teeth, biting hard enough that you thought maybe he had drawn blood. He was big in your hand. You had thought he was probably packing just from the size of him, but he was bigger than you had imagined.

You swallowed hard as he reached behind you to turn on the shower with one hand and pulled your other hand off his cock, “You can’t be touching me like that yet,” He said, voice gravelly.

You smirked, “Worried you might… ejaculate prematurely?” You teased.

He stared at the warm spray from the shower as he temperature checked it with one hand, “Yeah, actually. And I plan to make you come at least twice before I even consider fucking you properly. I want you crying and begging me to stop because you’re too sensitive before I fill you up.” His eyes slowly looked back at yours, “Is that what you want? Because if not, you should probably tell me now. So we can stop.”

Your breathing faltered hearing him talk like that. Your stomach flipped and you felt yourself beginning to drip into your bathing suit. You swallowed and then nodded, “That’s what I want.”

He offered you a slow smile and then his gaze travelled down your body. He was just looking at you, but it felt filthy. Like he was already thinking about all the compromising positions he could put you in. 

You started to take off your bikini, but he stopped you, “Wait.” He said, and his voice dipped, “Haven’t gotten a proper look at you in it yet. Seems like a waste.”

You smirked, “You want me to do a quick spin for you?”

You had mostly been teasing, but he nodded, and so you obliged. Once your back was facing him, his hands came up to touch you. Warm and calloused, they ran down your waist to your ass, which he squeezed appreciatively before giving it a firm smack.

It didn’t hurt, but you gasped and he ran a soothing hand over the skin, “Sorry, I should’ve asked first. S’that okay?”

“Yes,” You said breathlessly.

He brushed the hair off the back of your neck and you automatically tilted your head to allow him access to kiss and suck on it, letting out a soft moan at the scratch of his beard against your skin. As he kissed you, he untied the top of your bathing suit and you felt him sigh as he peered over your shoulder at your bare tits.

“Fuck,” He cursed so softly, you didn’t know if it was even meant for you to hear. He brought his hands up to feel them, his rough palms immediately causing your nipples to harden. He pinched and pulled at them lightly and you moaned in earnest, pushing yourself further into his body behind you.

Your skin felt like it was on fire. Every touch and every kiss had you wondering what you wouldn’t do to keep his attention on you like this. To keep this burning low in your belly. He was so attentive, soft and rough at the same time, watching your reactions to everything so carefully. Just having his eyes on you alone felt like you were a supernova, on the edge of self destruction. You thought you would likely damn yourself to Hell if it meant he would keep touching you like this.

He guided you into the shower and you stepped out of your bottoms. It was a large walk in shower and easily fit the two of you without much effort. Immediately, he got on his knees in front of you. He gripped the backs of your thighs and kissed your stomach, and then made a path down. The way your hips pushed up into him was an involuntary reaction, really, but then he suddenly pulled his mouth away and you pouted.

When you looked down at him, he was grinning, “What’s this?” 

He ran a finger over a small tattoo on your upper hip that you tended to forget about a lot. It was almost always completely covered by panties or, in today’s case, a bathing suit. 

In messy, loopy cursive, it read bon appétit. 

You sighed, embarrassed, “It’s stupid, I got it when I was, like, twenty.”

He looked down at it again, ran his thumb over it, “Did… Did Trevor give you this?”

It felt like the wrong time to talk about this, which was why you hadn’t mentioned, but now that he was asking… “Yeah. He was practicing,” You gulped, “Do you hate it?”

“Hm?” He looked back up at you and then frowned, “Oh, no. No, of course not. I was just…” He sighed, “The juvenile answer is just that I hate that he’s seen you like this.”

You ran a hand over his hair, “If it makes you feel any better, the irony of him giving me this tattoo is that he never really liked eating me out anyway. I almost always had to ask for it, and even then he’d get frustrated if I didn’t come within a couple of minutes.”

He gave a short laugh, “Makes it worse, actually. That you slept with someone like that for years. You didn’t think you deserved better than that?”

You were shocked when you felt the beginning pinpricks of tears at the backs of your eyes. No, you didn’t, actually. It was why the more time you spent with Robby you realized it was him who was out of your league and not the other way around. Why you suspected he’d probably bolt after he slept with you. You thought you probably didn’t deserve someone better than Trevor and so you had resigned yourself to being alone instead.

You swallowed, “Can we stop talking about Trevor, please?”

He must’ve heard the tears in your voice because he looked up and immediately rose back up to standing, “Hey,” He cradled your face in his hands, tenderly kissed your cheeks and forehead, before pressing a long kiss to your mouth, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He kept kissing you, deepened it again until you couldn’t think about anything other than the man in front of you, drunk on the taste of him. He kissed his way down your body until he was on his knees again, kissing and biting at your hips.

He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder and kissed your inner thigh, up until you felt him lapping at your folds. He was being so gentle and slow, avoiding your throbbing clit where you wanted him most, teasing on purpose you suspected. Deciding to take matters into your own hands, you grabbed at his hair and rutted your hips into him. He groaned into you and his nose rubbed against your clit exactly where you needed, but he was pulling away, securing his arms around your thighs to keep you still.

“Be good for me,” He said, looking up at you, “Let me take my time, taste you properly first, hm? Can you do that for me, baby?”

It didn’t seem like much of a choice, but you nodded eagerly anyway. He didn’t waste time beginning his assault on you again. It felt like minutes were passing and still, he purposely seemed to neglect the one place you were most needy for him. Tears were collecting at the corners of your eyes, “Please, Robby.” You whined, “Please, please, I’ve been so good, please.”

He took his mouth off you for a moment and looked up at you. When he saw the tears beginning to fall from your eyes, the smugness emanated from him in waves. “What do you want, sweetheart? You wanna cum on my tongue?” 

You nodded desperately, “Please.” It was the only word you seemed capable of saying.

He turned his attention back to your pussy, pushed a finger inside you and curled it upwards, slowly stroking that spongy spot that had your knees going weak. You thought your legs may have given out if it wasn’t for Robby holding you up. He added a finger and you were dizzy, the muscles tightening in your abdomen. Finally, he began swirling his tongue around your sensitive bud until you cried out, grinded yourself against him, let the sensation of his beard and mouth push you through your orgasm.

He left his fingers inside you as he rose to standing again, slowly pushing them in and out of you even as you came down. “You taste even better than I thought you would.” He said in your ear as his fingers kept slowly fucking you, pushing you into the wall behind you.

“Robby, I don’t,” You paused, wetting your lips. The slow movement of his fingers inside you was stirring that sensation inside you again, coiling like a spring, “I’m gonna cum again,” You said, shocked you were still able to string full sentences together, “If you keep going I’m gonna–”

He pressed a thumb to your clit and kissed up your neck to your earlobe, which he lightly took between his teeth. All coherent thought ceased, there was just the feeling of his mouth on your skin, his fingers inside you, his rough voice asking you to cum, “Go on then, cum all over my fingers like a good girl, you can do it.” The whine you let out sounded pathetic to your own ears as he moved his hand marginally faster until you were coming apart in his arms again, tears streaming down your cheeks in earnest now, “There you go,” He cooed, bringing his face back so he could see your tearstained cheeks.

Still, his fingers kept moving inside you and you whimpered, using your hands to push at his wrist uselessly. He stayed anchored inside you. You were so sensitive now, the pleasure was almost painful. “Oh, come on, baby,” He said, “You can give me one more, can’t you? You said this is what you wanted. You wouldn’t want to disappoint me, would you?”

You hiccupped and shook your head, no. He brought his other hand up to play with your nipples and the broken moan you let out sounded like a sob as you again felt yourself being pushed incrementally towards the edge of a cliff. “Kiss me,” You sighed desperately, “Kiss me, please.”

He hesitated for a moment before he kissed you and you wondered idly if maybe he knew you better, if this wasn’t the first time you were together like this, if he would’ve denied the request. If he was enjoying being a little mean and denying you what you wanted. The thought had you longing for more. You couldn’t take it now, you didn’t think, but the idea of doing this again with him was enough to get you to the precipice again. Your walls tightened around his fingers and he moaned into your mouth, “Go on, sweetheart. Can feel you’re there, give me one more.”

You thought you might black out when your orgasm ripped through you again. You shook in his arms, nails digging deep into the skin of his arms in a desperate attempt to anchor yourself. He murmured praises in your ear as you came down, gently pulled his fingers out of you and wiped away your tears.

He turned the shower off, dried you off, and in your fucked out haze he had to guide you to the bed. 

“You okay?” He asked gently, crawling over you, “We can stop.”

You shook your head slowly, a silent command, don’t stop. You looked down to see him putting a condom on himself as he watched you.

He swallowed, “You’re sure?” You nodded, and he chuckled, “Think you can use your words for me?”

You slid your tongue over your lips, “Yes,” You said slowly, “I’m sure.”

He lined up his tip with your soaked entrance and pushed in just an inch, “You’ll tell me if it’s too much?” He asked.

“Robby,” You laughed, “Are you gonna fuck me, or what?”

He fought a smirk and nodded before slowly easing himself inside you. You both sighed in relief when he filled you, “Jesus fucking Christ,” He moaned.

At first he was slow, gentle. He watched you carefully, as if he thought you were in danger of breaking. It would’ve made you laugh if it wasn’t so fucking sweet. When it was clear you were okay, were enjoying yourself even, he seemed to lose a bit of the careful restraint he’d been showing. 

He brought one of your legs up to his shoulder, pressed a kiss to your ankle before pressing into you again. His pace became relentless as he gripped your hips and he was so, so deep, you could feel him everywhere. Obscene, wet slapping sounds filled the space along with his pants and moans. 

“Harder,” You breathed and his eyes snapped to yours, surprised, “Please, I won’t break.”

“Oh, fuck,” He groaned and let your ankle fall back down, opting to fold himself over you instead to be closer. He kissed you sloppily, sucking your tongue into his mouth as he pounded into you, sucking up your moans like water. “Gonna cum,” He panted into your mouth.

You clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into skin. He was beautiful like this, you thought, on the verge of coming apart. If he hadn’t absolutely ruined you earlier, you would’ve liked to ride him yourself or make him come with your mouth. But this was a dream, more than you could have asked for, being able to see him like this. It felt like a gift, being allowed this peek into who he was when he was vulnerable. 

He buried his face in your neck when he came, groaning and breathless. His hips moved sporadically as his orgasm stuttered through him. You stroked a hand down the back of his head and kissed his cheek.

Still out of breath, he pulled his face back enough to kiss you again and you sighed contentedly into his mouth. 

“Still okay?” He asked.

You nodded, “Never better. You?”

He nodded and swallowed, “Yeah.”

After a moment, he pulled out of you and stood to rid himself of the condom. When he came back, he rolled back into bed and pulled you to him, pressing kisses on whatever bare skin he could reach.

He pressed a finger lightly into your cheek furthest from him to turn your head back to him. His eyes searched yours for just a moment before he kissed you on the mouth, long and slow. It made your toes curl. 

“I was thinking,” He said, “That we could shower again and then go watch the sunset on the shore. Share a bottle of wine. How does that sound?”

You smiled sleepily, “That sounds lovely.”

***

A little while later, you were sitting between Robby’s legs, your back pressed to his chest. It had cooled considerably since you had last been out here and Robby let you use one of his hoodies. 

You were still sleepy from the sex and the wine only made your limbs feel more languid and heavy as you passed the bottle back and forth.

“I’m going to ask you something,” Robby said eventually, “And I don’t want you to get mad when I do.”

You frowned, “Okay…?”

“You were premed? In undergrad?”

You sighed, “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you go to med school?”

You could feel yourself growing prickly and defensive, jaw clenching, “I applied twice within a couple of years. I didn’t get in. The pandemic hit, I lost my job, I ran out of money, I moved back home with my parents.” You shrugged, “I don’t know, I just… I didn’t see the point in trying again.”

It was more than that. The second time you didn’t get in, the failure had felt so visceral, you didn’t tell anyone for weeks. When you were forced into moving back to Los Angeles in the middle of the pandemic, the next year or so had felt unbearable with your failure seeming to loom above you, inescapable. Thinking back on it, you felt it was a wonder you had survived it at all.

“Do you still want to be a doctor?”

You shrugged, “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably. It doesn’t matter though, it’s too late.”

“Too late?” You felt Robby’s chest rumble with a laugh behind you, “How old are you? Twenty seven? Twenty eight?”

“Twenty nine.” 

He laughed again, “You’re a baby. It’s not too late for anything.”

Annoyed, you pushed off his chest and rose on your knees to face him, “I’m not doing it again, okay? So just drop it.”

He shook his head, “Why? Because you’re scared? I didn’t take you for a coward.”

You nodded and rubbed at your eyes, tried not to feel the punch to the gut his words were, “Yeah, well, you don’t really know me, do you?”

For a moment, there’s just his breathing and the gentle lap of the lake on the shore.

“I feel like I do.” He said softly, “And the girl who tattooed an Iliad quote on her body about how life is both beautiful and fragile strikes me as brave.”

Your eyes wandered back up to his and he had a tender look in his eyes as he met your gaze. 

You didn’t believe in love at first sight. You didn’t believe in love at first fuck, either. Whatever this was, whatever was causing your pulse to thrum erratically under your skin when he looked at you like that had to just be simple infatuation. It would pass. And Robby should have known better because he was in his damn fifties. You tore your gaze from his and stared at the tree line stubbornly. 

“I think,” Robby said after a few moments of silence, “That it’s never too late to do anything. And the worst that could happen is you try again and it doesn’t work out. You’re no worse off than when you started. What’s the harm?”

Your ego, for one. Not to mention the couple of thousands of dollars it would cost to retake the MCATs, order your transcripts, pay for each school’s application fee. Money you didn’t have. 

You shook your head slightly and crawled back over to him, placing a hand on the back of his neck to pull his face to yours. You kissed him hungrily and the surprised moan he let out sent chills down your spine.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” You murmured and slipped your free hand underneath the waist band of his shorts.

You watched as his eyes rolled back into his head when you touched him, felt him begin to swell against your palm, “You can’t–” He let out a pained groan, “There’s only so many times… I’ll let you fuck me to get out of a difficult conversation…”

You hummed, “What I’m hearing,” You said, leaning close to his ear, “is that it’s working.”

He cursed and slipped a hand behind your back before deftly flipping you so that you laid flat on the blanket you had been sitting on just moments earlier. 

“I’ll fuck you as many times as you need,” He said roughly, “But we will be finishing this conversation later.”

You were smirking up at him smugly and you could tell it was pissing him off with the way his jaw clenched and he tilted his head above you. 

“Now, open your mouth,” He said, and pressed his thumb to your chin.

***

It went like that for a couple of days. Robby would try discussing med school, where did you apply, where would you want to go now, did you have a specialty in mind, you should volunteer at the Pitt, he could write you a letter of recommendation, he could help you study for the MCATS, and on and on and on. 

Every time you would get increasingly more agitated and your attempts to distract him with sex were becoming less and less effective which only served to piss you off more.

You had spent the day on a boat outing, drinking in the sun, Robby’s hands all over you whenever he thought nobody was looking. Filthy mouth in your ear whispering all the things he was going to do to you once you got back to the house. 

He had fulfilled those promises and now you were fucked out and tired from being in the sun all day. Also you were a little grumpy that the group had planned to go out for drinks that night at a local bar. All you really wanted was to curl back up into Robby in bed and listen to the lull of the AC and Robby’s voice as he read aloud from the novel he had brought with him.

But you were here to be with friends, not just Robby. And you really enjoyed the company of the others as well, having met them a couple of times after moving back to Pittsburgh. They were always so sweet and welcoming to you, never making you feel like an outsider, even when the envy seemed to overtake you when they began telling stories about med school rotations or their latest shift.

So now you and Robby were in the shower, about to begin the task of getting ready for a night out when he brought it up again.

“You know, I know one of the professors at UPitt, I could get you an introduction, maybe a coffee even–”

“Robby,” You said sharply, “I don’t know how many fucking times I have to tell you, I don’t want to talk about it. I’m not going to apply to med school again. I’ve moved on.”

“Yeah, to some dead end job at a biotech company that some giant corporation will probably buy out in a couple of years.” He said it offhandedly, like he genuinely didn’t think it would hurt you. He didn’t even look up as he said it, just continued lathering his legs up with soap.

“Wow,” You scoffed, “Didn’t realize you thought I was such a loser. Thanks for clearing that up.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, you thought perhaps realizing his mistake too late, “That’s not what I meant–”

“Well what the fuck did you mean, then, hm?” You stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around yourself, desperate to create space and distance, “Why don’t you just fucking admit it?”

He stared at you through the glass, perplexed, “Admit what?”

“That you won’t fucking want me when we get back to Pittsburgh and I continue to be some loser who works at a ‘dead end’ job?”

He shook his head, “That’s not what I’m saying at all. I don’t care what you do, what I care about is that you feel happy and fulfilled and I’ve seen enough doctors in my life to recognize the… hunger, the drive. The need to be needed, the desire to fix and heal. And I see it in you and you’re fucking wasting it.”

You scoffed and turned away, “You’re still talking like you know me, but we only really met a few days ago.”

“Okay, so, fuck, the last few days count for nothing then? I’ve spent nearly every goddamn minute with you since we got here. You think I don’t know you because you won’t talk to me, but you don’t have to say anything. I see the way you look at Samira. You love her, but there’s a sadness behind it, like you’re mourning something. I see the way you deflate around my residents when they talk shop in front of you, like a fucking kid left out at the lunch table. You’re not that fucking difficult to understand.”

You braced your hands on the bathroom sink, “It seems like all you’ve found out is that I’m insecure, not exactly the discovery of the century.”

You heard him scoff, “No, what I found out is that you’re so fucking scared of maybe being a little uncomfortable that you’d rather be miserable your whole life than try.”

“I’m not scared.” 

The shower turned off and you heard him get out, wrap a towel around his waist, “You are, kid, and it’s making a coward out of you.”

You shook your head and started throwing your products back into your makeup bag, “Fuck you.” You said quietly and stormed out of the bathroom.

“And now you’re acting like a child,” he said, following you into the bedroom, “instead of having an adult conversation.”

“You’re not trying to have a conversation, you’re just being a condescending asshole.” You grabbed the outfit you planned on wearing tonight and all your makeup, “I’m going to get ready elsewhere.”

He ran a hand over the back of his head in frustration, “Yeah, keep running from it,” He murmured, “I’m sure that’ll solve it.”

You bit the inside of your cheek and walked out of the room, towel wrapped around you and all your makeup and clothes clutched to your chest.

When you knocked on Samira’s door, Jack answered, frowning down at you, “Are you… okay?”

“Who is it, Jack?”

Jack let the door open fully and you saw Samira sitting on the ground in front of a floor to ceiling mirror, makeup brush in hand, “Oh. Hi.”

You took a deep breath, “Can I get ready in here?”

Samira smiled and scooted to the side to make room for you in front of the mirror and you brushed past Jack to sit with her.

“What happened?” Samira asked as you got settled next to her.

You frowned, “Nothing, I just wanted to get ready with you. Like we used to.” You inhaled sharply and clapped your hands together, “You know, maybe we should do shots.”

She was still smiling at you, but watching you carefully, “Come on, I know you.” She said softly, “It’s always been easy to see when you’re upset.”

You swallowed and glanced at her out of the corner of your eye, starting to dot your tinted moisturizer onto your face with fingers.

“Robby and I had a fight.” You said finally.

Samira nodded, “About?”

Slowly, you both turned to look at Jack who was seated at the edge of the bed on his phone, pretending not to eavesdrop.

He looked up when he felt you both staring at him, “What?” You both raised your eyebrows and he sighed, standing, “Fine, I’ll go, but I’m hurt that you don’t consider me one of the girls.”

Samira smirked, “If Robby wasn’t your best friend, I’d let you stay.”

Jack shook his head as he left the room, “That guy’s always ruining things for me.” 

You and Samira both turned back to the mirror, “Continue.” Samira said.

You sighed as you blended out the moisturizer with your beauty blender, “He kept pushing and pushing about med school and I told him I wasn’t going to apply again and he basically implied that I was a loser at a dead end job and wasting my life.”

Samira frowned, “Surely he didn’t say it like that?”

You blinked and watched her face in the mirror, “Does it matter how he said it?”

She didn’t say anything for a few moments and you scoffed, “Oh my God,” You said slowly, “You agree with him.”

Samira shook her head, “No, it’s not—“ She sighed, “I definitely don’t think that you’re a loser. And I don’t think that you’re wasting your life… If you’re happy, but you’re not. I know you’re not.”

You didn’t say anything, picked up your concealer and did your best to blink away the burning in your eyes. It was annoying and hurtful to hear from Robby, but from Samira, your best friend of almost ten years, it made you nauseous.

“I just, I remember how badly you wanted it once. It was all we talked about. And now it’s like you’ve convinced yourself you never actually wanted it because you don’t want to get hurt again.” Samira said gently, “But you could still do it. You can do anything.”

She sounded so earnest, you wanted to believe her.

You sniffled and blended out your concealer, “I’m really proud of you, you know. I know sometimes I seem jealous, but—“

“I know that,” Samira said quickly, smiling at you in the mirror, “If the roles were reversed I’d be the same way. It doesn’t make you a bad friend.”

You gave her a watery smile, “You’re a really great friend for putting up with me all these years.”

Samira laughed and gently tugged at her waterline to apply eyeliner, “Please, I wouldn’t have survived med school without you.” She stopped smudging the eyeliner and met your eyes, “And when you get into med school, I’ll do the same for you.”

You inhaled slowly and purposefully, “When,” You murmured softly.

And for the first time in a long time, you allowed the hope to bloom in your chest.

***

The bar was crowded and loud. The back of your hand was sticky from the lime and salt you had put there when you, Samira, Parker, and Trinity had done tequila shots. Javadi and Whitaker had had to drive back to Pittsburgh the day before, not able to get as many days off as the rest of you. Trevor had also headed out once you got back from the boating trip. He said he had work, but Samira had suspected he was just tired of watching you make out with Robby, which had gratified you a little bit.

“Another round?” Trinity asked, eyebrows raised.

“Slow your roll, Santos,” Parker put a hand on her shoulder, “I think we could do with a little break.”

“Robby’s been staring at you for the last twenty minutes.” Samira said, smirking. Robby was across the room behind you, you knew. Samira stood in front of you and could see him over your shoulder, “Why don’t you go talk to him?”

You had done about three or four tequila shots since arriving (you’d already lost count) and to say you were feeling it would be putting it mildly. You were starting to feel mildly apologetic for how you’d been handling your conversations with Robby the last couple of days, especially after talking to Samira earlier. But you weren’t ready to admit that yet. And, besides, you were having fun hanging out with the girls.

You shrugged your shoulders, “I’m having fun over here.”

Just then, the opening chords of Earth, Wind & Fire’s September started blaring through the speakers and you and Samira locked eyes.

“No way.” Samira giggled, shaking her head.

This song was very intrinsic to your friendship. It had played at a freshman orientation mixer and the two of you had been the only ones to sing along, embarrassingly loud and off key. It had bonded you. And from then on, it had become a siren song of sorts. Whenever you had been bickering (it was only natural after years of living together) one of you would play the song over the house speakers when you were ready to apologize. You had both been very studious in undergrad, but every so often after you turned twenty one, you could both be convinced to go out dancing and September was always requested of the DJ. So many of your happiest moments with Samira could be traced back to this song.

So you grabbed her hand, “Let’s go,” and dragged her to the dance floor.

Laughing, hands on each other’s shoulders, you danced badly and sang the lyrics loudly and ignored everyone else. You were often happiest when you were with Samira and the last couple of years back in California, you had forgotten that. She was your person, your lighthouse, the sister you never had, but always wanted. 

When the song was over, breathlessly and arms wrapped around each other still, you walked back over to Trinity and Parker. In your absence, Jack had joined them, sipping a whiskey and looked at both you and Samira with amusement on his face.

Samira detached from you as you got closer and slid into Jack’s arms instead. You watched as he pressed his mouth to her ear, whispering something only she could hear and the smile on her face widened.

With Jack here, you couldn’t help but wonder what Robby was up to now and turned your head towards the direction you last saw him. He was still there, leaning against the bar and sipping a drink–

But there was a woman next to him, now, smiling at him with her hand on his forearm. You were drunk, and so there was a part of your brain that registered whatever you were feeling watching another woman touching him was overblown. But it didn’t soothe the twisting feeling you felt in your chest when you saw him laugh at something she had said. And he hadn’t removed his arm from her touch. 

She was older than you, you could see that much. Probably around forty or so, someone more acceptable for him. Someone people wouldn’t look at and wonder if he was her father or not. She was gorgeous in a red dress that hugged her curves tightly and curly hair that fell past her shoulders. It was likely she had her life together, knew what she wanted to do with it and didn’t let childish insecurities get in the way. She probably knew how to be vulnerable with someone else without feeling like they were attacking her.

You couldn’t say how long you were staring before you heard Jack call your name. When you turned, he had a sympathetic look on his face, “Don’t let that get to you, alright?” He said, eyes following your gaze, “If you just go talk to him, he’s yours, I promise.”

Samira was still in his arms, her brow furrowed with worry as she watched you.

You looked back at Robby and the older woman and saw he had covered her hand on his forearm with his own, thumb stroking back and forth over her skin.

There was a roaring in your ears when you turned back to the table, “Mira, I think I’m gonna throw up.” You said as you braced your hands on the high top table you were all gathered around.

Immediately, you felt her hand on your back and she lowered her head until she met your gaze, “Do you want some ice?” You shook your head, no.

“You know what I would do if I were you?” Trinity said, tossing the ice from her now empty drink into her mouth.

“She’s about to give the most unhinged advice you’ve ever heard.” Samira said, sighing.

Trinity seemed unfazed by Samira’s criticism and barrelled ahead anyway, “I would go in the bathroom, take an awesome picture of my tits, and text it to him. He goes to check his phone: boom, breasts. Instant boner.” She shrugged, “It works on sapphic women, anyway.”

Parker nodded behind her, “Yeah, that would work on me.”

You blinked blankly at them and looked at Samira, who, frighteningly, was not shooting down the idea.

Jack sighed, “If you just talk to him instead of playing these games–”

“Girls,” You said, standing up straight, “Let’s take a trip to the bathroom.”

***

Robby was trying to make you jealous. He realized the immaturity of it, that he was resorting to tactics he suspected you would employ yourself, but he couldn’t help it. Something about you made him feel like a college kid again, pining after the prettiest sorority girl who wouldn’t give him the time of day. 

He just wanted to talk to you. He had pushed too hard, like he tended to do. Giving tough love for a situation that maybe required gentler hands and a more receptive headspace. He didn’t think what he said had been wrong, exactly, but maybe it had been a bit harsher than he intended. And he would apologize for that. Once you admitted he was right.

But in the meantime, he couldn’t stand by any longer watching you dance around drunk in a too short dress that cupped your breasts just right and left your bare back exposed to the humid August air.

The fact that the woman was older, more age appropriate perhaps, truly hadn’t even crossed his mind. He hadn't intended to hurt you when he indulged her flirting, just maybe make you a little territorial so that you’d finally stop pretending like he wasn’t in the same room as you.

When he felt his phone buzz in his pocket and pulled it out, he honestly thought it was probably someone at the Pitt, asking some obscure admin related question.

It was a number outside of his contacts and he frowned at that before swiping it open–

And being absolutely blown away by the sight of your tits on his screen. It looked like you had taken it in the bathroom, the straps from your dress pushed down your shoulders so the fabric pooled at your waist. Your nipples were hardened, likely from the cold air of the AC in the bathroom.

Underneath the picture you had typed: do you wanna lick them? also open to some light nibbling if ur in the mood

He barked out a laugh and locked his phone, cracking his neck from side to side as he turned his attention back to the woman in front of him, apologizing for the interruption. He would not be won over so easily, despite the way he felt the blood rushing south and between his legs at the thought of your tits in his mouth. 

He was tired of you using sex to avoid deep conversation. He hadn’t been sure what he wanted from you when he got here, but he had decided since that it was more than just fucking. He wouldn’t settle for just easing the ache between your legs whenever you felt like it.

A few moments later, his phone buzzed again. Robby wanted to ignore it. If you wanted him, you could come over here and say so. But in the end, you won, and he picked up his phone again.

I’m not wearing any panties.

He squeezed his eyes shut and sighed deeply as he locked his phone.

“Is everything alright?”

He opened his eyes and looked at the woman in front of him, “Yeah, sorry, I, uh–” He lifted his phone, “I just have to take care of something, would you excuse me?”

Robby was already walking towards where he last saw you before the woman could reply. You were still there, looking smug as you bit on the straw of a long empty drink and stared at him. When he got to you, he wordlessly took the drink from your hand, dropped it on the table, and then secured a hand around your wrist before he began walking again, you trailing behind.

Once outside the bar, he checked for people before backing you against the wall, relishing in your little gasp when your back hit the brick. He kissed you hard and with all the annoyance he felt, sucking your lower lip into his mouth and biting down until you yelped. He began to pull away, to see if he had actually hurt you, but before he could get more than a few centimeters away, you crashed your mouth back into his.

He palmed your breast through the fabric of your dress and sighed when he felt the peak of your nipple. He needed to know if you had been serious about not wearing panties. The dress was fairly short, and it was loose and flowy from your waist down, so it would have been quite the risk. 

Robby spread your legs with his knee before reaching one of his hands between your thighs and up your dress. You were soaked and there was not a scrap of fabric to be found. He groaned into your mouth as he ran a finger down your folds, sucking your whimpers into his mouth like oxygen. 

He was so enamored, he nearly forgot that he was absolutely under no circumstances supposed to be doing this until the two of you could have a real conversation–

It was like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head. That’s right, he wasn’t supposed to be doing this.

He pulled away from you so abruptly, that when your mouth moved to chase his, you leaned over so far you lost your balance and he had to steady you.

“Too much to drink?” He asked, hands on your arms to keep you upright.

“What the fuck?” You whined.

When he thought there was no longer any danger of you falling over, he leaned away and shoved his hands in his pockets, “I told you, there are only so many times I’ll allow you to use sex to avoid having an actual conversation.”

You pouted, “Then why did you come out here?”

He shrugged, “Temporary breach of sanity,” His eyes wandered down to your chest and he swallowed, “Provoked by a perfect pair of tits.”

You poked your tongue out between your teeth, “You think they’re perfect?”

He shook his head and rolled his eyes, “Is this all you want from me? Because if it is, I need to know now.”

You frowned, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Is this just fucking to you?” He gestured to the space between you, “Is that all I am, just a good fuck?”

You felt your cheeks heat, “I–I don’t know, isn’t that what you want?”

“No,” He shook his head, “No, I–” He ran a hand over the back of his head, “I think I want more than that. I want–I want you. All of you. Not just a piece.”

You crossed your arms over your chest and shook your head slightly, “What about that woman at the bar?”

“I was just trying to make you jealous.”

You worried your lower lip between your teeth, “But she’s older and probably better at this whole thing and won’t send you a picture of her tits instead of apologizing.” 

You said it all in a rush and he gave you a small smile, “There are worse ways to apologize.”

“It’s not funny, Robby, I’m not good at this,” You threw up your hands in exasperation, “You’re right, I avoid anything that’s difficult, anything I’m worried I’ll fail at and–” You blinked rapidly, your eyes glinting wet with unshed tears, “And I’m terrified of disappointing you.”

He tilted his head and took a step to you, reaching a hand out to gently cradle your cheek in his palm, “Sweetheart, as long as you’re actually trying, you’re never going to disappoint me.”

Your breathing wavered slightly and you turned your head to kiss his palm, “I want to go to med school.” You said softly. It was a small concession, not quite an apology, but close enough.

“I know.” He pulled you to his chest and kissed the top of your head. His hands slid to either side of your neck and he tilted your head up so he could kiss you properly, the taste of tequila still on your tongue, “You ready to go back inside?”

You nodded and let him lead you back by the hand, smiling to yourself when his thumb stroked reassuring circles on the back of your hand. He kept a hand on you, whether it was on your hand, arm, hip, or thigh, for the rest of the night. The woman at the bar looked a bit miffed when she finally left, but Robby didn’t notice. He was too busy watching you.

***

The humidity was suffocating as you packed your bags in the back of your Yaris. You were dripping with sweat just from the walk from the house to the car. It was likely even hotter in Pittsburgh, a thought that had you second guessing why you had left Los Angeles in the first place. It may have been a desert, but at least it didn’t feel like you were drowning when you were outside.

“You got everything?” Robby came up behind you as you were closing your trunk, hands settling on your hips.

“Yep,” You spun in his arms once the trunk was shut. His face was red from the heat as well, skin damp with sweat, “You?”

“Think I’m just missing my… What do the kids call it? Passenger princess?” He leaned into you and pressed kisses to the side of your neck, making you giggle and push him away when he playfully bit the sensitive skin there.

“I told you,” You laughed, “I’m driving my own car.”

“Baby, it’s gonna be so loud with that useless muffler. You’re gonna hate it. Just let me call someone to tow it–”

“No,” You shook your head adamantly, “Thank you for offering, but no thank you.”

He sighed, “What if I said I just don’t want to drive back to Pittsburgh by myself?”

You smiled and kissed him. You didn’t think you’d ever tire of the taste of him, the feel of his beard against your skin, “We have plans to see each other two days from now. Aren’t you sick of me?”

He shook his head, “Not even close.” He kissed your forehead, “But, fine. Enjoy your drive, don’t come crying to me for an ENT referral when you rupture your eardrums.”

You laughed as he turned away from you, “That’s a bit dramatic, I think.”

He only shrugged as he headed to his own car and you headed to your driver’s side. Sliding into the hot seat, you put your key in the ignition and turned– There was a whine from the car, but no turnover. Frowning, you tried again. And again. And–

“Oh no,” Robby opened your driver’s side, “Looks like your car won’t start.”

You turned to scowl at him, “Did you do this?”

He laughed, “Of course not. But I can’t say I’m not a little pleased.”

You leaned your head against the steering wheel, “I can’t afford this.” You murmured. And it was true. Even after working at the new job for a while, you were still regaining your footing from all the moving costs.

“It’s probably just a dead battery or bad alternator. I’ll fix it when we get back.”

You looked up at him, “That’s too much.”

But he was already shaking his head, “I like doing it. Both working with cars and helping you. Now get in my car, please, so we can go home.”

It was strange, this feeling you got now when looking at him. When he was kind and generous with you, but had no ulterior motive. You had never met anyone like him. It had only been a week, and you had never been in love before, but you thought this must be what it felt like. When you were just on the precipice of it.

You got out of your car and rose on your toes to kiss him, “Thank you,” You whispered in his mouth.

“Get a room,” Jack teased as he walked outside, Samira in tow.

When you saw her you broke from Robby and went to wrap her up in a hug instead, “Thank you for inviting me, Mira.” You said into her shoulder.

Her arms tightened around you, “I’m just glad to have you back on the east coast.” She looked over your shoulder towards Robby, “And I’m glad that I’m such a good matchmaker.”

You laughed, “Yeah, if he’s ever mean to you again, you let me know.” 

“Oh, don’t worry,” She pulled away, “You’re on speed dial.”

Robby kept a hand on your thigh for most of the ride back to Pittsburgh, stroking a soothing pattern with his thumb until you were half asleep. The subtle smell of cherries was in his nose the entire drive back and when he occasionally looked back over at you, asleep in his passenger seat, he thought he finally understood what Jack had said to him when he started dating Samira.

It’s like I’ve been asleep at the wheel and she took it from my hands. I don’t wonder why I keep going anymore, I know it’s because she’s keeping me from veering off the road.

He certainly was no expert at relationships, but you made him want to try if it meant it would extend this feeling in his chest when he looked at you. Like everything would be okay as long as you were happy and breathing next to him.

He wasn’t sure if he loved you yet, but he was sure that he desperately wanted to find out. 

[lunar-month-library]

holy Dr Robby characterization that is so good I can hear his voice in my head!

[lunar-month-library]

Celebrated the highest of holy holidays (4/20) last night and realized that I gotta be more mindful of my social media and Internet usage.

Something something using the internet for genuine human connection instead of mindless consumption in a minefield of AI slop and growing apathy.

Anyway! Lmk if you would like to chat, fellow Tumblr users 😭

[paigepie213]

The Break You Both Need - Dr. Robby x Female Reader

Request - it’s a long one but could you do one where the reader and Robby have been together a while and she now wants marriage but it’s stressful with his job and they fight hut make up? And like they’re engaged on a beach?

thank you for your request, hope I included all that you wanted 🫶

Masterlist

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

The emergency department had finally exhaled, not into silence but into that strange, hollow quiet that only came after chaos had burned itself out, where the fluorescent lights hummed a little louder and the monitors seemed to beep with less urgency, as if even they were tired. The clock on the wall pushed well past what anyone would call a reasonable hour, and yet you and Dr. Javadi were still tucked into your corner of the workstation, finishing charting from a case that had stretched longer than expected, longer than either of you had planned for when the shift had technically ended. You leaned back slightly in your chair, rolling your neck as the stiffness settled in, fingers still moving across the keyboard out of habit more than necessity, while Javadi clicked through her own notes beside you, her brow furrowed in concentration that felt a little too intense for the hour.

“Do you ever leave this place,” you asked lightly, your voice cutting through the quiet without disrupting it, more companionable than intrusive, as you glanced sideways at her.

She huffed out a soft laugh, not looking up right away as she finished typing a sentence before finally turning toward you, one eyebrow raised in mild amusement. “That feels like a trick question coming from you,” she said, her tone dry but not unkind.

You smiled at that, letting your chair tilt back just a fraction more as you folded your arms loosely across your chest.

“Fair,” you admitted, your gaze drifting briefly across the nearly empty department before returning to her. “But I mean it. Outside of this place, what does your life look like? Do you have one, or are you just…existing between shifts and caffeine like the rest of us?”

She considered that for a moment, lips pressing together as if weighing how honest to be, before she shrugged, a small, almost dismissive movement.

“There’s not a lot of time for anything else,” she said finally. “Dating especially feels…impossible. I don’t even know where I’d start.”

You nodded slowly, understanding that more than you probably wanted to admit, your fingers absently tapping against your arm. “Yeah,” you murmured, your tone softer now. “It’s not exactly a lifestyle that makes it easy.”

She studied you then, something curious flickering behind her eyes, and you could practically see the thought forming before she said it.

“I mean, you got lucky,” she added, tilting her head slightly. “Finding someone here, someone who actually gets it.”

A quiet breath left you, somewhere between a laugh and something more complicated, and you let your gaze drop briefly to the desk in front of you before looking back at her.

“Lucky isn’t the word I’d use,” you said, your voice thoughtful rather than dismissive. “Dating someone in the same place you work is…complicated. Dating your boss is even more complicated, and it hasn’t always been easy.”

Her expression shifted at that, intrigue sharpening into something more pointed, and she leaned forward just a little, resting her elbows on the desk.

“Then why aren’t you married?” she asked, the question coming out more directly than you expected, though not unkindly, just…honestly curious.

You blinked at her, caught slightly off guard, and then let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you leaned back again. “That’s a good question,” you admitted, the words coming easier than the answer itself. “I’m not totally sure. He’s never asked.”

Javadi’s brows lifted, surprise flashing across her face before it gave way to something that looked suspiciously like disbelief.

“Then why don’t you ask him?” she pressed, as if the solution were obvious, as if it were that simple.

You laughed again, a little softer this time, your shoulders lifting in a small shrug as you glanced away for a moment.

“Maybe I’m a little more old school than I like to admit,” you said. “I always thought that was…his move.”

“That’s dumb,” she shot back immediately, the words out before she could stop them, and then her eyes widened slightly as the realization hit. “I mean—not dumb, I just—”

“It’s okay,” you cut in, still smiling, the sound of your own amusement easing whatever tension might have followed. “You’re not wrong. It probably is.”

The two of you fell into a brief, comfortable silence after that, the kind that came from shared exhaustion more than anything else, and you both turned back to your screens to finish the last of your charting. When you finally hit submit, you let out a small breath of relief and started gathering your things, the promise of going home, of seeing him, settling quietly in the back of your mind. You had just slung your bag over your shoulder when Javadi spoke again, her voice softer this time, more hesitant.

“Can I ask you something else?”

You paused, glancing back at her over your shoulder, already knowing you were too tired to dodge whatever was coming. “Sure.”

She watched you for a moment, as if trying to decide how to phrase it, before she said, “You said it wasn’t easy. That there were times you didn’t think you’d make it. So…why did you stay? Why keep going if it was that hard?”

The question settled between you, heavier than the ones before it, and for a moment you didn’t answer right away, not because you didn’t know, but because the answer felt too simple for something that had been anything but. You shifted your weight, leaning lightly against the desk as you looked at her, your expression softening in a way that only came when you were speaking about him.

“Because I fell in love with him when I was twenty-five,” you said quietly, the words steady, certain, like something you had carried with you for years without ever needing to say out loud. “And that hasn’t gone away. Not through the long shifts, or the fights, or the days where we barely spoke to each other except in clipped, professional sentences across a trauma bay. Not through the nights where I questioned everything, including him, including us.”

You let out a small breath, your gaze drifting for just a second as memories flickered, arguments in empty hallways, stolen moments in on-call rooms, the weight of keeping something both private and impossible to hide.

“It’s never been simple,” you continued, your voice still calm, still sure. “And there were days I didn’t think we’d survive it, days where I wondered if loving him was enough to make it work in a place like this, in a life like this.”

Javadi didn’t interrupt, didn’t move, just listened.

“But every time I thought about walking away,” you added, your eyes returning to hers, something warmer settling there now, something unshakable, “I realized that the one thing that had never changed, not once in all these years, was how I felt about him. Everything else got complicated, messy, difficult, but that part stayed the same.”

You gave her a small, almost absent smile, one that carried more history than it showed.

“So I stayed,” you finished simply. “Because loving him was the easiest part of all of it.”

The quiet that followed felt different this time, not empty but full, and after a moment, Javadi nodded slowly, as if she understood more than she had before. You pushed off the desk then, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, exhaustion finally catching up to you in a way you couldn’t ignore.

“Get out of here,” you told her gently. “Go have a life outside these walls, even if it’s just for a few hours.”

She huffed a small laugh at that, but there was something thoughtful in her expression as she turned back to shut down her computer. As you walked toward the exit, the automatic doors sliding open with a familiar hiss, your mind drifted, not to the question she had asked, but to him, somewhere in this building still, or maybe already home, waiting without realizing he was.

Seven years together, eleven years of knowing him, and still no ring, no question asked. And yet, as you stepped out into the cool night air, you realized that none of that had ever made you doubt the one thing that mattered.

You had fallen in love with him at twenty-five. And you had never once fallen out.

*****

The apartment was warm in a way the hospital never was, not just in temperature but in feeling, in the quiet hum of something lived in and familiar, and the second you stepped inside you could smell it, something rich and savory curling through the air, grounding you instantly after the sterile sharpness of antiseptic and adrenaline that still clung faintly to your skin. You barely had time to set your bag down before you spotted him in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, broad back turned slightly as he leaned toward the counter, pouring two glasses of wine with an ease that came from doing this exact thing a hundred times before, a small, domestic ritual that had somehow become yours without either of you ever formally deciding it would.

He glanced over his shoulder when he heard you, and the moment his eyes landed on you, something in his posture softened, the tension of the day easing out of him in a way that only ever seemed to happen around you.

“Well,” he said, a hint of amusement threading through his voice as he straightened, holding one of the glasses loosely in his hand. “This is new. I get home before you.”

You smiled, the exhaustion in your bones loosening just a little as you walked toward him, slipping easily into his space like it was second nature, which it was after all these years. “Don’t get used to it,” you murmured, your voice quieter now as you reached him.

His arm came around you without hesitation, pulling you into his side, and he leaned down just enough to press a soft kiss to your lips, lingering there for a second longer than necessary before pulling back, his thumb brushing absentmindedly along your arm.

“What kept you?” he asked, handing you the second glass.

You took it, your fingers brushing his briefly as you accepted it, and leaned lightly into him. “Finishing up a case with Javadi,” you said. “She needed a little more time.”

He hummed at that, not surprised, taking a sip of his wine before glancing down at you. “What’d she want?”

You hesitated just slightly, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that he caught it immediately, because of course he did, his eyes narrowing just a fraction as he watched you.

“She asked about you,” you said finally, keeping your tone casual, though there was something under it now, something you couldn’t quite smooth out. “About us.”

He didn’t say anything right away, just watched you, waiting, which somehow made it worse.

“And?” he prompted after a beat, his voice quieter now.

You exhaled softly, taking a small sip of your wine before meeting his gaze again. “She asked why we aren’t married.”

The words sat between you, heavier than they should have been, and you saw the exact moment they landed, the way his expression shifted, something unreadable flickering there before he smoothed it over.

You shrugged, trying to make light of it even as you felt that familiar, subtle tightening in your chest. “I told her I wasn’t sure,” you added.

He gave you a look then, something searching, something a little sharper than before, and for a moment neither of you said anything.

“What?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, trying to read him the way you always could.

He shook his head once, like he was brushing the thought away, but it didn’t quite leave his eyes.

“Nothing,” he said, though it clearly wasn’t. Then, after a second, he added, quieter, “I didn’t know you wanted that.”

You let out a small, almost surprised breath at that, your brows pulling together slightly. “I didn’t know if I did,” you admitted, the honesty coming easier than you expected.

He huffed softly, something almost like a laugh under his breath as he stepped away from you, moving toward the oven.

“You realize,” he said as he reached for the handle, “we’re basically a common law marriage at this point.”

You rolled your eyes lightly, though there was no real bite to it. “Wow,” you said dryly. “How romantic.”

He smirked faintly at that, pulling the oven open and carefully sliding out whatever he had been working on, the heat spilling into the room as he set the dish down on the stovetop.

“You should’ve said something if a ring was important to you,” he added, glancing back at you over his shoulder.

Something about the way he said it, so straightforward, so matter-of-fact, caught you off guard in a way you hadn’t expected, and for a moment you felt almost…shy, which was ridiculous after everything the two of you had been through.

“I don’t know,” you said, softer now, your fingers tracing lightly along the rim of your glass. “I guess I just…never brought it up.”

He turned back toward you fully then, that familiar, crooked smile tugging at his mouth, eyes glinting with something warmer now. “What, my tattoo isn’t enough for you?” he asked, teasing, though there was something real tucked underneath it.

You laughed immediately at that, shaking your head as you took a step closer to him. “That is not the same thing,” you shot back.

He scoffed lightly, though the corner of his mouth lifted. “Funny,” he murmured, “I seem to remember you being pretty into it when I showed you.”

You swatted at his shoulder, laughing despite yourself. “Oh my God, stop,” you said, though the memory flickered there all the same, vivid and impossible to ignore.

He caught your wrist easily, his hand sliding down to your waist as he pulled you closer, caging you gently between himself and the counter, his body warm and solid against yours in a way that grounded you instantly. Your arms slipped around his middle without thinking, your cheek brushing lightly against his chest as you smiled, the familiar rhythm of the two of you settling back into place.

“If you want a ring,” he murmured, his voice lower now, closer, “you should just say it.”

You tipped your head back slightly, your lips brushing his in a fleeting, almost teasing kiss, a breath of laughter escaping you as you pulled back just enough to look at him.

“There’s something about seeing you with a ring,” you admitted, your voice light but honest all the same.

He raised an eyebrow at that, something amused flickering across his face. “Is this about getting married,” he asked, “or about you wanting to claim me?”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed, the sound soft and warm between you. “Don’t you want the same thing?” you countered, your fingers curling lightly into his shirt.

He shook his head, that easy confidence settling over him as he reached down to plate the food, though his hand lingered at your side.

“I’m not worried about anyone not knowing you’re mine,” he said simply.

You leaned back slightly at that, one eyebrow lifting in challenge as you studied him. “That’s a bold statement,” you said.

He shrugged, entirely unbothered, his hand patting your side once before he moved to set the plates down. “Everyone knows,” he said.

You pushed yourself up onto the counter then, settling there comfortably as you watched him, your legs swinging lightly before stilling.

“Not everyone,” you pointed out. “All the new med students probably have no idea. What makes you so sure people just assume?”

He didn’t answer right away, instead stepping back toward you, his hands finding your hips as he moved between your knees, his grip firm but not rough, grounding you there.

“It’s not about that,” he said, his fingers slipping just beneath the waistband of your scrub pants in a way that made your breath hitch slightly, his gaze locked on yours.

“Then what’s it about?” you asked, your voice quieter now, the question hanging between you.

He stepped closer, closing the space completely until you were pressed against him, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as his hands slid up your sides, anchoring you there.

“It’s about the fact,” he said, his voice low, intimate in a way that made everything else fall away, “that tomorrow morning, when you walk into work, I’m going to know exactly where you were tonight.”

Your breath caught, your hands tightening slightly against him as you held his gaze.

“I’m going to know,” he continued, just as quietly, “that you came home to me, that you’re here with me, that you’re mine in all the ways that actually matter.”

The words settled deep, not possessive in a way that felt confining, but in a way that felt certain, steady, unshakable.

“And that’s enough for me,” he finished.

You didn’t respond right away, didn’t need to, because whatever you might have said was already there between you, in the way your fingers curled into the back of his shirt, in the way your forehead brushed his for just a second before you leaned in. And then he kissed you, slow at first, deliberate, like he was giving you the space to pull away if you wanted to, but you didn’t, not even a little, your hands sliding up into his hair as you pulled him closer, the rest of the world narrowing down to just him, just this, just the quiet certainty of something that had never once needed a ring to make it real.

******

Morning came softly, filtering in through the thin gap in the curtains in a way that painted everything in a muted, golden haze, and for a few quiet seconds you didn’t move at all, just let yourself exist there in the stillness, in the warmth of the bed and the steady, familiar weight of him beside you. You had woken before him, which wasn’t unusual, but what was rare was the way the world seemed to pause long enough for you to actually notice it, to take him in without the rush of a shift or the pull of responsibility already clawing at your attention.

Robby lay on his back, one arm stretched loosely across the mattress where you had been tucked against him earlier, his breathing deep and even, the kind that only came when he was truly resting, not just collapsing out of exhaustion. The lines that usually marked his face, the ones carved there from years of pressure and impossible decisions and the constant weight of being responsible for everyone else, were gone for the moment, smoothed out into something softer, something that made him look younger in a way that always caught you off guard. Your gaze lingered there longer than you meant it to, tracing the familiar shape of him, the beard along his jaw, the way his hair fell messily across his forehead, and then, inevitably, your eyes drifted lower, drawn to the curve of his chest where your name sat in small, cursive ink just over his heart.

You smiled to yourself, something warm and private settling in your chest as you shifted closer, the sheets rustling softly around you as you leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss against the tattoo, your lips brushing over your own name in a way that still felt surreal even after all this time. For a moment you stayed there, your cheek resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear, your hand sliding lazily across his side, fingertips tracing absent patterns along his skin.

He stirred then, not fully awake but aware enough to respond, his arm coming around you instinctively, pulling you in closer like it was muscle memory, like even half asleep he knew exactly where you belonged. You smiled against him, your fingers splaying lightly across his back, feeling the warmth of him, the solid, grounding presence that had become your constant over the years.

And then, of course, his alarm went off. The sharp, insistent sound cut through the quiet, jarring in a way that made you both groan almost in unison, your face pressing more firmly into his chest as if that might somehow block it out.

“Don’t you dare,” you muttered, your voice muffled, as he shifted beneath you.

He huffed out something that might have been a laugh, though it was still thick with sleep, before rolling slightly, his arm tightening around you for just a second before he reluctantly pulled away, reaching over you to fumble for his phone on the nightstand. You let out a dramatic groan as his weight shifted over you, your hands sliding up his sides, half to keep him close and half because you simply could, because mornings like this had never been about modesty or distance, not after everything.

“Worst part of the job,” you mumbled, your fingers dragging lightly down his back as he finally managed to silence the alarm.

“Mm,” he agreed vaguely, his voice rough, as he settled back down beside you, though not quite as deeply as before, awareness creeping in now that he was awake.

For a moment neither of you moved, the quiet settling back in, softer this time, more familiar, as you both hovered in that space between sleep and the day ahead. You shifted slightly, your leg sliding over his, your hand continuing its slow, absent path along his back, and he responded in kind, his fingers tracing along your arm, up to your shoulder, then back down again, the touch lazy, unhurried, like there was no immediate need to be anywhere else.

“I’ve got a three o’clock with Gloria today,” he said after a moment, his voice still low, still not fully pulled into the day yet.

You hummed softly at that, your chin resting lightly against his chest as your fingers moved up along his spine, then back down again, the motion soothing more than anything else.

“I’m sorry,” you said, though there was a clear thread of humor woven through it, your lips twitching slightly against his skin.

He rolled his eyes, though you felt it more than saw it, his hand sliding to your hip, giving it a light squeeze.

“Yeah, you sound real torn up about it,” he muttered.

You smiled, lifting your head just enough to look at him, your hand still moving over his back in slow, absent strokes. “You’ll survive,” you said softly.

He studied you for a second, something quieter passing through his expression before it settled back into something more familiar, more like him.

“You taking my patients while I’m up there?” he asked, his tone shifting just slightly, not fully professional but not entirely separate from it either, the lines between the two of you always blurred in ways neither of you had ever quite untangled.

You let out a soft breath, your fingers pausing for just a second before resuming their path, your thumb tracing along the edge of his shoulder blade.

“Of course,” you said. “Wouldn’t trust anyone else with them anyway.”

He huffed lightly at that, something amused flickering across his face as his hand slid up your side, his fingers brushing along your ribs before settling at your waist again.

“That’s because you’re the only one who knows how I think,” he said, his voice quieter now, more certain.

You tilted your head slightly, your gaze softening as you looked at him, your hand coming to rest flat against his back.

“That’s because I’ve had a lot of practice,” you replied.

Something about that seemed to settle between you, not heavy, not complicated, just…true. He shifted then, just enough to pull you closer again, your bodies fitting together easily, like they always had, like there had never been a question of where either of you belonged. For a few more minutes, neither of you said anything, just stayed there, tangled up in each other, hands moving lazily, absent touches that spoke more than words ever could.

Eventually, the day would pull you both out of bed, back into the noise and the pressure and the constant demand of the hospital, but for now, in the quiet of the morning, there was just this, just him, just you, and the kind of ease that only came from years of choosing each other over and over again.

******

The rhythm of the department had picked back up by the time you stepped out of the patient’s room, the brief lull from earlier in the morning long gone, replaced with the steady, controlled chaos that defined most of your days, where voices overlapped, monitors chimed, and the constant movement of staff wove through it all like something choreographed but never quite predictable. You pulled the curtain closed behind you, giving the patient one last reassuring nod before turning fully back into the corridor, your mind already shifting to the next thing, the next task, the next person who needed you.

It wasn’t until you glanced up that you saw him. Robby had just come through the double doors from upstairs, his stride purposeful but not rushed, his shoulders set in a way that immediately told you everything you needed to know before he even said a word. You checked your watch out of habit, your brows pulling together slightly when you realized how long he’d been gone.

Almost two hours. That wasn’t nothing.

He looked…tired, though that wasn’t unusual, not really, but there was something sharper under it this time, something wound a little tighter than it had been that morning, something you recognized because you had seen it too many times before.

You didn’t stop, didn’t call out to him right away, because the job didn’t pause just because he had walked back in, and neither did you. Instead, you moved toward the nearest computer, scanning your badge in one fluid motion as you pulled up your patient’s chart, your fingers already moving across the keyboard as you began entering the orders for their treatment, your focus narrowing in the way it always did when you needed it to. Dana appeared at your side not even thirty seconds later, her presence as familiar as the hum of the monitors, her tablet tucked under her arm as she leaned slightly toward you.

“Hey,” she said, already mid-thought. “I need your call on two in west nine and the chest pain in triage. What are we thinking?”

You didn’t even look up at first, your eyes scanning through the chart as you processed both your patient and her question at the same time, the answers slotting into place easily.

“West nine needs labs repeated in an hour, keep an eye on the potassium and page me if it trends up,” you said, your voice steady, automatic in the best way. “Chest pain gets a full workup, EKG, troponin, the whole thing. Don’t wait on it.”

“Got it,” Dana replied without missing a beat, tapping quickly into her own system before glancing at you with a small, amused smile. “You know you could run this place in your sleep, right?”

You didn’t answer that, not really, just let a faint smile tug at your lips as you kept typing, because it wasn’t something you needed to say out loud, not when the work itself spoke for you.

Santos passed by a moment later, quick on her feet as always, her voice cutting through just long enough to catch your attention. “Kid in north fourteen,” she said, already half-moving past you. “Weight came back lower than we thought.”

You looked up then, catching her just before she disappeared down the hall. “Adjust the dosage to point three per kilo,” you called after her, your tone firm but easy. “And double check the calculation before you push it.”

She gave you a quick nod, already turning to carry it out, and just like that she was gone again, pulled into the next thing. You turned back to your screen, finishing the last of your orders, your fingers slowing as you clicked through the final confirmations, and it was then, in that brief pause between tasks, that you felt him.

He didn’t say anything at first, didn’t need to, his presence settling beside you in a way that was as familiar as breathing, and you glanced up at him almost instinctively. Up close, it was clearer. The tension in his jaw, the slight tightness around his eyes, the way his shoulders held just a little too rigidly beneath his scrubs.

“How was Gloria?” you asked quietly, your voice low enough that it stayed between the two of you, your concern woven in but not overwhelming.

He didn’t answer the question. Instead, his gaze flicked briefly to the screen in front of you before he spoke, his tone shifting into something more clipped, more controlled.

“I’ll take the new guy in central five,” he said. “And I’ll take back my other three.”

You frowned slightly at that, the response not matching the question, not matching the moment, and you turned toward him just a little more, searching his face.

“Robby—”

“Not here,” he muttered under his breath, the words quiet but firm, cutting you off before you could finish.

The shift was subtle, but it was there, that line snapping back into place between personal and professional, between what you were to each other and what you were here. He didn’t wait for a response, didn’t linger, just turned and walked away, already moving toward the next patient, the next responsibility, like nothing had happened at all.

You watched him for a second longer than you meant to, your expression tightening just slightly before you forced yourself to look back at the screen in front of you, the department pulling you back in, demanding your attention whether you were ready or not. And just like that, the moment was gone, swallowed by the noise and movement and everything else that never seemed to stop.

******

The doors to the ambulance bay slid open with a familiar mechanical hiss, and the second you stepped outside, the air hit you differently, thick and humid in a way that clung to your skin almost immediately, carrying with it the faint smell of asphalt and exhaust and something distant that hinted at rain that never quite came.

It took you less than a second to find him. Robby sat off to the side near the wall, elbows resting on his knees, one hand dragging slowly over the back of his neck as he stared out toward nothing in particular, his posture tight in a way that made your chest pull slightly before you had even said a word.

You walked toward him without hesitation, your steps quieter now, more measured, as if the space itself demanded it, and when you got close enough, you didn’t stop right away, just let yourself take him in for a second, the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way he exhaled like the weight of everything hadn’t quite settled yet.

“I can feel it from here,” you said gently, your voice cutting through the thick air but not the quiet between you.

He looked up at that, his eyes finding yours immediately, and for a second something flickered there, something softer beneath the irritation that hadn’t quite faded yet. You didn’t crowd him, didn’t push, just stepped a little closer, your presence steady, familiar.

“I’m here if you need me,” you added, your tone even, offering without demanding.

He huffed quietly, the corner of his mouth twitching just slightly as he looked away again.

“I always need you,” he muttered, the words rough but honest in a way that made your chest tighten just a little.

You smiled at that, something warm and unspoken settling between you as you closed the remaining distance, stopping just in front of him, your hands resting loosely at your sides as you waited, giving him the space to decide how much he wanted to say. For a moment, he didn’t, just rolled his neck slowly, the movement deliberate as if he were trying to physically work the tension out, before letting out a long breath that felt like it had been building for hours.

“Gloria wants me to bring in two fellowship positions next cycle,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, less sharp but still edged with frustration. “And take on three more medical students.”

You frowned immediately, the numbers landing heavy as you processed them. “That’s…a lot of people,” you said, your tone careful but honest.

He let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head slightly. “More doctors doesn’t always mean better care,” he said, the frustration threading more clearly through his voice now. “It just means more bodies to manage, more opinions, more room for things to get missed.”

You nodded, understanding exactly what he meant, your arms crossing loosely as you leaned one shoulder against the wall beside him.

“It already feels like too much some days,” you admitted. “Even with the wait time sitting at seven hours, which is insane on its own.”

He glanced at you then, something a little lighter breaking through as he huffed softly. “Yeah,” he said. “And I’ve got to keep an eye on a certain attending too.”

You raised an eyebrow at that, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Oh, do you?” you replied, your tone teasing just enough to meet him where he was.

“Yeah,” he said, glancing at you again, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly. “She’s a problem.”

You shook your head, a quiet laugh slipping out of you as you stepped a little closer, your posture softening again as you looked down at him. “Is there something I can help with?” you asked, the question simple, genuine.

He shook his head almost immediately. “No,” he said, though it wasn’t dismissive, just…resigned.

You didn’t argue with that, didn’t push, just let the silence settle for a second before you moved, stepping in front of him fully and leaning down just slightly, your hand coming up to gently tilt his chin upward until his eyes met yours again. There was no hesitation when you kissed him, nothing rushed about it either, just a soft, grounding press of your lips against his, something steady and familiar that didn’t try to fix anything but still managed to ease the edges. When you pulled back, he stayed there for a second, his gaze lingering on yours before he exhaled quietly.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice lower now, the tension in it softened just enough.

Your thumb brushed lightly across his temple, a small, absent gesture before your hand fell away again, settling back at your side.

He shifted then, sitting up a little straighter as he dragged a hand through his hair. “She also wants more coverage on nights,” he added, like he couldn’t quite leave it alone. “Says we’re stretched too thin.”

You tilted your head slightly, considering that for a moment. “Give Jack the new fellows and students,” you said after a beat, your tone thoughtful. “He’ll handle it, and he won’t let them get in the way.”

Robby let out a short laugh at that, shaking his head. “I wish admin would recognize we need nurses and techs,” he said. “Doctors are great, but they’re not the ones keeping this place running minute to minute.”

You nodded immediately, the agreement easy. “You’re not wrong,” you said. “We can have all the attendings in the world, but if there’s no one to actually move things along, it all bottlenecks anyway.”

The sound of an ambulance approaching cut through the conversation then, the low rumble growing louder as it backed into the bay, lights flashing against the walls in sharp bursts of red and white. Robby glanced toward it, the shift happening almost instantly, the frustration folding back into focus, into purpose, into the version of him that led this place whether he wanted to or not. He pushed himself to his feet, his hand brushing against your hip in a brief, grounding squeeze as he moved past you.

“Come on,” he said, already halfway back to the doors.

You followed without a second thought, falling into step beside him as the bay doors opened again, the noise and urgency rushing back in to meet you.

Back to work.

******

A week later, the pattern had settled in whether you liked it or not, and you didn’t, not even a little. Robby was staying later after almost every shift now, pulled upstairs, pulled into meetings, pulled into conversations that never seemed to end, each one adding something new to his plate instead of taking anything away, and you could see it in him more and more, in the way he carried himself, in the way his shoulders never quite dropped even when he was home, in the way his mind seemed to stay somewhere else even when he was standing right in front of you.

You hated it. Tonight was no different. You crawled into bed alone, the sheets cool where he should have been, your body instinctively shifting toward his side before you caught yourself, exhaling quietly as you rolled onto your back and stared up at the ceiling.

You told yourself to give it a few minutes, that he’d be home soon, that it wasn’t a big deal, but the longer you lay there, the more the frustration crept in, winding itself tight in your chest until you couldn’t ignore it anymore. With a sharp exhale, you reached for your phone on the nightstand, the screen lighting up the dark room as you scrolled to Jack’s name and hit call before you could second guess it.

It rang once. Twice. Three times.

“Yeah?” Jack’s voice came through, rough and distracted but alert enough, like he was still in motion.

“Where is he?” you asked immediately, not bothering with a greeting.

There was a beat of silence on the other end before Jack huffed out something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “He left ten minutes ago,” he said.

You sat up a little, the tension in your shoulders not easing. “If you keep him any longer—”

“He wasn’t with me,” Jack cut in, his tone sharper now, though not unkind. “He was upstairs. Relax, woman.”

You blew out a breath at that, some of the edge leaving you, though not all of it. “I am relaxed,” you muttered, even as you knew it wasn’t entirely true.

“Mm,” Jack hummed, unconvinced. “What’s going on with that?”

You hesitated for a second, your fingers tightening slightly around your phone before you answered.

“Admin,” you said simply. “They’re piling more on him. Fellows, students, coverage, all of it.”

Jack groaned immediately, the sound heavy with understanding. “Yeah,” he said. “That tracks.”

You waited, half expecting him to offer something else, some kind of advice or reassurance, but he didn’t, and honestly, you didn’t blame him.

“I’m just…” you started, trailing off for a moment before forcing yourself to finish the thought. “I’m worried.”

There was a brief pause, and when Jack spoke again, his voice was quieter, more grounded. “Yeah,” he said. “You should be.”

You swallowed, your gaze drifting toward the bedroom door as if that might somehow make it open faster.

“All of this on top of everything else we deal with every day isn’t good for him,” you added.

“I know,” Jack replied. Then, after a second, he shifted. “You okay?”

You let out a soft, almost incredulous breath at that. “I’m fine,” you said automatically.

“You’re calling me at eleven at night worried about him,” Jack pointed out, not unkindly. “You sure about that?”

You opened your mouth to respond, to brush it off, to say something that sounded more convincing, but before you could, you heard it. The front door. You stilled, your head turning toward the sound as relief hit you first, quick and sharp, followed immediately by something softer, something heavier.

“He’s here,” you said, the tension in your voice easing just slightly.

“Yeah,” Jack said, like he’d expected that. “Go deal with your man.”

You huffed a quiet laugh at that despite everything. “Goodnight, Jack. Thanks.”

“Night,” he replied before the line went dead.

You tossed your phone back onto the bed and pushed yourself up, moving quickly toward the bedroom doorway just as Robby stepped into the hall, his movements slower than usual, his shoulders slumped in a way that made your chest tighten immediately.

He looked exhausted. More than that, he looked worn down, like the day hadn’t just been long, but heavy in a way that stuck to him.

“I know I’m late,” he started, his voice already edged with apology as he stepped toward you. “I’m sorry, I—”

You didn’t let him finish. Your arms came up around his neck, pulling him down into you without hesitation, cutting off whatever explanation he was about to give as you held him there, close and solid and finally here. He let out a long breath against you, the tension in him loosening just slightly as he leaned into it, into you, his hands settling at your waist like he needed the contact just as much as you did.

“Come to bed,” you murmured softly, your voice close to his ear.

He shook his head lightly, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes tired but still him. “I need a shower,” he said.

“Okay,” you said easily, already leaning in again, your lips finding his in a slow, grounding kiss that lingered just long enough to make him exhale softly into it.

Your hands moved without thinking, familiar with the rhythm of him, the lines of him, as you started tugging at his scrub top, helping him out of it as you stole another kiss, then another, your fingers brushing along his skin as it was exposed. He let you, of course he did, his hands sliding up your sides, pulling you closer as you walked backward, guiding him with you toward the bathroom, the two of you moving together like you had done this a hundred times before.

Your lips shifted to his jaw, then down to his neck, slow and unhurried as he reached around you to turn the shower on, the pipes groaning softly before the water started, steam already beginning to fill the space. His hands settled firmly at your waist, grounding you as your fingers worked at the strings of his scrub pants, loosening them with practiced ease as you pressed closer, your breath warm against his skin.

He pushed the shower door open with one hand, the other already moving to the hem of your sleep shirt, lifting it up and over your head in one smooth motion, his eyes flicking over you for just a second before pulling you in. You stepped inside first, the warmth of the water hitting your skin almost immediately, a soft gasp leaving you at the contrast, and a second later he followed, shedding the last of his clothes as he stepped in behind you.

The space was small, the air thick with steam now, and he didn’t hesitate, his arms wrapping around you from behind, pulling you back against him as the water cascaded over both of you, washing away the day in slow, steady streams. You leaned into him, your hands coming up to his shoulders, your fingers pressing into the tight muscles there, kneading gently, working through the tension you could feel coiled beneath his skin. He let out a low breath, his head dipping forward slightly as he let you, his hands resting at your hips, holding you there, like he needed the anchor.

“Easy,” you murmured softly, your thumbs pressing into the base of his neck, working their way outward, your touch firm but careful.

For a moment, neither of you said anything, the only sound the water and your breathing, the quiet intimacy of it settling around you. Eventually, he shifted, his hands sliding from your hips to your sides as he turned you gently to face him, his movements slower now, more deliberate. When he looked down at you, really looked, you saw it again, the exhaustion, the weight of everything he was carrying, and your chest tightened just slightly. Your hand came up without thinking, your palm cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly along his skin, grounding him the only way you knew how.

“I’ve got you,” you said quietly, your voice steady, certain.

And for a moment, under the steady stream of warm water, he let himself believe it.

******

You woke slowly, not to your alarm, but to something softer, something familiar enough that your body recognized it before your mind fully caught up, the gentle press of lips against your cheek drawing you out of sleep in a way that felt warm instead of jarring. Your eyes fluttered open, still heavy, your senses catching up in pieces, the faint light in the room, the quiet hum of early morning, and then him.

Robby was already dressed, standing at the edge of the bed, one hand braced lightly on the mattress as he leaned over you, his expression softer than it had been in days, though the tension still lingered faintly beneath it.

You blinked up at him, disoriented for just a second before your gaze shifted toward the clock, your brow pulling together when you realized your alarm hadn’t gone off yet.

“You’re up early,” you murmured, your voice still thick with sleep.

He huffed a quiet breath that almost sounded like a laugh, his thumb brushing lightly along your cheek.

“Meeting at seven,” he said. “And I need to print notes before it starts, so I’m heading in.”

You pushed yourself up slightly at that, your hand reaching for him instinctively. “You should’ve woken me up,” you said, already trying to sit up fully.

He didn’t let you. His hand pressed gently but firmly against your shoulder, guiding you back down into the bed before you could get very far, his expression shifting just enough to soften the protest you were about to make.

“No,” he said quietly, shaking his head once. “You need the sleep.”

You opened your mouth to argue anyway, because of course you did, but he leaned in before you could get the words out, his lips finding yours in a kiss that wasn’t rushed, wasn’t distracted, but deep and grounding in a way that made your fingers curl into the front of his shirt without thinking. You held him there for a second longer than necessary, your hand sliding up to the back of his neck, trying to pull him closer, trying to keep him there just a little longer.

He chuckled softly against your mouth, the sound low and familiar, before pulling back just enough to look at you.

“I have to go,” he murmured, though his hand lingered at your jaw.

You frowned at him, your grip tightening just slightly. “Stay,” you said quietly, even though you already knew the answer.

He shook his head again, leaning in to press one more lingering kiss to your lips, softer this time. “I’ll see you when you get to work,” he said.

And then he was gone. You lay there for a moment after he left, staring at the ceiling, the faint echo of him still lingering in the space, the warmth of his touch fading slowly as the reality of the day settled in.

By the time you made it into the hospital later, the rhythm of the department had already pulled you in, the hours slipping by in a blur of patients and decisions and movement that left little room to think about anything else. Until he called you into one of his cases.

“Forty-year-old female,” he said as you stepped into the room, his tone already focused, already locked in. “History of cardiac issues, unstable vitals.”

You nodded once, stepping into place beside him without hesitation, your attention narrowing as you took in the patient, the monitors, the numbers that mattered. Whitaker was already there, moving efficiently, handing you what you needed before you even asked, the three of you falling into a rhythm that had been built over time, over repetition, over trust.

“Let’s stabilize her first,” you said, your voice steady as your hands moved, adjusting, assessing, acting.

Robby nodded, already working in tandem with you, his movements precise, controlled despite the edge that still lingered in him, and for a while, everything else faded away. There was only the patient. Only the work. Only the three of you moving together like you had done this a hundred times before.

It took time, longer than you would have liked, but eventually the numbers steadied, the immediate danger passed, and the room shifted, the tension easing just enough that you could finally breathe again. Whitaker let out a long exhale, stepping back slightly as he glanced between the two of you, a grin tugging at his mouth.

“You know,” he said, shaking his head lightly, “I gotta say, I really enjoy working with the ED’s mom and dad.”

You huffed a quiet laugh at that, the sound slipping out before you could stop it, your shoulders relaxing just slightly as he turned and headed toward the door, clearly pleased with himself. You glanced at Robby, a small smile still lingering on your lips, expecting to catch his reaction, expecting something, anything.

But he was already turned away, already back at the computer, his attention locked on the screen as his fingers moved quickly over the keys, charting, documenting, moving on. The shift was immediate, and you felt it.

“Hey,” you said quietly, stepping closer, your voice softer now.

He didn’t look up right away. “Yeah?”

You hesitated for a second, studying him, the way he was already somewhere else again. “

Are you okay?” you asked.

“I’m fine,” he said, the words automatic, almost reflexive, like he hadn’t fully heard the question.

Your hand came up without thinking, resting lightly against his back, your touch grounding, familiar.

“Robby,” you said a little more firmly. “Are you actually okay?”

He paused then, just for a second, before finishing whatever he was typing and finally pulling his glasses off, turning to look at you.

“I’m fine,” he repeated, though this time there was a little more weight behind it, a little more awareness.

You held his gaze, not entirely convinced, your hand still resting against him.

“Do you think you’ll be able to leave at the end of shift tonight?” you asked.

His expression shifted almost immediately, something tightening there again as he exhaled slowly. “Probably not,” he said.

You stared at him for a second, the frustration you had been holding in all week finally pushing its way to the surface.

“Robby,” you said, your voice low but firm, “this isn’t okay.”

His jaw tightened slightly, his gaze sharpening as he looked at you. “I don’t really have a choice right now,” he replied.

“You do,” you shot back, your hand dropping from his back as you crossed your arms, the tension between you building quickly. “You can say no, you can push back, you can—”

“On what?” he cut in, his voice a little sharper now. “On them trying to fix the department? On them asking for more coverage? More help?”

“This isn’t help,” you said, stepping a little closer, your frustration clear now. “This is them piling more on you without actually giving you what you need.”

He let out a short breath, something between a scoff and a sigh. “That’s how this works,” he said.

“No,” you replied immediately, shaking your head. “That’s how it’s been working, and it’s burning you out.”

He opened his mouth to respond, something defensive already there, but before he could say anything, the door opened again.

“Hey,” Jesse said as he stepped back into the room, holding up the medication Robby had ordered. “Got what you needed.”

Robby’s expression shifted instantly, the argument cutting off mid-breath as he turned toward him, slipping back into that controlled, professional version of himself like flipping a switch.

“Thanks,” he said, already reaching for it.

And then, just like that, he walked out. Leaving you standing there, the words you hadn’t finished still sitting heavy in your chest, the conversation left hanging in a way that felt far too familiar.

******

The argument didn’t happen right away. That was the worst part of it. It lingered, stretched thin across the rest of the shift like something waiting to snap, woven into the spaces where the two of you passed each other without stopping, where words were exchanged only when necessary, clipped and professional in a way that felt wrong after everything that had been said and everything that hadn’t. By the time you both got home, it was late, the kind of late that should have meant quiet, should have meant exhaustion pulling you straight into bed without the energy for anything else.

But the tension followed you inside anyway. Robby barely got the door closed behind him before he was moving again, tossing his keys onto the counter with more force than necessary, his shoulders tight, his jaw set in a way that told you he hadn’t let it go either. You stood near the edge of the living room, watching him for a second, your arms crossed loosely over your chest, the silence between you heavy, waiting.

“You just walked out,” you said finally, your voice controlled but not soft.

He didn’t turn around right away, his hands braced against the counter as he stared down at it, his breath slow but uneven.

“I had a patient,” he said.

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” you replied, the edge in your voice sharpening just slightly.

He turned then, finally, his expression already defensive, already braced.

“I know what you’re talking about,” he said. “And I didn’t have time to stand there and argue with you in the middle of the ED.”

“You never have time,” you shot back, stepping a little closer, the frustration that had been building all week finally pushing forward. “That’s the point, Robby. There’s always something else, always another patient, another meeting, another reason why everything else comes before—”

“Before what?” he cut in, his voice rising just enough to fill the space between you. “Before this?”

You held his gaze, not backing down. “Before us,” you said firmly.

He let out a sharp breath, dragging a hand through his hair as he paced a step away, then back again, like he didn’t know where to put the energy sitting under his skin.

“You think I want this?” he asked, his voice rougher now. “You think I want to be there all the time, dealing with admin, dealing with staffing, dealing with a department that is barely holding together some days?”

“Then stop,” you said immediately.

He stared at you like you had just said something ridiculous, something impossible. “That’s not how this works.”

“Why not?” you pressed, your voice rising to meet his. “Why is it always you? Why do you have to be the one carrying all of it?”

“Because no one else is going to,” he snapped, the words coming out sharper than anything he had said yet. “Because if I don’t, it falls apart.”

You shook your head immediately, anger flaring. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” he insisted, stepping closer now, his voice low but intense. “You see it every day. You know how it gets. You know what happens when there’s no one keeping it together.”

“And you think you’re the only one who can do that?” you challenged, your brows pulling together. “You think without you the entire place just collapses?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation.

The certainty in it hit harder than anything else. You stared at him for a second, something in your chest tightening, not just frustration now, but something deeper, something more personal.

“That’s not just about the hospital,” you said quietly, your voice shifting. “That’s how you see everything, isn’t it?”

He frowned slightly, thrown off for just a second. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” you continued, your tone steady but cutting now, “that you think you’re the only one who can hold things together, that everything depends on you, that if you step back for even a second, it all falls apart.”

“Because it does,” he said again, more forcefully this time.

“No,” you shot back, stepping closer until there was barely any space left between you. “It doesn’t. And if you keep going like this, pushing yourself past the point of exhaustion, taking on everything without letting anyone else help, then they will find out what it’s like without you.”

His expression shifted at that, something flashing there, anger or hurt or both.

“Don’t,” he said sharply.

“No, you don’t get to shut that down,” you continued, your voice rising despite yourself. “You’re not invincible, Robby. You don’t get to just keep doing this like it won’t catch up to you.”

“And what do you want me to do?” he demanded, his voice louder now, frustration spilling over. “Walk away? Leave it to people who don’t care as much? Who don’t see what’s actually happening?”

“I want you to stop acting like you’re the only one who cares,” you said, the words landing harder than you meant them to.

He went still at that, his jaw tightening as he looked at you. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“That’s exactly what you’re doing,” you replied, not backing down. “You shut everyone out, you take everything on yourself, and then you act like no one else is stepping up when you won’t even let them.”

He let out a harsh laugh, shaking his head. “You think I’m the problem?”

“I think you’re part of it,” you said, the honesty sharp and immediate.

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with everything neither of you had said out loud before.

“And what about you?” he shot back after a moment, his voice quieter but no less intense. “You think you’ve been so easy to deal with lately? You think I don’t feel you pulling back every time this comes up?”

Your breath caught slightly at that, your eyes narrowing.

“I’m pulling back because you’re not here,” you said. “Even when you are, you’re not.”

“I’m doing my job,” he said.

“And I’m asking you to still be my partner while you do it,” you replied, your voice cracking just slightly at the edges now.

He looked at you then, really looked, something conflicted flickering across his face before it hardened again. “Maybe that’s the problem,” he said quietly.

Your stomach dropped. “What is?”

“Maybe this,” he gestured vaguely between the two of you, “doesn’t work the way we thought it did.”

The words hit like a physical thing, sharp and immediate, and for a second you just stared at him, unable to process them.

“You don’t mean that,” you said, your voice softer now, but unsteady.

“Don’t I?” he countered, though there was something uncertain buried under it.

“You’re just tired,” you said quickly, like if you could explain it away it wouldn’t be real. “You’re stressed and you’re taking it out on—”

“I’m not taking it out on you,” he interrupted, his tone defensive again. “I’m telling you how it feels.”

“And how it feels is that this doesn’t work?” you asked, your voice rising again, hurt threading through it now. “After everything? After eleven years of knowing each other, seven years of being together, that’s where you land?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, the words rough, frustrated. “I don’t know anything right now except that I’m being pulled in ten different directions and I can’t keep up with all of it.”

“And I’m one of those directions?” you asked quietly.

He didn’t answer right away. And that was answer enough. You swallowed hard, your chest tightening as you took a step back, putting space between you for the first time since the argument started.

“That’s…really something,” you said, your voice quieter now, but no less sharp.

He looked like he wanted to say something else, like he was trying to find the words to fix what he had just broken, but nothing came out. The silence stretched, heavy and unresolved, the air between you thick with everything that had been said and everything that couldn’t be taken back. And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like something you could just move past.

******

The air had finally shifted sometime after sunset, the heavy heat of the day giving way to something cooler, something that felt like it could be breathed in without effort, and you had taken refuge in it without really thinking, stepping out onto the balcony and staying there long after the light had faded completely. You hadn’t eaten, though you knew you should have, your body running on nothing but the remnants of the day and the adrenaline that had long since burned out, but the thought of food sat heavy in your stomach in a way that made it impossible to even consider.

You hadn’t spoken to Robby either. Not since the argument. Not since the words that had hung between you, sharp and unresolved, cutting deeper the longer they sat there without anything to soften them. You didn’t even know what he had been doing inside, whether he had tried to distract himself with work, whether he had just sat with it the way you had, whether he had replayed the conversation over and over the same way it kept circling in your mind until you had finally gone too tired to even keep doing that.

Your tears had come and gone hours ago, leaving behind nothing but a dull ache and a heaviness that settled deep in your chest, and now you just…sat, your arms loosely wrapped around yourself as you stared out into the quiet, your thoughts slowed to the point where they barely felt like thoughts at all. You heard the door before you saw him. The soft roll of it opening behind you, the shift in the air that told you he was there even before you turned your head.

When you did, your eyes met his immediately. For a few seconds, neither of you said anything. He leaned slightly against the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, his posture looser than it had been earlier but not relaxed, not really, and in the dim light you could see it, the redness in his eyes, the way the edges of him looked…worn.

“It’s late,” he said finally, his voice quieter than it had been hours ago, the sharpness gone, replaced with something softer, something tired. “Come try and get some sleep.”

You held his gaze for a second before looking away again, your fingers tightening slightly around your arms.

“I’m off tomorrow,” you said. “You can go ahead.”

He didn’t move.

“I couldn’t sleep right now even if I tried,” you added, your voice flat, not cold but not warm either, just…honest.

The silence settled again after that, stretching between you, longer this time, heavier. You expected him to leave. He didn’t. After another minute, you turned your head again, looking back at him, and this time you really saw it, the way his eyes were red, not just tired but…something else, something that made your chest tighten despite everything. For a second, instinct kicked in, that pull to get up, to go to him, to fix it the way you always did. But his words from earlier sat there too, just as heavy, just as present, and they kept you where you were.

He glanced at you again, like he could feel the shift, like he knew exactly what was holding you back.

“Come to bed,” he said again, softer this time, almost like he was asking instead of telling.

You held his gaze, something steady settling into you despite the exhaustion.

“Did you mean it?” you asked quietly.

He stilled.

“What you said earlier,” you clarified, your voice still even, still controlled in a way that cost you more than it showed.

He shook his head almost immediately, his hand dragging down over his face as he exhaled. “I’m not even sure I know my own name right now,” he muttered, the words rough, disjointed.

You didn’t respond to that, didn’t let him deflect, just watched him, waiting. He saw it. You saw the moment it landed, the moment he realized that wasn’t enough, that you weren’t going to let it go with something half-formed and uncertain. He let out a heavier sigh then, his shoulders dropping just slightly as he looked back at you.

“No,” he said finally, more clearly this time. “Of course I didn’t mean it.”

The tension in your chest eased just a fraction, but it didn’t disappear, not completely.

“Then why did you say it?” you asked, the question quiet but firm.

He hesitated, his gaze drifting away for a second before coming back to you, like he was forcing himself to stay there, to not look away.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice low. “Maybe because I feel like I’m backed into a corner right now, and the only way out is to…push everything away before it gets any heavier.”

Your brow pulled together slightly at that, your arms loosening just a little as you shifted in your seat.

“You’re not—” he started quickly, stepping forward just a fraction. “You’re not weight. That’s not what I meant.”

“But knowing I’m worried is,” you said quietly, finishing the thought for him.

He didn’t deny it. He just looked at you, something conflicted and tired and painfully honest sitting in his expression.

“I’ve fought Gloria,” he said after a second, his voice still low but steadier now. “I’ve fought Dana, I’ve fought Jack… I feel like I’m fighting everyone lately.” He let out a breath that sounded like it had been sitting in his chest all day. “So why not you too?”

The words landed softer than the ones before, but they still landed. You stared at him for a moment, something in you shifting, not anger this time, not even frustration, just…something tired and real. You pushed yourself up slowly, your legs stiff from sitting there so long, and walked toward him, closing the distance that had felt so wide just minutes ago.

“I can’t fight you,” you said quietly, stopping just in front of him.

His eyes lifted to yours, something breaking open there just slightly.

“I don’t have it in my heart to do that,” you added, your voice softer now, but no less certain.

He swallowed, his expression shifting into something that looked dangerously close to falling apart, the weight of everything pressing down in a way that neither of you could ignore anymore. The soft chime of the clock inside echoed faintly through the apartment, marking midnight in a way that felt almost too loud for the moment. He exhaled slowly, his gaze still locked on yours.

“Please,” he said, the word quiet, almost fragile. “Come to bed.”

You hesitated, the exhaustion settling heavier into your bones now, the emotional weight of the night leaving you with very little left to give.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

He stepped closer then, not touching you yet, but close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the familiarity of him.

“Will you at least lie down with me?” he asked, his tone softer than you had heard it all night.

You looked at him for a long second, the fight gone from both of you now, replaced with something quieter, something that didn’t demand or push, just…asked. And you didn’t have it in you to argue anymore. So you nodded, just once.

“Okay,” you said.

And together, without another word, you went inside.

******

The shift had felt normal in the way that nothing in the emergency department was ever truly normal, but predictable enough that you had slipped into the rhythm of it without thinking, moving from patient to patient, room to room, letting muscle memory and experience carry you through the noise and urgency. Samira was beside you in the room, running through vitals again while you reviewed the chart, the patient on the bed agitated in a way that hadn’t quite tipped into concern yet, but sat just on the edge of it, enough that you kept one eye on him even as you spoke.

“Sir, I just need you to stay still for me,” you said calmly, your voice even, practiced, as you stepped a little closer to adjust the line at his arm.

“I said I’m fine,” he snapped, his tone sharp, his body tense under your hands.

“I hear you,” you replied, not rising to it, your movements steady. “But we need to make sure—”

It happened fast. Faster than your brain could fully process in the moment. One second you were standing there, focused, controlled, and the next his hand was shoving hard against your shoulder, the force unexpected enough that it knocked you back before you could brace for it. Your back hit the wall behind you with a dull impact, not enough to do real damage, but enough to knock the breath out of you for a split second, your hand instinctively coming up to steady yourself.

“Hey—!” Samira started, stepping forward, but the patient turned on her just as quickly, his arm swinging out and catching her off balance.

She went down hard, the sound of it sharp against the tile as she hit the ground, the chaos in the room escalating instantly.

“Security!” someone shouted from the doorway, though you didn’t even register who.

You were already moving, pushing off the wall despite the lingering sting in your shoulder, your focus snapping back into place as you stepped forward again.

“Sir, you need to—”

Robby was there before you finished the sentence. You didn’t even see where he came from, only that suddenly he was between you and the patient, his presence immediate and commanding in a way that shifted the entire energy of the room.

“Back up,” he said, his voice low but firm, his hands up, ready.

The patient didn’t listen. He swung. The hit landed against Robby’s cheek, the sound of it sharp and sickening, your stomach dropping even as Robby barely staggered, his body absorbing it in a way that spoke of instinct and experience.

And then he swung back. Not wild, not uncontrolled, but precise, a single punch that sent the patient stumbling backward onto the bed, disoriented just long enough for the rest of the team to move in. Security flooded the room seconds later, voices overlapping, hands grabbing, restraining, bringing the situation back under control piece by piece until the chaos finally settled into something contained. Your heart was still racing when it was over, your breathing uneven as you looked between Samira, who was already pushing herself back up with help, and Robby, who stood there still, his jaw tight, his chest rising and falling just a little too fast.

“I’m fine,” he muttered when your eyes landed on him, though you hadn’t even asked yet.

You didn’t believe him.

******

A little while later, the department had moved on the way it always did, the incident already becoming just another thing in a long line of things, but you hadn’t. You stood in front of him now, the ice pack pressed gently against his cheek where the bruise was already beginning to form, your movements careful, controlled in a way that barely masked the anger still simmering underneath. He sat on the edge of a small suture table, one hand resting against it while you worked, his other hand held out toward you as you cleaned the shallow cuts across his knuckles.

“You’re going to have a hell of a bruise,” you murmured, your tone quieter now but still edged.

“I’ve had worse,” he replied, though there was a faint wince as you dabbed antiseptic over the split skin.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” you shot back, your focus not leaving your hands as you applied ointment carefully, making sure nothing deeper had been missed.

He didn’t argue with that. For a moment, it was quiet, the first real pause either of you had had all day, the first moment where he wasn’t being pulled in ten different directions, where you weren’t either. And then the door opened.

Gloria stepped in like she owned the space, composed as ever, her gaze moving quickly over the scene before settling on Robby, then on you.

“I heard there was an incident,” she said, her tone calm, measured.

Something in you snapped. You straightened immediately, the ice pack still in your hand as you turned to face her fully, the frustration and anger you had been holding onto for days finally breaking through.

“An incident?” you repeated, your voice sharp, incredulous. “He just got hit by a patient, Gloria.”

Her expression didn’t change, not much, but you didn’t stop.

“This is what happens,” you continued, stepping closer, your voice rising despite yourself. “You keep piling more and more on him, stretching him thinner and thinner, and then you expect him to walk back into situations like that without missing a beat.”

“Doctor—” she started.

“No,” you cut her off, your tone firm, leaving no room for interruption. “You don’t get to brush this off like it’s nothing. He hasn’t had a real break in weeks. He’s exhausted, he’s running on fumes, and you’re still asking for more.”

Robby shifted slightly behind you, like he might say something, but you didn’t let him.

“If you don’t back off,” you added, your voice lower now but no less intense, “I will walk. And I’m not bluffing.”

The room went still. Gloria regarded you for a long moment, her expression unreadable, her composure unshaken in a way that only seemed to fuel your anger more.

“You’re not in charge here,” she said calmly.

You didn’t flinch.

“But,” she added, her gaze flicking briefly to Robby before returning to you, something more thoughtful settling there, “maybe he should take the rest of the day off.”

There was a pause, just long enough for the words to settle.

“Maybe both of you should,” she continued, her tone still even. “That’s not a suggestion.”

An order. And just like that, she turned and stepped back out, the door closing quietly behind her. The silence that followed felt heavier than the chaos from earlier. You stood there for a second longer, your chest still tight, your grip on the ice pack loosening slightly before you turned back toward him.

Robby hadn’t moved. He was still sitting there, the ice pack now resting loosely in his own hand against his cheek, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead of him, his expression unreadable in a way that made your chest ache.

For the first time in weeks, he wasn’t moving. And you weren’t sure if that made it better…or worse.

******

The apartment felt quieter than usual, not in an empty way, but in a way that felt intentional, like both of you were still recovering from the day, from the week, from everything that had been building and finally broken open. The muted sound of the game played softly in the background, the Pittsburgh Pirates moving across the screen in a rhythm that felt almost soothing in its predictability, a stark contrast to the chaos you had both come from just hours earlier.

Robby sat on the couch, his posture relaxed in appearance only, one arm draped loosely along his leg while the other held the ice pack against his knuckles, his gaze fixed on the television without really being there, like his mind was still somewhere else entirely. You watched him from the kitchen, your hands moving through the motions of starting dinner without much thought behind them, the chicken sitting in the bowl in front of you as you worked the marinade through it slowly, your eyes drifting back to him more often than not.

He hadn’t moved much since you got home. At first, it had worried you. Now, you weren’t sure. Maybe stillness was what he needed. Maybe not being pulled in ten different directions, not being forced to react, to decide, to carry everything, maybe that was the break his body and mind had been begging for.

You exhaled softly and slid the bowl into the fridge, closing the door with a quiet click before wiping your hands on a towel and making your way over to him. He looked up when you got close, his eyes finding yours easily, something more present there now than there had been earlier.

“How are you?” you asked, your voice gentle, your arms crossing loosely as you stood in front of him.

“I’m fine,” he said, the answer automatic but not dismissive this time, just…simple.

You glanced down at his hand, then back at him. “Did you take something?” you asked.

He nodded toward the table beside him, where the bottle of Tylenol sat open, the cap resting loosely next to it. “Yeah.”

You nodded once, the quiet settling again between you as you shifted your weight slightly, your gaze flicking toward the television for a second.

“Who’s winning?” you asked, the question light, almost absent.

That’s when he smiled. It was small, barely there, but you saw it, felt it, the shift in him as he looked back at you.

“What?” you asked, your brows pulling together slightly.

“You can just ask me what you actually want to ask,” he said, his tone softer now, something knowing in it. “You don’t have to do the small talk thing.”

You let out a quiet breath at that, your arms tightening just slightly across your chest before you gave in, your gaze steadying on him.

“Have you thought about it?” you asked. “About earlier. About…us?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for the remote and turned the volume all the way down until the game became nothing more than silent movement in the background, the room settling into something more serious, more intentional. He set the ice pack down on the table, flexing his fingers once before resting his hands on his knees, his gaze dropping for a moment as if he was gathering the right words.

“I don’t want to fight you,” he said finally, his voice low, steady. “I don’t want to fight anyone.”

You nodded slightly, but didn’t interrupt.

“But you also can’t stand there and tell me that if I just stop,” he continued, lifting his eyes back to you, “if I just walk away from trying to organize that place, from trying to keep it running the way it needs to, that everything will be fine.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he kept going.

“I’m too ingrained in it,” he said, more firmly now. “Whether it’s fair or not, that’s the reality. I’m in it. And I can’t just…pull out and pretend it won’t matter.”

The words settled between you, heavier this time, but not sharp like before, not meant to wound, just…honest.

“I can try to step back,” he added after a second. “I can lean on Jack more. On Shen. I can push for different support instead of just more fellows and students. I can ask for what we actually need.”

You felt something in your chest ease just slightly at that, not fully, but enough. He stood then, pushing himself up from the couch, his presence shifting as he moved closer to you, his eyes holding yours in a way that told you he wasn’t done yet.

“But I need you to step up more too,” he said.

You blinked, thrown slightly. “I am stepping up,” you replied, your brows pulling together.

He shook his head, not harshly, but firmly. “Not in the way I need,” he said.

You frowned, confusion settling in. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he continued, his voice steady, “I need you to start looking at patients as numbers.”

You stared at him, the words not landing right, not at all. “I’m an attending,” you said. “I do look at—”

“You’re incredible with patients,” he cut in, not dismissive, but certain. “You always have been. But you lean into that side of it. The teaching, the care, the connection.”

“I’ve taken on more teaching,” you argued, your tone tightening slightly. “That is stepping up.”

“Everyone teaches,” he replied, not unkindly, but directly. “It’s a teaching hospital. That’s not the gap I need you to fill.”

You felt the frustration flicker again, but this time it was mixed with something else, something slower, something dawning.

“I need you on chart approvals,” he continued. “On patient satisfaction metrics. I need you helping with resident scheduling. I need you working with Dana on nurse coordination.”

Your frown deepened, but the pieces were starting to shift, starting to fall into place in a way you hadn’t considered before. Robby had been carrying more. Because you hadn’t been. Not in those areas. He watched you as it clicked, his expression softening just slightly.

“I should’ve pushed you more on it,” he admitted. “I didn’t.”

You looked up at him, something quieter settling into your chest. “Why?”

That was when he smiled again, this time a little more openly, a little more like him.

“Come on, baby,” he said softly. “You know why.”

And you did. Because he knew what you loved. Because he had let you stay in it. Because he had taken the rest on himself instead. Your shoulders dropped slowly, the tension easing out of you as you turned and walked back toward the couch, lowering yourself onto it with a quiet exhale.

He followed a second later, sitting down beside you, his arm stretching across the back of the couch behind you, not quite pulling you in, but there, available, steady.

You glanced at him, then down at your hands. “I’m sorry,” you said quietly.

He shook his head immediately. “No,” he said. “You became a doctor because you wanted to help people. You’ve risen through all of this because you’re good at it. I’ve loved watching you do that.”

You looked up at him again, something in your chest tightening for a different reason now.

“But now,” he continued, his voice softer, more real, “you’re too good. You’re too valuable. And people like Gloria…they’re going to use that.”

The words settled heavy, but not wrong. You leaned into him then, your shoulder brushing his side, your body fitting into his in a way that felt natural again, like something that hadn’t been broken, just strained. For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then you tilted your head up slightly, looking at him. “So…more paperwork?” you asked, your tone lighter, but only just.

He let out a quiet laugh, the sound real this time, shaking his head slightly. “You don’t even know the half of it.”

You frowned a little at that, but nodded anyway, accepting it even if you didn’t love it. A few seconds later, you felt his lips press gently to your temple, lingering there just long enough to say everything he wasn’t putting into words. And for the first time in days, it felt like you were on the same side again.

******

The department had thinned out just enough to feel the difference, not quiet, never truly quiet, but less frantic, less immediate, the kind of late shift lull where the work didn’t stop, it just…slowed its pace enough for everything else to catch up. You were still at the computer, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes fixed on the screen as you worked your way through the mountain of charts from the day, your fingers moving slower now than they had earlier, fatigue creeping in with every line you entered.

It had been hours. And somehow, you were still not done. You barely registered the sound of footsteps behind you until you felt him there, his presence settling in close before his voice followed.

“You ready to go?” Robby asked, his tone softer than it had been most of the day.

You didn’t turn right away, your eyes still scanning the chart in front of you as you shook your head slightly.

“Almost,” you said, though even you weren’t entirely sure that was true.

He didn’t push it. Instead, he stepped closer, his hands coming up to rest on your shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the tight muscles there in a way that made you exhale without meaning to, the tension easing just slightly under his touch.

“You’ve been at this for a while,” he murmured, his voice lower now, closer.

“Mm,” you hummed in agreement, your head tilting just a fraction as you leaned into his hands.

You felt him lean down then, his lips brushing softly against the side of your neck, the touch gentle, grounding, familiar in a way that made everything else fade for just a second. You closed your eyes briefly, letting yourself have that moment.

And then he stilled. His hands paused, his breath shifting slightly, and you felt it immediately, the change in him before he even said anything.

“You’re gonna hate me,” he said quietly.

You frowned, your eyes opening as you turned your head to look back at him. “What?”

He hesitated for just a second before gesturing toward the screen. “You’re doing it wrong.”

You blinked at him, the words not quite landing at first. “What do you mean?”

He leaned forward slightly, pointing to a section of the chart.

“That information,” he said, “it goes here, not there.”

You stared at the screen, then back at him, your stomach dropping just a little. “Robby,” you said slowly, “I’ve done like…twenty charts like this.”

“Yeah,” he replied, not unkindly, but definitely not backing down. “And they’re all wrong.”

You closed your eyes for a second, your head dropping forward slightly as you let out a long breath. “I’m going to start crying,” you muttered.

He immediately dropped his bag to the floor beside him, stepping closer again. “Hey,” he said, softer now. “I’ll help you fix them.”

You shook your head before he even finished the sentence, straightening slightly in your chair. “No.”

He frowned. “What do you mean no?”

“I mean no,” you repeated, turning back to the screen, your fingers already moving again. “It’s my job. I need to do it.”

“You don’t have to sit here for another hour fixing this by yourself,” he argued, his tone shifting into something more insistent.

“Yes, I do,” you shot back, though there was no real heat in it, just determination. “It’s the only way I’m going to learn it the right way.”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Or you could learn it faster if I just—”

“No,” you said again, more firmly this time, finally turning in your chair to face him fully. “Plus,” you added, your expression softening just slightly, “how long has it been since you got home before me?”

He paused at that, something amused flickering across his face despite himself. “A while,” he admitted.

You nodded once. “Exactly. So go home.”

He looked like he wanted to argue again, the words already forming, but you held his gaze, steady, unyielding in a way he knew better than to push too far.

“I’ll be there later,” you said quietly.

He sighed, the fight leaving him as he bent down to pick up his bag again, slinging it over his shoulder.

“You’re stubborn,” he muttered.

You smiled faintly at that, tilting your head up as he leaned down, meeting him halfway as your lips brushed together in a soft, lingering kiss.

“I learned from the best,” you murmured against his mouth.

He huffed a quiet laugh, pressing one more quick kiss to your lips before pulling back. “I’ll see you later,” he said.

You nodded, already turning back to your screen as he walked away.

It took another hour. An entire hour of reworking, correcting, double-checking, your eyes burning slightly by the time you finally finished the last chart, your shoulders aching as you leaned back in your chair and let out a slow breath. But you did it. Every single one.

You gathered your things slowly, shutting down the computer before making your way out, the department quieter now, the late hour settling in fully. You were halfway down the hall when you ran into Ellis, who looked at you like you had just proven some long-standing point.

“You’re still here?” she laughed lightly, crossing her arms.

You groaned softly, shaking your head. “Not anymore. I’m leaving.”

She raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. “Going home to your lover?” she asked, her tone teasing.

You let out a quiet laugh despite your exhaustion, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “Is that what you call your boss?” you shot back.

She smirked wider at that, clearly entertained, but didn’t argue.

“Get out of here,” she said, waving you off.

You gave her a small wave in return, your steps a little lighter now as you headed for the exit. Finally done. And finally on your way back to him.

******

By the time you got home, the exhaustion had settled deep into your bones, the kind that came from a full day, from pushing yourself into something new and stubbornly refusing to let it beat you, but underneath it there was something lighter too, something steady that carried you up the stairs and through the door.

The second you stepped inside, you smelled it. Not cooking, not something simmering on the stove the way it usually was, but takeout, something warm and easy and already done, and it made your shoulders drop just a fraction as you shut the door behind you.

Robby was already there, moving around the kitchen in that familiar way, more relaxed than you had seen him in days, his sleeves pushed up, his posture looser as he turned toward you.

You dropped your bag without much ceremony, your shoes kicked off halfway to the kitchen as you let out a breath and said, without overthinking it, “I love you.”

He laughed at that immediately, the sound real and unguarded as he reached for a beer and handed it to you.

“That took you all of ten seconds,” he said, his eyes soft as he watched you.

You took it from him, your fingers brushing his briefly before you leaned in and kissed him, slow and easy, the kind of kiss that didn’t need anything else behind it except the fact that you were both here, together, at the end of the day.

“Finish the charts?” he murmured against your lips.

“Fuck charts,” you replied, though there was a smile tugging at your mouth as you pulled back and made your way over to the counter where the food was laid out.

You started plating your meal without much thought, your body moving on autopilot as you opened containers, portioned things out, letting the normalcy of it settle you in a way that felt grounding after everything.

You reached for a napkin. And stopped. There, sitting neatly on top of the stack, was an envelope.

Your name was written across the front in Robby’s handwriting, unmistakable even in the simplest form, and something in your chest shifted immediately as your fingers hovered over it for just a second before you picked it up. You glanced over at him instinctively. He was already watching you. Not tense, not nervous exactly, but waiting, his expression softer, more open than you had seen it in days.

You set your plate down without realizing you were doing it, your attention fully pulled into the envelope now as you slid your finger under the flap and opened it carefully.

Inside were tickets. Your brow furrowed slightly as you pulled them out, your eyes scanning the details, the destination hitting you first.

The British Virgin Islands.

You blinked, your brain catching up a second later as you looked closer, the dates clicking into place. Four, five days. Leaving in three. Right after your four-day shift stretch. You looked up at him, the question already there before you could even form it.

He just shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal, like he hadn’t just handed you something that made your entire chest feel lighter all at once.

“You told me I needed to step back some,” he said, his tone casual, but there was something more behind it, something intentional. “Figured if I’m doing that, I’m bringing you with me.”

A laugh broke out of you before you could stop it, a little disbelieving, a little overwhelmed as you shook your head.

“I meant like…a walk in the park,” you said, your voice warm despite yourself.

He tilted his head slightly, one corner of his mouth lifting.

“I can cancel it,” he said, like he meant it, like it wouldn’t cost him anything to pull it back if you didn’t want it.

“No,” you said immediately.

You crossed the space between you before he could even finish the thought, the tickets still in your hand as your other arm came up around his neck, pulling yourself into him without hesitation.

“Don’t you dare,” you added more softly, your forehead brushing his for a second as you held him there.

He let out a quiet breath, his hands settling at your waist, grounding you both as he looked down at you.

“You sure?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

You smiled, something soft and certain settling into place. “Yeah,” you said. “I’m sure.”

For a moment, neither of you moved, just stood there in the kitchen, the weight of the last few days still there, but lighter now, like something had shifted just enough to let you both breathe again. Your fingers tightened slightly around the envelope as you pulled back just enough to look at him again, your expression softening.

“We leave in three days?” you asked.

He nodded once. You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head again as you leaned back into him, your arms still wrapped around him.

“Okay,” you said, more to yourself than anything.

And for the first time in a long time, the future didn’t feel like something pressing down on you. It felt like something you were walking into together.

*******

You woke slowly, not all at once, but in pieces, your body surfacing before your mind fully caught up, the kind of disjointed awareness that came from being somewhere unfamiliar in the best possible way. The first thing you noticed wasn’t the bed beneath you or the light filtering in through the curtains.

It was the sound. Soft, steady, rhythmic. Waves. It took your brain a second to register it, to place it, because it didn’t belong to your normal, didn’t belong to the city noise and distant sirens and the constant hum of Pittsburgh that you had grown so used to that you barely noticed it anymore.

This was different. This was…open. You shifted slightly, your eyes still closed as you breathed in, and that’s when the second thing hit you.

Salt. Warm air. Ocean.

Your eyes opened then, blinking against the brightness as you took in the room around you, the unfamiliar walls, the soft, airy space that felt so far removed from your apartment that it almost didn’t feel real at first. And then you turned your head slightly, your gaze drifting toward the open balcony doors, where the curtains moved lazily in the breeze, and beyond them…Aquamarine water. Endless and bright and impossibly clear, stretching out until it met the sky in a way that made your chest feel lighter just looking at it.

The waves rolled in gently in the distance, their sound steady, grounding, and for a moment you just stared, your brain finally catching up with what your senses had already figured out.

This wasn’t Pittsburgh.

A quiet breath left you, something between a laugh and disbelief as you pushed yourself up slowly, the sheets falling away as you sat there, letting it settle fully into you. You were here. You were actually here. And then you smelled it.

Coffee. Fresh, warm, familiar in a way that cut through the surrealness of everything else, anchoring you just enough to pull you fully out of bed. You swung your legs over the side, your movements still slow, still waking, your hand reaching automatically for the nearest thing you could throw on, and your fingers brushed against his shirt. You smiled faintly to yourself as you pulled it on, the fabric soft and familiar as it draped over your body, the scent of him still faintly there even in a place like this.

You rubbed your face but stopped. You pulled your hand back down and looked at the ring on your finger. It was a simple diamond cut framed by a gold band. It was perfect.

The floor was cool beneath your feet as you stepped out of the bedroom, following the smell without thinking, your body already knowing where to go. You found him in the small kitchen area just off the main room, standing at the counter with two mugs in front of him, his back partially turned as he poured the coffee, his movements easy, unhurried in a way that felt foreign compared to how you were used to seeing him.

He glanced over his shoulder when he heard you, and the second his eyes landed on you, he smiled. Not the small, tired ones you had seen lately. A real one.

He was already dressed for the day, if you could even call it that, swim trunks sitting low on his hips, a loose shirt thrown on like an afterthought, his hair still slightly damp like he had already been outside, already taken in the morning before you had even woken up.

“Morning,” he said, his voice warm, relaxed in a way that made something in your chest ease instantly.

You leaned lightly against the doorway for a second, just watching him, taking in the version of him that didn’t look pulled in ten different directions, that didn’t look like the weight of an entire department was sitting on his shoulders.

“Morning,” you echoed softly.

He picked up one of the mugs and held it out to you as you stepped closer, your fingers brushing his as you took it, the heat of it grounding in your hands. For a moment, neither of you said anything. You just stood there, close, the quiet between you filled with something different now, something lighter, something that didn’t feel like it was about to break under pressure. You took a small sip, your eyes drifting back toward the open balcony, toward the water that seemed to stretch on forever.

“This is…insane,” you said quietly, the words almost unnecessary but still needing to be said.

He huffed a soft laugh beside you, following your gaze. “Yeah,” he agreed.

You looked back at him then, really looked, your eyes tracing the lines of his face, the way they had softened, the way the tension that had been so constant lately seemed…gone, or at least quieter.

“This is exactly what we needed,” you added, your voice softer now, more certain.

He met your gaze, something steady settling there as he nodded once.

“Yeah,” he said again, more firmly this time.

You stepped a little closer then, your free hand coming up to rest lightly against his chest, the fabric of his shirt warm beneath your fingers as you leaned into him without thinking. The ring on your finger catching the sunlight.

He didn’t hesitate, his arm sliding around your waist, pulling you in, his chin dipping slightly as he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your temple.

Outside, the waves kept rolling in, steady and endless, the breeze carrying through the room as the world moved on without you for once. And for the first time in a long time, neither of you felt like you had to chase it.

You could just…be here. Together.

[lunar-month-library]

Absolutely gorgeous characterization of Dr Robby (my sad beloved)!! I love how you balance both his frustration and care towards The Pitt and the reader, esp after the expansion of his inner conflict we saw in Season 2.

Also LOVE your take on Attending!Reader- they are such a great match for Dr Robby and a beautiful blend of love for him but also professionalism/respect as a doctor.

AUGH I love it this and The Complaint much. Pls sign me up for any future plans for this pairing ‼️

[paigepie213]

The Complaint - Dr. Robby x Female Reader

Summary - a complaint is filled and you’re named in it.

Masterlist

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

The email comes through at 08:17, which is early enough that the emergency department has not yet settled into its usual rhythm of controlled chaos, but late enough that the night shift is fraying at the edges and the day shift has not quite taken ownership of the space, leaving everything in that strange, suspended in-between where tempers are thinner and patience runs just a little shorter than usual. You are standing at the central desk with a half-finished cup of coffee that has already gone lukewarm in your hand, your eyes scanning over a chart that you have already read twice, when you hear your name spoken in a tone that makes something in your spine straighten before you even look up.

“Hey,” Jack says, but there is something measured about it, something careful, and when you lift your eyes to him you see that he is not alone.

Dana is standing just behind him, arms folded, her expression unreadable in a way that immediately puts you on edge, and beside her is someone you do not recognize right away, which in a place like this usually means one of two things, neither of them particularly good.

“Can you step into the conference room for a minute?” Dana asks, and her voice is calm, neutral, the kind of neutral that has been practiced.

You glance between them, your grip tightening slightly around your coffee cup as a slow, unwelcome awareness begins to creep in.

“Is something wrong?” you ask, because it feels like the only reasonable question, even though something in your gut is already answering it for you.

Dana does not smile, but she softens just slightly, which somehow makes it worse.

“Just come with me,” she says, and that is all she gives you.

The walk to the conference room is not long, but it feels longer than it should, every step echoing just a little too loudly in your ears as you pass by familiar faces who do not yet know that something has shifted, that something is about to change, and you find yourself hyper-aware of everything, of the beeping monitors, the distant murmur of voices, the way someone laughs too loudly down the hall, all of it suddenly feeling far away and too close at the same time.

When you step inside, you see him. Robby is already there. He is standing near the far end of the table, one hand braced against the back of a chair, his posture deceptively relaxed in a way that you know well enough by now to recognize for what it is, which is control, tightly held and carefully maintained, and when his eyes lift to yours there is a flicker of something in them that you cannot quite name before it disappears just as quickly. You stop just inside the doorway.

“Okay,” you say slowly, your voice more even than you feel, “what’s going on?”

The woman standing near the head of the table steps forward then, offering a small, professional smile that does not quite reach her eyes.

“Hi,” she says, “I’m Karen Mitchell from hospital administration.”

Of course she is. You feel something cold settle in your chest.

“Alright,” you reply, setting your coffee down on the table without taking your eyes off her, “and why am I in a room with administration at eight in the morning?”

Karen folds her hands lightly in front of her, her posture composed, practiced.

“There’s been a formal complaint filed regarding conduct in the emergency department,” she says, her tone careful, measured, “and both of you have been named.”

For a moment, the room goes very, very quiet. You do not look at Robby right away, because you are too busy processing the words themselves, the weight of them, the implications that come with something being labeled formal, because this is not hallway gossip or a raised eyebrow or even a quiet conversation behind closed doors, this is documentation, this is paper trails, this is something that lives beyond a single moment.

“A complaint,” you repeat, because it feels unreal enough that saying it out loud might make it make more sense, “about what, exactly?”

Karen glances briefly at Dana before looking back at you.

“The complaint alleges unprofessional conduct, inappropriate communication, and potential boundary violations affecting patient care,” she says.

There it is. You let out a quiet breath through your nose, your jaw tightening slightly as you finally turn your head to look at Robby. He is already looking at you.

There is no surprise in his expression, which tells you immediately that he has heard this already, that he has been in this room before you walked in, that he has had more time to sit with it, to think about it, to decide how he is going to handle it.

“Boundary violations,” you echo, your eyes still on him now, your voice quieter, sharper, “that’s what we’re going with?”

Robby’s gaze does not waver, but something shifts behind it, something restrained.

“This isn’t the place,” he says, his voice low, controlled, not unkind but not soft either.

You let out a short, humorless breath, turning back to Karen.

“Who filed it?” you ask.

“I’m not at liberty to disclose that at this stage,” she replies smoothly, which you expected and still does nothing to make it less frustrating.

“Of course you’re not,” you murmur, shaking your head slightly as you lean back against the edge of the table, crossing your arms over your chest.

Karen continues as if you have not spoken.

“We’ll be conducting individual interviews,” she says, “and reviewing any relevant documentation or witness statements. Until then, we expect both of you to maintain professionalism and avoid any conduct that could be perceived as inappropriate.”

There is something almost ironic about being told to be professional in a room where your professionalism is being called into question.

“And what does that look like,” you ask, tilting your head slightly, “because I would love some clarification on what exactly is being interpreted as inappropriate here.”

Karen’s expression remains steady.

“That is part of what we are here to determine,” she says.

You nod slowly, your tongue pressing briefly against the inside of your cheek as you glance once more at Robby, who has gone very still beside you, his hand still gripping the back of the chair like it is the only thing anchoring him in place.

“Right,” you say, your voice quieter now, but no less firm, “well, I can tell you right now that whatever you think is happening, it’s not affecting patient care.”

There is a beat of silence. Karen studies you for a moment.

“That will be part of the review,” she repeats.

Of course it will be. You straighten then, pushing yourself away from the table slightly as you pick your coffee back up, even though you have no intention of drinking it.

“So what happens now,” you ask.

“We’ll start with individual interviews,” Karen says, “Dr. Robinavich has already been briefed, and we’ll be speaking with you next.”

You feel that, the way she says his name, formal and distant, like the version of him that exists on paper rather than the man who stands a few feet away from you now. You nod once.

“Fine,” you say.

Karen gestures toward the door.

“If you’ll come with me.”

You hesitate for just a fraction of a second, your eyes flicking to Robby one last time. This time, he looks away first. And for reasons you cannot quite explain, that is what settles it, what drives something sharp and unresolved into your chest as you turn and follow Karen out of the room, leaving him behind with whatever he has already said, whatever he has already decided, and the quiet, growing question of what, exactly, he told them when you were not there to hear it.

******

The walk down the hallway feels different this time, quieter in a way that has nothing to do with the actual volume of the emergency department and everything to do with the way your thoughts have begun to crowd in, overlapping and sharp, each one trying to make sense of something that does not quite fit together yet. You have been in this hospital long enough to know how these things go, how quickly something small can become something formal, how perception has a way of solidifying into something that looks a lot like fact when it is written down and passed between the right hands, and yet there is still a part of you that cannot quite reconcile the idea that you are now part of that process.

Karen opens the door to a smaller office just off the administrative wing, stepping aside to let you in first, and you move past her without hesitation, your shoulders squared, your expression carefully neutral in a way that mirrors her own, even though you can feel the tension sitting just beneath your skin.

“Have a seat,” she says, gesturing toward the chair across from her desk.

You do, setting your coffee down again, this time on a coaster that feels unnecessarily precise, as if even the placement of objects in this room has been curated to maintain a certain level of order that your current situation does not reflect. Karen takes her seat across from you, opening a thin folder and glancing down at it briefly before looking back up, her eyes steady.

“For the record,” she begins, “this conversation is part of an internal review process, and while it is not disciplinary at this stage, the information gathered may be used in determining next steps.”

You nod once, because you understand what she is saying even if she is choosing to phrase it carefully.

“Understood,” you reply.

There is a small beat of silence before she continues.

“Can you describe your working relationship with Dr. Robinavich?”

It is such a simple question, on the surface, and yet it lands heavier than you expect, because there are a hundred different ways to answer it, a hundred different truths you could choose from depending on what version of the story you want to tell. You lean back slightly in your chair, folding your hands loosely in your lap as you consider your words.

“We work well together,” you say finally, your voice even, controlled, “we communicate clearly, we trust each other’s judgment, and we handle high-pressure situations effectively.”

Karen watches you as you speak, her expression unchanged, but there is something in her eyes that suggests she is listening for more than just the words themselves.

“And outside of direct patient care?” she asks.

There it is. You tilt your head slightly, meeting her gaze without flinching.

“We’re colleagues,” you say, and it is not a lie, even if it is not the whole truth.

Karen makes a small note on the paper in front of her, the sound of pen against page louder than it should be in the quiet of the room.

“The complaint alleges that there have been instances of blurred professional boundaries,” she continues, “including communication that could be interpreted as personal in nature during work hours.”

You let out a slow breath through your nose, your jaw tightening just slightly.

“This is an emergency department,” you say, your tone still calm, but with an edge now, “we spend twelve to fourteen hours at a time working in close proximity, managing life and death situations, if someone thinks that a conversation here or there crosses a line without context, then I would question their understanding of how this environment functions.”

Karen does not react immediately, which you suspect is intentional.

“Context is part of what we’re trying to establish,” she says after a moment.

You nod once, because you expected that answer.

“Then I can tell you that nothing about my interactions with Dr. Robinavich has compromised patient care,” you say, more firmly now, “if anything, the opposite is true.”

Karen studies you for a moment, then glances down at her notes again.

“Were you aware of any concerns raised by other staff members prior to this complaint being filed?” she asks.

“No,” you answer without hesitation, because you were not, because if you had been you would have addressed it, you would have adjusted, you would have done something to prevent this from happening in the first place. Another note, another quiet scratch of pen on paper.

“And your communication with Dr. Robinavich,” she continues, “would you describe it as consistent with standard professional conduct?”

You hold her gaze.

“Yes,” you say.

There is a pause then, a longer one this time, and you can feel that she is weighing something, deciding how to phrase what comes next, which tells you that whatever it is, it matters.

“Dr. Robinavich indicated that there have been moments where personal dynamics may have influenced professional interactions,” she says carefully.

The words land softly, but they hit harder than anything she has said so far. You go very still.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice quieter now, but no less sharp, “he said what?”

Karen does not look away from you.

“He acknowledged that the nature of your working relationship has, at times, extended beyond strictly professional boundaries,” she clarifies.

For a moment, you do not respond. You are too busy replaying the look on his face in the conference room, the way he had not seemed surprised, the way he had already settled into something controlled and contained, and suddenly that look takes on a different meaning, a different weight.

“And how exactly did he phrase that,” you ask, because you cannot not ask, because you need to know what version of you he gave them when you were not in the room to give your own.

Karen hesitates, just slightly.

“He expressed concern that certain interactions could be perceived as preferential or emotionally influenced,” she says.

Preferential. Emotionally influenced. You let out a short, quiet laugh that holds no real humor.

“Right,” you murmur, leaning back further in your chair as you cross your arms over your chest again, your gaze drifting briefly to the side before returning to her, “and did he also mention the part where we’ve been pulling double shifts together for the last three weeks, or the part where we’ve had to make split-second decisions that rely on knowing how the other person thinks without having to spell it out, or is that not as convenient for the narrative.”

Karen’s expression remains composed, but there is something more attentive in her posture now, as if she is taking in not just your words, but the shift in your tone, the edge that has crept in.

“He did speak to your ability to work effectively as a team,” she says.

You nod once, sharply.

“Of course he did,” you reply.

There is a silence that follows, one that stretches just a little too long, filled with everything you are not saying, everything you are choosing to hold back because you understand, at least on some level, that this is not the place for it. Finally, Karen closes the folder in front of her.

“Is there anything else you would like to add?” she asks.

You consider the question, really consider it, because there is a lot you could say, a lot you could unpack and lay out in front of her, but none of it feels like it belongs here, not like this.

“Yes,” you say after a moment, your voice steady again, controlled in the way you know how to make it when it matters.

Karen looks up.

“I would like it noted that whatever concerns have been raised,” you continue, meeting her gaze directly, “they do not reflect the reality of how I conduct myself in this department, and they do not reflect the quality of care that my patients receive.”

Karen nods once, making a final note.

“I’ll include that,” she says.

You stand then, because you are done, because you have said what you are going to say in this room, because anything else would not be for her.

“Thank you,” you add, because you know how this works, because you know that politeness still matters even when you do not feel it. Karen gives a small, professional smile.

“Thank you for your time.”

You turn and walk out without another word, your steps measured, controlled, even as something unsettled continues to churn beneath the surface, something that has nothing to do with the complaint itself and everything to do with the words that are still echoing in your head.

Preferential.

Emotionally influenced.

You push the door open and step back into the hallway, the noise of the hospital rushing in around you again, grounding and overwhelming all at once, and for a moment you just stand there, your eyes scanning the familiar space as if seeing it differently now. And then you see him.

Robby is leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on you in a way that tells you he has been waiting, that he has not moved since you walked out of that conference room earlier, that whatever he said in there, whatever version of the story he gave them, he still came back out here. You hold his gaze as you start toward him, your steps steady, deliberate, your expression unreadable in a way that mirrors his own, and when you stop in front of him there is a beat of silence that stretches between you, heavy and charged and full of everything that has not yet been said.

“Well,” you say finally, your voice quiet but edged, “that was enlightening.”

Robby’s jaw tightens slightly, his eyes searching yours in a way that feels almost careful.

“What did they say to you,” he asks.

You let out a small breath, tilting your head just slightly as you study him.

“That depends,” you reply, “what did you say to them?”

The question hangs there between you, sharp and unavoidable, and for the first time since you have known him, you see something flicker across his face that looks a lot like hesitation. The hesitation does not last long, but it is there, and that alone is enough to confirm what you already suspect, what has been sitting just beneath the surface since the moment Karen spoke his words out loud in that office, carefully packaged and stripped of context, leaving behind something that feels colder, more clinical, and somehow more personal all at once.

Robby exhales slowly, pushing himself off the wall as his arms drop from where they had been crossed over his chest, his posture shifting into something more open, but not entirely relaxed, because there is a tension in his shoulders that you recognize, one that usually only surfaces when he is choosing his words with deliberate care.

“I told them the truth,” he says.

You let out a quiet, humorless breath at that, your head tilting slightly as your eyes narrow just a fraction.

“Did you,” you reply, your voice calm in a way that feels almost too controlled, “because from where I’m standing, it sounds like you gave them a version of it that’s a little more convenient.”

His jaw tightens, just enough that you catch it.

“That’s not what I did,” he says, his tone still even, but there is something firmer in it now, something that suggests he is already bracing himself.

You take a small step closer, not enough to invade his space, but enough to make it clear that you are not going to let this stay at a distance, not physically and not otherwise.

“They said you told them our interactions were ‘emotionally influenced,’” you say, the words coming out sharper now, less restrained, “that there were ‘personal dynamics’ affecting how we work.”

Robby does not interrupt you, which somehow makes it worse.

“So I’m just trying to understand,” you continue, your gaze locked on his, “what exactly you think that means.”

There is a beat of silence, the noise of the ER moving around you like a current that neither of you is fully stepping into, both of you standing just outside of it for a moment that feels suspended, separate.

“It means,” he says finally, his voice lower now, more measured, “that we don’t work together the same way we do with everyone else.”

You stare at him for a second, something in your chest tightening.

“No,” you say slowly, “we don’t, because we’re good at what we do, because we know how each other thinks, because we don’t have to waste time second guessing decisions when it matters.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” he replies, and there is a flicker of frustration there now, subtle but present.

“Then what are you talking about,” you press, because you are not going to let him keep this vague, not when it is being used against you like this.

Robby runs a hand over the back of his neck, exhaling again as he glances briefly to the side before bringing his eyes back to yours, and when he speaks this time there is less distance in his tone, less of that careful, professional detachment.

“I’m talking about the fact that when something goes wrong, you look at me before anyone else,” he says, “I’m talking about the way you come to me first on calls even when there are other attendings available, I’m talking about the fact that when we’re in a room together, it’s not just about the patient, not entirely.”

You feel that, the way each word lands, not because they are untrue, but because of the way he is choosing to frame them now, the way they sound when pulled out of context and laid out like evidence.

“So that’s a problem,” you say, your voice quieter now, but with an edge that has not dulled, “that we trust each other.”

“That’s not what I said,” he counters immediately.

“It’s what you implied,” you shoot back.

Robby’s expression tightens, something more visible breaking through the control he has been holding onto.

“What I said,” he replies, his voice firmer now, “is that there are moments where it stops being just about the work, and if someone is looking for that, if they’re paying attention to it, then yeah, it can be perceived a certain way.”

You let out a short breath, shaking your head slightly as you take another step back this time, creating space where there had been none, your arms crossing over your chest again like a barrier.

“So instead of saying that perception is wrong,” you say, “you just… validated it.”

“I acknowledged that it exists,” he says, his tone sharpening slightly, “there’s a difference.”

“Not to them,” you reply.

There it is. The silence that follows is heavier than the ones before it, because now you are no longer circling the issue, you are standing in the middle of it, and neither of you seems particularly willing to step away first.

“They asked me a direct question,” Robby says after a moment, his voice dropping again, quieter but no less intense, “and I answered it honestly.”

“And honesty means what,” you ask, your eyes searching his now, “throwing our entire working relationship under the bus because someone else doesn’t understand it?”

His head tilts slightly, his brows drawing together.

“That’s not what I did,” he repeats, but there is something less certain in it now, something that sounds like he is trying to hold onto a position that does not feel as solid as it did before.

“Then what did you do, Robby,” you press, his name coming out sharper than you intend, but you do not take it back, “because from where I’m standing, it sounds like you gave them exactly what they needed to turn this into something bigger than it is.”

Something flashes across his face then, quick and unguarded.

“I didn’t give them anything they didn’t already have,” he says, and there is something harder in his voice now, something that lands differently, that shifts the ground beneath the conversation in a way you were not entirely expecting. You blink at him.

“What is that supposed to mean,” you ask, your tone tightening.

“It means,” he says, stepping closer now, closing the space you had just created, his voice low but edged, “this didn’t come out of nowhere, people have noticed, they’ve been noticing, and pretending that they haven’t doesn’t make it less real.”

The words hit, not because they are loud, but because of what they imply, because of the way they reach beyond just the two of you and into the space around you, into the eyes and conversations you had not thought to question before.

“And you think I don’t know that,” you reply, your voice steady but quieter now, more controlled, “you think I haven’t been aware of the way people look at us, the comments, the assumptions.”

“Then you also know why this is happening,” he says.

You hold his gaze, something in your chest tightening further.

“No,” you say after a moment, your voice firm again, “I know why people might think things, but that doesn’t make it true, and it doesn’t mean you get to stand in a room with administration and frame it like it is.”

Robby exhales sharply, his hand coming up to rub briefly at his jaw before dropping again, his frustration no longer entirely hidden.

“I didn’t frame anything,” he says, “I told them that we work well together and that there are moments where it’s not strictly professional, which is true, whether you want to admit it or not.”

You stare at him, something shifting now, something deeper than just frustration, something that feels closer to disappointment.

“And what did you say about patient care,” you ask quietly.

He hesitates, just for a second.

“That it hasn’t been compromised,” he answers.

“Just that,” you press.

“Yes,” he says.

You nod slowly, your gaze dropping for a brief moment before lifting again, your expression harder now, more closed off than it had been when you first walked up to him.

“Good,” you say, because that matters, because that is the line that cannot be crossed, no matter what else is being questioned.

There is another silence, but this one feels different, less volatile, more settled in a way that is not necessarily better, just… heavier.

“I didn’t do this to you,” Robby says after a moment, his voice quieter again, something almost careful returning to it.

You let out a small breath, shaking your head slightly.

“I didn’t say you did,” you reply, your tone just as quiet, but more distant now, “but you didn’t exactly help either.”

The words hang there between you, softer than the ones that came before, but no less significant. Robby’s gaze searches yours, like he is looking for something, like he is trying to find the right way back to whatever this was before it shifted, before it became something that needed to be defended and explained.

“You think I should have lied,” he says.

You hold his gaze, your expression unreadable now.

“I think,” you say slowly, choosing each word with care, “you could have chosen how to tell the truth in a way that didn’t make it sound like we’re a liability.”

Something in his face tightens at that, something that looks almost like it lands harder than the rest.

“We’re not a liability,” he says.

“No,” you agree, your voice steady, “we’re not, but that’s not how this works, Robby, it’s not about what is, it’s about what they think is, and you know that.”

He does know that. You can see it in the way his expression shifts, in the way the certainty he has been holding onto starts to give just slightly under the weight of it. For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Then you step back, creating space again, this time more intentionally, your arms dropping to your sides as you glance briefly toward the rest of the department, where the day is continuing on without either of you, where patients are still coming in, still needing care, still unaware of the quiet fracture that has just formed in the middle of their providers.

“I have a shift to get back to,” you say, your voice returning to something more neutral, more professional, even if it feels like a thin layer over everything else.

Robby’s eyes stay on you.

“So do I,” he replies.

You nod once.

“Then I guess we should keep things… strictly professional,” you say, and there is something in the way you say it that makes it clear you are echoing more than just Karen’s instructions.

His jaw tightens again, but he does not argue.

“Yeah,” he says.

And just like that, the space between you shifts again, not explosive this time, not loud, but something quieter, colder, more deliberate, as you turn and walk back toward the floor, leaving him standing there with the weight of what was said, what was meant, and what neither of you has quite figured out how to take back.

******

By the time you step fully back onto the floor, the emergency department has shifted into its usual rhythm, the kind that feels almost deceptive in its normalcy, because everything looks the same on the surface while something underneath it has very clearly changed. You move through it like you always do, purposeful, efficient, your focus narrowing in the way it has been trained to, because no matter what is happening outside of the work, the work itself does not pause to accommodate it, and neither do you. But it is different.

Not in a way that anyone could immediately point to, not in a way that would be written down in a report or called out in a meeting, but in the smaller things, the almost imperceptible shifts that only matter because you know what they used to look like. You do not look for him first. That alone is enough to throw something off.

Instead, you turn toward the board, scanning the incoming cases, your mind clicking into place as you assign yourself to a room without hesitation, stepping into it with the same steady confidence you always carry, greeting the patient with a calm that is real, because this part of you has not changed. This part cannot change.

You move through the assessment smoothly, asking questions, checking vitals, making decisions with the same clarity that has always defined your work, but there is a moment, brief and almost involuntary, where you reach for something that is not there. Not physically. Instinctively.

You do not turn your head, you do not call out, but there is a split second where your mind looks for him, where it expects that quiet, steady presence just over your shoulder, that second set of eyes that you have come to rely on without ever having to acknowledge it out loud. And then you remember.

Strictly professional.

You adjust without missing a beat, finishing the exam, placing orders, moving on, because that is what you do, because that is what you have always done, but the absence lingers in a way that you do not quite like. Across the department, Robby is doing the same thing.

You do not have to look at him to know it, but you do anyway, just once, a quick glance that you tell yourself is about situational awareness, about understanding the flow of the floor, about nothing personal at all.

He is in Trauma Two, his posture straight, his movements precise, his voice carrying just enough that you can hear the cadence of it without catching the exact words, and it is familiar in a way that feels almost disorienting now, like something you recognize but are no longer allowed to touch.

He does not look at you. That is new too. Normally, there would have been at least one moment by now, a glance across the room, a brief check-in that says more than it should without saying anything at all, but this time there is nothing, just the steady continuation of work as if the conversation that happened less than twenty minutes ago never existed. It is exactly what you asked for. It does not feel like what you wanted.

“Okay,” Jack’s voice cuts in from your left, pulling your attention back to the present as he steps up beside you, his eyes flicking briefly between you and the rest of the floor, “what did I miss, because something definitely happened and no one is telling me what it is.”

You glance at him, your expression neutral.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” you reply, your tone light in a way that does not quite match the look he gives you in response.

“Right,” he says slowly, clearly unconvinced, “and I’m supposed to believe that because…?”

“Because I said so,” you answer, already turning back to the board, effectively ending the conversation before it can go any further.

Jack exhales quietly beside you, his gaze lingering for a second longer before shifting past you, toward something over your shoulder.

“Okay,” he mutters, and there is something in the way he says it that suggests he is not done with this, just postponing it.

You do not give him the opportunity to push.

“Room five needs a reassessment,” you say, nodding toward the chart, “and I think Trauma Two is about to need an extra set of hands.”

Jack glances toward Trauma Two, where Robby is still working, then back at you, something flickering in his expression.

“Yeah,” he says, but he does not move right away.

You do not look at him again.

“Go, ahead” you add, and this time he does.

The next hour passes in a blur of controlled movement, of patients coming in and out, of decisions made quickly and efficiently, of everything functioning exactly as it should, which is perhaps the most frustrating part of all of it, because nothing is technically wrong. You and Robby do not cross paths unless absolutely necessary. When you do, it is brief, clipped, professional in a way that feels almost exaggerated, like you are both overcorrecting for something that used to come naturally without effort.

“Vitals?” he asks at one point, not looking at you as he reviews a chart.

“Stable,” you reply, just as concise, just as detached.

“Labs?”

“Pending.”

A beat.

“Let me know when they’re back.”

“I will.”

And that is it. No lingering, no additional commentary, no subtle shift in tone that would suggest anything beyond the words themselves. It is efficient. It is clean. It is completely wrong.

Other people notice. Of course they do. Dana is the first to really clock it, not because she is looking for it, but because she knows both of you well enough to recognize the absence of something that has been consistently present, and the moment it clicks into place for her, you can see it in the way her eyes narrow slightly as she watches the two of you move around each other like opposing currents.

She does not say anything at first. She waits. Observes. And then, inevitably, she steps in. You are halfway through updating a chart when she approaches, her presence felt before she even speaks, the way it always is.

“Walk with me,” she says, her tone casual, but there is something under it that makes it clear this is not a suggestion.

You sigh quietly, setting the chart down before falling into step beside her as she leads you toward a quieter corner of the department, away from the immediate chaos, away from ears that do not need to hear this.

“You want to tell me what’s going on,” she asks, not unkindly, but directly, her eyes fixed on you in a way that does not allow for easy deflection.

You keep your gaze forward.

“There’s a complaint,” you say, because that much is not a secret, not anymore.

Dana nods once.

“I heard,” she replies, “what I’m asking is why the two of you are suddenly acting like you’ve never worked together before.”

You let out a slow breath, your shoulders tightening just slightly.

“We’re being professional,” you say.

Dana stops walking. You take another step before realizing she has not followed, turning back to look at her.

“That’s not what this is,” she says, her voice quieter now, but firmer, “I know what professional looks like, and this isn’t it, this is something else.”

You hold her gaze, your expression steady.

“It’s what they asked for,” you reply.

“And you think overcorrecting is going to help,” she counters.

“It’s not overcorrecting,” you say, though even as the words leave your mouth, you are not entirely sure you believe them.

Dana studies you for a long moment, her eyes sharp, perceptive in a way that has always been slightly uncomfortable when you are on the receiving end of it.

“This isn’t just about the complaint,” she says finally.

You do not answer. You do not need to. She exhales softly, shaking her head just slightly.

“Whatever this is,” she continues, her voice gentler now, but no less serious, “you need to figure it out, because right now, it’s more noticeable than anything that was happening before.”

The words land heavier than you expect. You glance away for a moment, your jaw tightening as you process them, because she is not wrong, because this version of distance, of forced separation, is louder in its own way than anything that came before it.

“I’ll handle it,” you say after a moment, your voice quieter now, but still controlled.

Dana watches you for a second longer, like she is deciding whether to push further, whether to dig into whatever it is you are not saying, but eventually she nods once.

“Yeah,” she says, though there is a note of skepticism in it, “you usually do.”

She turns then, heading back toward the floor, leaving you standing there for just a moment longer, the weight of her words settling in around you in a way that feels uncomfortably accurate.

Across the department, Robby is watching. You do not see him at first, but when you look up, your eyes meeting his across the space, there is something in his expression that tells you he saw the interaction, that he has been aware of more than just his own side of this shift. Neither of you moves. Neither of you speaks. But something passes between you anyway, something quieter than before, less sharp but no less unresolved, a shared understanding that whatever this is, it is not sustainable, not like this, not if you both intend to keep doing the work the way it needs to be done. And yet, neither of you steps toward the other.

Not yet.

*******

The shift does not slow down for either of you, not in any meaningful way, because the emergency department has never cared about timing or emotional convenience, and by the time the evening stretch begins to settle into something that resembles a rhythm again, you are both running on instinct more than anything else.

It happens in Trauma Three. The call comes in fast, clipped over the radio, a multi-car collision with at least one critical, and the moment the gurney bursts through the doors the entire department shifts around it, people moving with precision, voices overlapping in controlled urgency, everything narrowing down to the single, immediate task of keeping someone alive. You are already there when they roll the patient in, your gloves snapping into place as you move to the side of the bed, your focus locking in without hesitation as you begin your assessment, calling out vitals, scanning for injuries, your mind moving faster than your words.

“BP dropping, we’ve got abdominal distension, possible internal bleed,” you say, your voice steady despite the pace of it.

Robby steps in on the opposite side. It is instinct. It is automatic. It is everything you have been trying not to do for the last several hours.

“Get me an ultrasound, now,” he says, his tone sharp, controlled, his eyes flicking to yours for half a second before shifting back to the patient, and that half second is enough to throw everything off, because it feels like something snapping back into place and breaking at the same time.

Jack moves in with the machine, Dana at the foot of the bed, the room filling quickly, everyone falling into their roles as the tension builds, as the patient’s condition continues to decline in real time.

“Heart rate’s climbing,” Jack calls out.

“Yeah, because we’re losing him,” you reply, already moving, your hands steady as you press against the abdomen, feeling the rigidity there, the unmistakable sign of something going very wrong beneath the surface.

“Robby—” you start, because you know what needs to happen next, because you have done this with him enough times to not need to finish the sentence.

“Prep for OR,” he says at the same time, the words overlapping with yours, his voice cutting clean through the noise of the room, and there it is again, that seamless alignment, that shared understanding that does not require explanation.

For a moment, it is perfect. For a moment, it is exactly what it has always been. And then it shifts.

“Wait,” Garcia says, stepping in slightly, her eyes moving between the two of you, “we need confirmation before we move him, let’s not rush this.”

You turn to her, your expression tightening.

“We don’t have time to wait,” you say, your voice still controlled, but with an urgency that is not just about the patient anymore, “he’s crashing.”

“I’m aware,” she replies evenly, “but we’re not skipping protocol on an assumption.”

“It’s not an assumption,” you counter, your hand still pressed firmly against the patient, your gaze sharp now, “it’s textbook, you can feel it.”

Robby steps in then, and for a split second, you expect him to back you, to reinforce what you are saying, to move forward the way you always do together. He doesn’t.

“Garcia’s right,” he says, his tone measured, professional, “we confirm before we move.”

The words land harder than anything else has all day. You turn your head to look at him, really look at him, and there is no hesitation in his expression this time, no uncertainty, just a clear, deliberate choice.

“Robby,” you say, quieter now, but with an edge that cuts through the room just the same, “we’re losing time.”

“And we’re not making a call without imaging,” he replies, just as firm.

There is a beat, a charged, heavy pause where everything seems to narrow down to the space between the two of you, the rest of the room fading just slightly as the tension shifts from controlled urgency to something sharper, something more personal. Jack glances between you, his hands hovering as he waits for direction, for someone to break the stalemate.

The monitor beeps faster. The patient’s pressure drops again.

“Fine,” you say finally, your voice tight, clipped, “then move faster.”

The ultrasound is already in place, gel pressed to skin, the screen flickering as Jack adjusts the probe, searching for the confirmation that Robby insisted on, that extra step, that delay.

“There,” you say, pointing, your tone immediate, “free fluid, that’s your confirmation.”

Robby’s eyes track to the screen, his jaw tightening as he processes it, as he sees what you already knew.

“Alright,” he says, his voice shifting back into command mode, “we’re moving.”

But the moment has already passed. The delay, however brief, however justified, has cost something, not just in time, but in the space between the two of you, in the trust that had once been so effortless it did not need to be acknowledged. You move with the team as they prep the patient for transport, your hands still steady, your voice still clear as you give instructions, because that part of you does not falter, cannot falter, but something underneath it has shifted in a way that you cannot ignore.

The patient is rushed out, the doors swinging closed behind them, leaving the room suddenly quieter, the adrenaline still humming in the air as everyone begins to reset, to move on to the next thing. No one speaks about what just happened. They do not have to.

It is written in the way the room emptied just a little faster than usual, in the glances that were not quite subtle enough, in the silence that follows as the two of you remain where you are, standing on opposite sides of the now-empty bed. For a moment, neither of you moves. Then you pull off your gloves, the snap of latex loud in the quiet as you toss them into the bin, your movements efficient, controlled, your expression unreadable.

“That was unnecessary,” you say finally, your voice low, but carrying enough that he hears it clearly.

Robby exhales, his hand coming up to rub briefly at the back of his neck, the gesture familiar and frustrating all at once.

“It was just protocol,” he replies.

“It was a delay,” you counter, turning to face him fully now, your eyes sharp, “and you know it.”

“And you know why I made that call,” he says, his tone just as controlled, but there is something under it now, something heavier, something that reaches back to the conversation earlier, to the room, to the complaint, to everything that has been sitting between you all day.

You let out a quiet, disbelieving breath.

“So that’s it,” you say, your voice quieter now, but cutting, “this is what ‘strictly professional’ looks like, we second guess each other in the middle of a trauma because someone might be watching.”

“That’s not what happened,” he says, but there is a flicker of something in his eyes that suggests he knows it is not entirely untrue either.

“You didn’t trust my call,” you press.

“I didn’t bypass protocol,” he corrects.

You stare at him for a second, something in your chest tightening again, sharper this time.

“There’s a difference,” he adds.

“Not in that moment,” you reply.

The silence that follows is heavier than anything that came before it, because now it is not just about perception or wording or what was said in a room with administration, it is about the work itself, about the one place where neither of you has ever wavered before. Robby’s gaze holds yours, steady, unflinching, but there is something there now, something conflicted, something that does not sit as easily as his words might suggest.

“I made the call I thought was right,” he says finally.

You nod once, slowly.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice steady again, but colder now, more distant, “and so did I.”

Another beat. Another moment where something could be said, where something could be fixed or at least acknowledged in a way that might soften the edge of it. Neither of you takes it. You step back first this time, creating space not just physically, but in a way that feels more final than it did before, your gaze breaking from his as you turn toward the door.

“I’m going to check on the OR,” you say, your tone neutral again, professional in the way you have been forcing it to be all day.

Robby does not stop you.

“Yeah,” he replies quietly, “let me know.”

You nod once without looking back. And as you walk out of the room, back into the noise and movement of the department, there is a clarity that settles in alongside everything else, something sharp and undeniable. This is not just about the complaint. This is not just about perception. This is about the fact that whatever this is between you, whatever it has been building into, whatever it has been allowed to exist without being named, has now been dragged into the light and forced into a shape that neither of you quite knows how to hold onto anymore. And the worst part is not that it has been seen. It is that now, neither of you can pretend it is not there.

******

You do not go home right away. You tell yourself you are going to check on the OR, that you are going to follow through on the patient, that you are going to finish your shift the way you always do, clean and complete and without anything lingering, but the truth is you are delaying, because walking out of those hospital doors means you no longer have the excuse of being busy, of being needed somewhere else, of not having to sit with what has been building all day. By the time you finally leave, the sky has shifted into that dim, in-between light where the city feels quieter than it actually is, and the drive is a blur of muscle memory, your hands steady on the wheel even as your thoughts refuse to settle into anything coherent.

You do not think about it too hard. You do not give yourself the chance to second guess. You just turn. Not toward your apartment. Toward his.

The knock is not loud, but it is firm, and for a second, just a second, you consider turning around, leaving before the door opens, before this becomes something you cannot step away from as easily. Then the lock clicks. The door opens.

Robby stands there in a t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair still damp at the edges like he showered not long ago, like he was trying to wash the day off of him and did not quite succeed, and when his eyes meet yours there is no surprise in them, just something quieter, something like recognition. Like he knew you would come.

“You gonna come in,” he says, his voice low, not pushing, not pulling, just there.

You nod once, stepping past him without another word, the familiar space of his apartment wrapping around you in a way that feels both grounding and unsettling all at once, because this is where things have been soft before, where things have been easy in a way they are not right now. The door closes behind you.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. You stand near the edge of the living room, your arms folding loosely across your middle, not defensive exactly, but not open either, your eyes tracing the space as if you have not been here before, as if you need a second to remember how this works outside of the hospital. Robby stays near the door for a beat, watching you in that quiet, steady way he has, like he is giving you the room to start this or not, like he understands that this could go a number of different ways depending on what you say next. You let out a breath.

“That was a mess,” you say finally, your voice quieter than it has been all day, stripped of the sharp edges you had to carry at work.

Robby huffs out something that might be the beginning of a laugh, but it does not quite make it there.

“Yeah,” he agrees, his tone just as low, just as tired, “that’s one way to put it.”

You nod slightly, your gaze dropping for a moment before lifting again, finding him still standing there, still watching you, still waiting.

“Why didn’t you just say it,” you ask, and your voice does not rise, does not sharpen, but there is something vulnerable in it now, something that was not allowed to exist earlier, “in that room, why didn’t you just say that we’re… that this is… more than just work.”

The words feel heavier here. More real. Robby’s jaw tightens slightly, his gaze shifting just for a second before returning to you.

“Because that’s not what they were asking,” he says.

You shake your head immediately.

“That’s not true,” you reply, your voice soft but firm, “that’s exactly what they were asking, just in a way that lets them write it down and file it away and use it however they want.”

He exhales, running a hand over the back of his neck again, the movement slower this time, less frustrated, more… uncertain.

“And what did you want me to say,” he asks, his eyes back on you now, more direct, more open than they were in the hospital, “that I’m involved with someone I work with, that we don’t keep it as separate as we probably should, that I trust you more than anyone else in that room even when I’m not supposed to.”

“Yes,” you say immediately, the word coming out before you can stop it, because it is the truth, because it is what you needed to hear him say out loud, “yes, I wanted you to say it like it actually matters, not like it’s some liability you’re trying to explain away.”

The room goes quiet again, but this silence is different, less charged, more… exposed. Robby studies you, something in his expression softening just slightly, like he is seeing something he did not fully catch earlier.

“I wasn’t trying to explain it away,” he says, quieter now.

“It felt like you were,” you admit, your voice wavering just a fraction, and you hate that it does, you hate that it gives away more than you want it to, but you do not pull it back, not this time, “it felt like you were distancing yourself from it, from me, like you were already deciding what this is supposed to look like before they even told us.”

He takes a step closer then, not all the way, but enough to close some of the space between you, enough that you can feel the shift in the room as it happens.

“That’s not what I was doing,” he says again, but there is no defensiveness in it now, just something steady, something that feels more like he is trying to get you to understand than trying to win an argument.

“Then what were you doing,” you ask, and this time there is something else in your voice, something softer, something that sounds a little too close to hurt.

Robby exhales slowly, his gaze dropping for a moment before lifting back to yours, and when he speaks again, it is quieter than anything he has said all day.

“I was trying to protect it,” he says.

You blink at him.

“By making it sound like a problem?” you ask, the confusion clear in your tone.

“By not giving them something they can use to control it,” he replies, his voice still low, still measured, “if I sit in that room and say that we’re together, that we’re involved, then it stops being about perception and starts being about policy, about rules, about whether or not we’re even allowed to keep working the way we do.”

You go still.

“I wasn’t going to risk that,” he continues, his eyes locked on yours now, steady and certain in a way that he had not been earlier, “not without knowing what they’re going to do with it.”

The words settle in slowly. Differently. And for a second, you do not know what to say, because you had not considered that angle, had not thought about what it would mean to have this defined in a way that could be regulated, restricted, taken out of your hands entirely.

“I didn’t think about it like that,” you admit quietly.

“Yeah,” he says, a faint, almost tired smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, “I know.”

There is no judgment in it. Just… understanding. You let out a breath, your shoulders dropping slightly as some of the tension you have been holding onto all day finally begins to loosen, even if it does not disappear entirely.

“But in the room,” you say after a moment, your voice softer now, more careful, “it still felt like you were choosing distance over… whatever this is.”

Robby’s expression shifts again at that, something more open, more honest settling in.

“I wasn’t choosing distance,” he says, “I was choosing control.”

You let out a quiet, shaky breath at that, because it sounds like him, because it makes sense in a way that is frustrating and familiar all at once.

“Yeah,” you murmur, your eyes dropping briefly as you press your lips together, “you’re really good at that.”

There is a beat. Then his voice again, softer now.

“I didn’t trust myself not to make it worse if I said more.”

That one lands differently. You look up at him, your brows drawing together slightly.

“What does that mean,” you ask.

Robby hesitates, just for a second, and then he steps closer again, closing the remaining space between you until you are standing a few feet apart, close enough that the distance feels intentional rather than accidental.

“It means,” he says, his voice low, more vulnerable than you have ever heard it, “that if I had said what I actually wanted to say, it wouldn’t have sounded like something I could walk back.”

Your throat tightens.

“And what did you want to say,” you ask, the question quieter now, almost tentative.

Robby holds your gaze.

“That you matter to me more than anyone,” he says, simply, directly, without dressing it up, “that working with you isn’t just about the job, that I think about you outside of it, that I… care about you in a way that doesn’t fit into a neat, professional box.”

The words hang there between you, heavier than anything else that has been said tonight. You blink, your vision blurring just slightly before you can stop it, and you let out a quiet, uneven breath as you shake your head just a little, more at yourself than anything else.

“Okay,” you say, but your voice breaks just slightly on the word, and you press your lips together immediately, trying to steady it, trying to pull yourself back into something more composed.

Robby’s expression softens fully then, the tension easing out of his shoulders as he takes another step closer, close enough now that you can feel the warmth of him, the familiarity of his presence in a way that makes something in your chest ache.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

You shake your head again, letting out a small, breathless laugh that does not quite hide the emotion behind it.

“I’m fine,” you murmur, even as you swipe quickly at your cheek, annoyed with yourself for letting it show.

“You’re not,” he replies gently.

You huff out another quiet breath, your shoulders dropping as the fight drains out of you just a little.

“I just…,” you start, your voice softer now, more open, “I spent the entire day feeling like I was the only one in it, like I had to defend something that you were already stepping back from, and it sucked.”

The honesty of it sits there between you, raw and unfiltered. Robby nods slowly.

“I know,” he says, “and I’m sorry.”

The apology is simple. Uncomplicated. Real. You look at him for a long moment, searching his face for anything that might suggest otherwise, but there is nothing there except the truth of it, the quiet sincerity that he does not offer easily, that he does not waste.

“Okay,” you say again, softer this time, more grounded.

There is a pause. Then, carefully, like he is giving you the chance to pull away if you want to, Robby reaches for you, his hand settling lightly at your waist, not pulling, not demanding, just there. You do not move away. Instead, you step in, closing the last bit of distance yourself, your forehead resting briefly against his chest as you let out a slow breath, your hands coming up to rest lightly against him like you need the contact to steady yourself. He exhales above you, his other hand coming up to your back, holding you there in a way that is firm but not tight, like he understands that this is not about intensity, not right now, it is about grounding, about reminding each other that this still exists outside of everything else.

“We’re okay,” he murmurs after a moment, the words more like a question than a statement.

You pull back just enough to look up at him, your eyes still a little too bright, your expression softer than it has been all day.

“We’re… getting there,” you correct gently.

A faint smile touches his mouth at that.

“Yeah,” he says.

And for the first time since the email, since the room, since everything started unraveling, you feel like you can breathe again, not fully, not without the weight of what is still coming, but enough to know that whatever this is, whatever shape it is going to take, you are not in it alone.

******

The email comes two days later, which somehow feels both too soon and far too late, because in those forty-eight hours you have managed to find a version of normal again, not the same as before, not untouched, but steadier, more intentional, like something that has been shaken but not broken.

You and Robby have gone back to work. You have worked together. Not the same way, not entirely, but closer, softer at the edges, more aware of each other in a way that feels deliberate instead of instinctive, and it has not been perfect, but it has been… manageable.

It has been enough. Until the email. You are the one who sees it first, your phone lighting up with the notification as you stand just outside the ambulance bay, the cool air cutting through the lingering heat of the day shift as you glance down at the screen and feel something in your chest tighten immediately.

Subject: Follow-Up — Internal Review

You do not open it right away. For a second, you just stare at it, your thumb hovering over the screen, your mind already racing ahead to every possible version of what it could say, none of them particularly appealing. Then you exhale and tap. The message is brief. Of course it is.

We have concluded the initial review process. Please report to Administration at your earliest availability for a final discussion regarding findings and next steps.

No details. No indication. Just enough to pull you back into that room again. You let out a slow breath, your jaw tightening slightly as you lift your head, your eyes scanning the floor until they land on him, because of course they do, because even now, even after everything, that instinct has not gone anywhere.

Robby is across the bay, mid-conversation with a paramedic, but he feels it, the way he always does, his gaze shifting toward you like something pulled it there, and the second your eyes meet, you know he has gotten the same message. He nods once. You nod back. No words. You do not need them.

The walk to administration is quieter this time. Not tense in the same sharp, uncertain way it was before, but heavier, more grounded in the understanding that whatever this is, it is real, it is documented, and it is not going away just because you would prefer it to. Karen is already waiting when you step into the room, the same folder in front of her, though it looks slightly thicker now, which does not feel particularly reassuring.

“Thank you both for coming,” she says, her tone the same practiced calm it was before, but there is something different in it now, something more settled, like the decision has already been made.

You take your seat. Robby takes his. There is a brief moment where your hands brush against each other on the table, accidental but not, and you do not pull away immediately this time, just a brief, grounding contact before you both settle back into your own space.

Karen notices. Of course she does. She does not comment on it.

“After reviewing the complaint, conducting interviews, and assessing available documentation,” she begins, her eyes moving between the two of you, “we have determined that there is insufficient evidence to substantiate a formal violation of patient care standards or professional misconduct.”

You blink. It is not quite relief, but it is not the worst-case scenario either. Beside you, you feel Robby shift slightly, his shoulders easing just a fraction.

“So,” you say slowly, your voice steady, “what does that mean.”

Karen folds her hands lightly on the table.

“It means the complaint is being closed without disciplinary action,” she replies, “however, there are still concerns regarding perception and professional boundaries that we would like to address proactively.”

Of course there are. You nod once, because you expected that part.

“And how do you propose we do that,” Robby asks, his tone even, controlled, the version of him that handles these rooms with precision firmly in place.

Karen glances briefly at the folder before looking back up.

“If there is a personal relationship between the two of you,” she says carefully, “we would ask that it be formally disclosed and documented with HR.”

The words land differently than the rest. Not sharp. Not accusatory. Just… invasive. You feel it immediately, the way your shoulders tense, the way your jaw tightens just slightly as you process what she is asking, what she is implying, what she is putting into writing in a way that cannot be taken back. Beside you, Robby is very still.

“And if we choose not to,” you ask, your voice calm, but quieter now, more deliberate.

Karen meets your gaze evenly.

“Then we would advise maintaining clear and consistent professional boundaries to avoid future concerns,” she says, “but I want to be transparent that if similar complaints arise again, the outcome may not be the same.”

It is not a threat. It is not phrased like one. But it lands like one anyway. You let out a slow breath, your eyes dropping briefly to the table before lifting again, your expression composed even as something unsettled moves beneath the surface.

“So either we document it,” you say, “or we pretend it doesn’t exist.”

Karen does not flinch.

“We document it so that it can be appropriately managed,” she corrects.

You huff out a quiet breath at that, something almost like a laugh but without any real humor in it.

“Managed,” you repeat under your breath.

There is a brief silence, and then Robby speaks.

“If we disclose it,” he says, his voice steady, “what changes.”

Karen considers that for a moment.

“Potential adjustments to scheduling or supervisory structures may be recommended,” she says, “but that would be determined collaboratively to minimize disruption.”

Minimize disruption. You glance at Robby. He looks at you. And for a second, it is not about HR or documentation or policy, it is about the reality of what that would mean, the way it could shift the way you work together, the thing that neither of you is entirely willing to give up. You exhale slowly.

“If it keeps us from ending up back here,” you say finally, your voice quieter now, more resolved, “then we’ll document it.”

Robby’s gaze flicks to you, something unreadable moving behind it, but he does not argue.

“Okay,” he says.

Karen nods once, making a note.

“I’ll have the appropriate forms sent over,” she says.

You nod. That should be it. That should be the end of it. But it is not. Because there is still something sitting in your chest, something unresolved, something that has been there since the very beginning of this, something that no one has addressed yet. You lean forward slightly.

“I have one more question,” you say.

Karen looks up.

“Who filed the complaint?

There is a pause. A longer one this time. Karen’s expression shifts just slightly, something more measured settling in as she considers you, as she weighs what she can say and what she cannot.

“I understand your curiosity,” she begins.

“No,” you cut in, your voice still calm but firmer now, more direct, “I need to know if this is something I need to be aware of moving forward, if there’s someone on the floor who has an issue with me or with how I work.”

Karen holds your gaze for a long moment. Then, slowly, she exhales.

“The complaint was not filed against you,” she says.

You blink. “What?”

“It was filed regarding Dr. Robinavich’s conduct,” she continues, her tone careful now, more deliberate, “your name was included as part of the context.”

For a second, the room goes very, very quiet. You turn your head to look at him. Robby’s expression has gone still, something hard settling in behind his eyes in a way you have not seen before, not even during the worst parts of the shift, not even in the middle of everything that had already happened.

And something in you shifts. Immediately. Instinctively.

“You brought me into this,” you say, your voice quieter now, but with a new edge to it, not directed at him, not entirely, but sharpened by the realization of what this actually was.

“I didn’t—” he starts, but you shake your head slightly, cutting him off.

“Not you,” you clarify, your gaze flicking back to Karen, something protective rising up fast and fierce in your chest, “whoever filed it.”

Karen remains composed.

“The individual raised concerns about perceived favoritism and boundary issues,” she says, “your involvement was cited as part of that perception.”

You sit back slowly, your arms crossing over your chest again, but this time it is not defensive, it is something else entirely, something more grounded, more resolute.

“So someone decided that because he trusts me, because we work well together, that it must because I’m sleeping with him,” you say, your tone steady, but there is something under it now, something sharper, something protective.

Karen does not respond. She does not need to. You glance at Robby again, taking in the set of his jaw, the way his shoulders have gone rigid, the way he is holding himself like he is already bracing for something else to come from this, like he is expecting it to get worse before it gets better. And something in you refuses to let that happen.

“We’ll file the paperwork,” you say, your voice firm now, more certain than it was a moment ago, “and we’ll handle it moving forward, but I want it on record that there was no issue with patient care, no misconduct, nothing that justifies this being escalated the way it was.”

Karen nods once.

“That has been noted,” she says.

You hold her gaze for a moment longer, making sure of it, making sure that it is not just something said in passing, but something that exists in the same documented space as everything else.

Then you stand. Robby stands with you. And as you walk out of the room together, there is a different kind of tension between you now, not sharp, not fractured, but solid, aligned in a way that it had not been before, because now you know what this actually was, where it came from, and what it tried to turn into.

Outside, in the hallway, you stop. Robby turns toward you, his expression still tight, still carrying the weight of it, but when his eyes meet yours, something in it shifts slightly, something softer, something that recognizes what you just did, what you just chose.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says quietly.

You tilt your head slightly, your expression steady.

“Yeah,” you reply, just as quiet, “I did.”

There is a beat. Then, softer now, but no less certain.

“I’m not letting someone else decide what this is.”

Robby watches you for a long moment. Then he nods. And this time, when you walk back toward the floor, you do it together.

******

You tell yourself you are not going to go looking. You really do. You walk back onto the floor after the meeting with your shoulders squared and your expression composed, your focus narrowing the way it always does when you decide something is not worth your energy, when you decide to let it go and move forward the way you have been trained to. It lasts maybe twenty minutes.

Because once the question is there, once it has been planted in a way that is no longer abstract, no longer just someone but a real person who made a real decision to put Robby’s name in a complaint and pull you into it, you cannot quite leave it alone. You are not obvious about it.

You are careful. Subtle. You move through your shift the same way you always do, efficient and steady, your attention where it needs to be, but there is something else layered underneath it now, a quiet awareness of the people around you, of the conversations that pause when you walk by, of the glances that linger just a fraction longer than usual. You take note. Not in a way that disrupts your work, but in a way that tracks, that files things away without fully committing to any one conclusion.

Santos is her usual self, sharp and direct, her focus entirely on her patients, her interactions with you no different than they have ever been, which you note immediately, because if there was something there, something personal, you would feel it.

Al-Hashimi barely looks up from her charts when you pass, her demeanor as cool and contained as always, offering nothing, revealing nothing, which is… exactly how she always is.

Whitaker makes a joke at your expense at one point, something light and teasing about you stealing his favorite room again, and it is so normal, so unaffected, that it almost throws you off more than anything else.

Dana watches. Of course she does. Not in a suspicious way, not in a way that suggests guilt or involvement, but in that observant, quietly perceptive way she has, like she knows you are doing something even if she does not yet know what.

“You’re thinking too hard,” she says at one point, not looking up from the chart she is reviewing.

You glance at her.

“I’m working,” you reply evenly.

Dana hums softly under her breath, the sound carrying just enough skepticism to let you know she does not entirely believe you.

“Yeah,” she says, “and you’re also scanning the room like you’re trying to solve a mystery.”

You do not react to that, not outwardly, but you feel it, the way she clocks you so easily, the way she always has.

“I’m fine,” you say.

She nods, like she is humoring you.

“I’m sure you are.”

And then she lets it go, which is almost more telling than if she had pushed. You try to be more subtle after that. You really do. But the question keeps circling back, keeps threading through everything else, and every time you think you have a lead, every time you think you have noticed something, it dissolves under a second look, under the realization that nothing actually stands out enough to point to one person over another.

It is frustrating. More than frustrating. Because it feels like something that should be obvious, something that should have a shape, a direction, and instead it is just… there, unresolved and out of reach.

By the time your shift winds down, you are no closer than you were when you started. You are standing at the desk, finishing up your last chart, your shoulders tight with a kind of tension that has nothing to do with the work itself, when Robby steps up beside you, his presence quiet but familiar, the way it always has been.

“You’re going to burn a hole through that screen,” he says, his voice low enough that it does not carry.

You huff out a quiet breath, not looking at him.

“I’m fine,” you repeat, because apparently that is your line for the day.

He does not let it go.

“Yeah,” he says, a hint of amusement slipping into his tone now, “you’ve said that a few times.”

You finally glance at him, your expression narrowing slightly.

“I am fine,” you insist.

Robby’s mouth twitches, just slightly.

“You’ve been trying to figure out who filed the complaint for the last eight hours,” he says, not a question, just a statement.

You blink at him.

“I have not,” you reply immediately.

He raises an eyebrow.

“You’ve looked at Santos three separate times like you’re waiting for her to slip up,” he continues calmly, “you asked Dana if anything ‘felt off’ earlier, and you’ve been paying way too much attention to conversations that don’t involve you.”

You stare at him for a second.

“…I was not that obvious,” you mutter.

Robby lets out a quiet laugh, the sound softer than it has been all day, lighter.

“Only to someone who knows you,” he says.

You huff out a breath, shaking your head slightly as you look back at your chart, closing it out with a little more force than necessary.

“Well, for the record, I came up with nothing,” you say.

“Yeah,” he replies easily, leaning against the edge of the desk beside you, “because you’re not going to find out like that.”

You glance at him again.

“And you’re just… okay with not knowing,” you ask.

Robby shrugs slightly.

“It doesn’t change anything,” he says, his tone steady, matter-of-fact, “someone had a perception, they acted on it, we dealt with it.”

You study him for a moment, something in your expression softening just slightly.

“You’re not even a little curious,” you press.

His eyes flick to yours.

“I am,” he admits, “I’m just not going to let it take up space it doesn’t need to.”

You let that sit for a second, then shake your head again, a small, reluctant smile pulling at the corner of your mouth.

“That’s incredibly healthy of you,” you say dryly.

“I try,” he replies, the hint of a smile lingering there now.

There is a pause. Then, quieter.

“I think it’s cute,” he adds.

You blink.

“What is,” you ask.

Robby’s gaze stays on you, steady, warm in a way that feels different from earlier, easier.

“You,” he says simply, “playing detective all day because someone took a shot at me.”

Your breath catches just slightly at that, your expression shifting in a way you cannot quite control before you look away, suddenly very aware of how close he is standing, of the way his shoulder is almost brushing yours.

“I wasn’t—” you start, then stop, because there is no point in denying it, not to him.

Robby’s smile deepens just slightly, not teasing, not mocking, just… fond.

“Yeah,” he says softly, “you were.”

You let out a quiet breath, your shoulders dropping just a little.

“Someone should,” you murmur.

His expression shifts at that, something softer settling in.

“Yeah,” he agrees.

The moment lingers for just a second longer before the rhythm of the department pulls you both back, the shift officially ending, the transition into night shift beginning as people move in and out, the energy shifting once again. You grab your things. Robby does the same. And then you are walking out together, side by side, the cool air outside hitting differently after the long day, quieter, calmer, like the world outside the hospital has no idea what just happened inside it.

Jack is just coming in as you’re leaving, his bag slung over his shoulder, his expression already carrying that familiar mix of exhaustion and readiness that comes with starting a night shift. He slows when he sees you. Both of you. His eyes flick between you, taking in the way you are standing just a little closer than usual, the way your movements sync without thought, the way something has shifted that is not quite subtle enough to go unnoticed.

“Well,” he says, his mouth curving into a grin, “look at this.”

You and Robby both pause.

“What,” you ask, your tone cautious.

Jack gestures vaguely between the two of you.

“Nothing,” he says, far too casually, “just… be careful, yeah?”

You go still. Beside you, you feel Robby do the same.

“How do you know,” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Jack lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“Please,” he says, “to me, you’re both absolute crap at pretending.”

You stare at him. Robby exhales beside you, something like a resigned amusement slipping through. Jack just grins, already stepping past you toward the doors.

“Have a good night,” he adds over his shoulder as he walks inside.

You stand there for a second, processing that, the realization settling in a way that is both slightly horrifying and somehow… not entirely surprising.

“Well,” you mutter.

“Yeah,” Robby replies.

There is a beat. Then you both start walking again, the familiar path leading you toward the place where you usually split, where your routines diverge and the night takes you in different directions. But when you get there, neither of you stops right away. You turn slightly toward him, your expression softer now, the tension of the day finally easing into something quieter, something more manageable.

“So,” you say lightly, “apparently we’re terrible at this.”

Robby huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Yeah,” he says, stepping closer, his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes, “we are.”

There is a pause. A shift. And then his hand is on your arm, warm and steady as he pulls you back toward him, closing the space between you in a way that feels intentional, like he has decided something and is no longer interested in pretending otherwise. Your breath catches just slightly as you look up at him, your hands coming up instinctively to his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath your palms.

“This is probably a bad idea,” you murmur, even as you lean into him.

“Yeah,” he agrees, his voice low, his hand sliding to your waist, holding you there.

Neither of you moves away. Not even a little. For a second, the world narrows down to just this, to the quiet stretch of road, the dim light, the space between your bodies that is not really space at all anymore.

Then he leans down. The kiss is not rushed. It is not desperate. It is something slower, something deliberate, his lips warm and steady against yours, like he is making a point without saying it out loud, like he is choosing this in a way that does not need to be explained. Your fingers curl slightly against his shirt as you lean into it, into him, the tension of the day unraveling just a little more with each second, replaced by something softer, something that feels a lot like relief.

When he pulls back, it is not far. His forehead rests briefly against yours, his breath still close, still warm.

“We’ll figure it out,” he says quietly.

You nod, your eyes still closed for a second longer before you open them, meeting his gaze with something steadier than before.

“Yeah,” you reply. “You wanna come back to mine?”

Robby doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Your whole body shakes. And this time, when you finally step away, when you turn toward your own path with him right next to you, it does not feel like distance. It feels like something you are both choosing to come back from.

[luveline]

𝐭𝐨𝐩𝐚𝐳, 𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐞, 𝐫𝐮𝐛𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐝 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

Eddie has a staring problem that you barely notice, though you share an aching, awful crush. One of you has to bend first, and it’s not who you’d expect. fem, 5k 

ditzy-ish reader, pining eddie, mutual pining, confessions, first kisses, fluff and hugging, idiots in love, mild states of undress

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

It’s a day fit for a funeral in Hawkins. Rain hammers his bedroom window like hailstones, plinking against the frame, condensation running down the panes in thick rivulets he soaks up with an old t-shirt. 

It’s supposed to be spring time. Green grass, flowers, a gentle humming sun to warm the back of his neck while he sits out on the couch on the porch, a hand-rolled cigarette between his fingers, the tip shimmering with heat. 

But the rain pours. He’s cleaned his room for the first time in a month, at least, and his back aches in the best way as he lays down amongst fresh sheets. His room feels strange when it’s organised, but he doesn’t mind. He pictures the state of it through a second pair of eyes. This is a boy who cares about things, who takes care of them, who could take care of me, too. 

Rain again rackets on the metal roof above. He and Wayne keep a couple hundred bucks stashed for the day the roof flies straight off —they take turns hiding it, because cars break down and groceries get more expensive every year, but god will they need it, and so they safeguard it well. 

He syphoned a little of the money recently with Wayne’s support. It was for a good cause. 

“Jesus,” Eddie murmurs to himself, not tired but feeling dull as the clouds outside eat the remaining sun. 

It’s depressing to be poor, and to lose a day trying to hide the evidence of an entire life in a small room. He could sleep a hundred years. 

He’s just finished pulling the sheets over his shoulder when somebody knocks on the front door. Wayne opens it three rooms away, the sound of the rain doubled. 

He gives a startling shout, “Ed! Your girl!” 

Eddie topples out of bed. Doesn’t mean to, foot caught in the bottom of the sheets and stuck as he scrambles to slide out of the mess. He’s begged Wayne not to call you that when you’re within earshot, but Wayne’s a mean (kind) old bastard (middle aged dad) who wants Eddie dead (happy, and in love). 

“Come on in, girl. You’re soaking.” 

“It’s raining.” 

“It’s pouring down. Did you walk here?” 

“Took my bike. Thought I’d get struck by lightning in the car.” 

“How’d you figure?” 

Eddie goes to grab the door handle and spins on his heel, staggering onto his bed and up against the wall, where a mirrored tray once used by Dio himself for rolling hangs from the wall. He checks his face in the polished surface, his warped mouth and nose, too small eyes, and swears to himself that one day he’ll get a real mirror with a fully-functioning reflective surface. 

Then he hops down off of the bed, causing a reverberation he knows traverses the entirety of the trailer floor. Eddie snatches a rare clean towel from his laundry chair and speeds down the hall. 

“Hello,” he says, more casual than he feels to find you unexpectedly in his house. “You’re soaked.” 

You give a sweet smile. “It’s raining out, did you not know?” 

Your hair is dripping, water racing down the curves of your face to collect at your chin. Eddie can see the smudges of your makeup where it’s washing off as he wraps a towel around you, kohl on your cheeks, eyelashes turned to half-diamonds and sticky-looking. You grin at being covered, taking the towel from his fingers before he can dab you dry. 

“Why didn’t you just call me?”’

“I can never remember if your phone number ends in three or four.” 

“Seven. I wrote it down for you a hundred times.” 

You rub your eyes and spread all manner of glitter and shadow over your skin. You wipe your neck and the glitter spreads like an alien rash. 

When you talk next, you shiver, “I lost it a hundred times, sorry. Is it okay that I'm here?” 

Wayne, who’s been watching with a distinct sense of amusement from the couch, lets out a chesty laugh. “Honey, it’s always okay that you’re here on my account. And it’s my house.” 

“It’s fine.” Eddie turns your shoulder so he can mouth over it without being caught. Asshole. 

Another laugh follows. Eddie would cut each of his fingers from his hand and then his hand from his wrist if it were something Wayne needed him to do, but that doesn’t make him any less of an opportunistic asshole. If there’s a way to fuck with Eddie, he tends to try it. He loves Eddie with all the tenacity of a father who loves his son, but Wayne got infected with little bitch disease or something and Eddie can’t cure it. 

“Can I please wash my face? I didn’t expect to get soaked.” 

“Didn’t you?” He regrets his flippancy quickly, leading you down the hall. “You could take a shower. What do you think?” 

You’ve never showered here, but Eddie’s trying to, you know, date you. Romance you, get to cherish you, however anyone wants to say it. And it’s not a war of attrition, just a natural escalation of sharing, or a minimising of boundaries. 

No, that’s pervy, isn’t it? 

“I mean–” He starts to correct himself. 

You interrupt with your answer, “Yes, please, do you think I could? But I don’t have anything to wear.”

“I have your purple hoodie in my room, and there’s gotta be a pair of sweatpants here that fit you,” he says. 

They’ve got a whole bunch of clothes here that floated in from somewhere else, Eddie’s other friends or stuff they’ve bought by mistake. He’s sure he can find something.

“You have my hoodie?” you ask, black kohl spreading across the towel as you wipe your cheek. 

Eddie only smelled it one time. When he’d realised you left it in his van he brought it in and folded it, waiting for the next time he’d see you to give it back, but that night he’d been getting out of the shower wondering if he could call you or if that was too soon, and your hoodie had been right there. So he stood there in his pyjama pants with his wet hair and he didn’t think about picking your hoodie up, he just did, and when he pressed it to his face it still smelled of your perfume. 

He put it back and felt like a loser for days.

“It’s in my closet, you left it in the van Monday,” he explains quickly, nudging you through the doorway of the bathroom. 

The Munson bathroom is teeny tiny but not unnavigable. There’s a shower pressed to the far wall that could squeeze in two people, their toilet to the right, a sink basin opposite that with a medicine cabinet and just enough room for a dirty laundry box that’s always, always full. 

Eddie opens the shower and turns it on. “It takes a while to get really hot but then it’s not hot for long, sorry. There’s my shampoo if you want it, and soap, and body wash. Sorry, none of it is super girly.” 

“Sorry sorry,” you say, pretending to hit him in the stomach. “What’s with all the sorries, handsome? I can’t wait to smell like a boy.” 

The way you say it. Eddie doesn’t know what it is, but it’s why he’s crazy about you. 

Probably shouldn’t tell you that as you're taking off your jacket, though. 

“I’ll be right back,” he says. 

Eddie heads out of the bathroom to their skinny linen cabinet hidden in the hallway. He grabs the last two towels from the middle shelf and takes pause, fabric starchy in his hands. Just be normal, he thinks, a pep talk from Eddie to Eddie. She hangs out with you all the time for a reason. She held your hand at the movies. 

Eddie’s in better spirits when he remembers that. Your hand in his, your ring pushing his ring further down his finger, your cheek touching his shoulder as you’d leaned in and asked if he wanted some of your popcorn. 

He opens the door without thinking, shower pattering against the perspex wall, your legs crossing tightly as he enters, turning yourself away from him.

“Woah!” you say, laughing.

“Holy crap.” The image of your red underwear immediately stamps itself into his mind as he pulls the door shut between you. They were really cute, red and white gingham, showcasing just the slightest curve of your– “I told you I was coming back!” 

“I thought you’d knock!” you laugh. “Sorry I flashed you. At least I had my shirt on.” 

At least, he thinks wryly, shoving his arm through the gap in the door, heavy towels pulling at his fingers. His head’s about to snap off, it's turned so far away from the door’s opening. “Here.” 

“If you wanna see me naked so bad you can just ask,” you tease. 

“Take the towels, loser.” 

You take the towels and he closes the door, preventing any more accidental creeping, and giving himself a reprieve. Gingham underwear. Wavy lettuce edgings kissing your skin. 

Holy fuck. Being a person is so lame, Eddie thinks. He wants to have a crush on you purely, and yet seeing the way you’d crossed your legs to hide from him, smiling, he can’t not think about kissing you —touching you. If he doesn’t get you laid out in his bed soon for some slow kissing he’s not gonna make it.

Eddie opens the strip vent above his window and prays it doesn’t flood his whole room. Clean, it doesn’t look half bad, he could bring you in here respectfully, you could stay the night without fearing for your life. 

You take a quick shower. He’s barely gotten over his nerves when you’re walking into his room, a towel around you, not a hint of shyness about you. 

“You didn’t bring me anything to wear,” you explain. 

Eddie just stares at you. 

“Eddie?” You wrap the towel tighter. “Come on, you’re staring at me.”

“Sorry.” His mouth is bone dry. 

“You have my hoodie, right? Just need some pants.” You cross your arm tightly across your chest. “I don’t usually notice when people are staring at me.”

“You aren’t usually naked in my room,” he says, genuinely and embarrassingly apologetic. 

“I’m not naked. Come on, please? Do I have to wait outside the door?” you ask with a laugh. 

Eddie stands up. Shakes his head hard, almost trips over himself trying to get to his dresser. He decides honesty will be best at this point, lest you think he has only one thing on his mind, “Listen, I’m sorry. I’m just in my head about something and I wasn’t expecting you to come out like that. It’s not right. You’re just… you’re really pretty.” 

“Thank you.” He can’t see you, sorting quickly through his middle drawer and all his miscellaneous pants for a pair he’s sure would fit, if he could just remember where it was. “What are you in your head about?” 

“What?” 

“Eddie, are you okay?” 

“No, no,” he moans, rubbing his face with his hand, ring scratching the bridge of his nose, “I’m not okay, princess, I’m overheating or something, Jesus Christ.” He finally lays eyes on the sweatpants he’d been thinking of, grabs your hoodie from the top shelf and drops them both at the end of the bed. “I’ll give you some privacy.” 

“I don’t have any underwear.” 

“And that’s something I can’t fix,” he says, leaving the room in a hurry. 

Eddie gets to the living room and keels over. His hair falls in his face, his shirt slides down his back. What the fuck is wrong with him? 

Wayne, sliding his shoes on in the recliner, gives a start. “What’s wrong?”

Eddie lifts his head, yanking hair from his face, the skin of his under eyes pulled down harshly. “Oh my god.”

Wayne wrinkles his nose. 

“No ones ever been such a pathetic excuse for a man before,” Eddie says. 

“Your dad’s in jail,” Wayne points out. “And not for the impressive stuff.”

“I’m pathetic.” 

“You’re fine. You’re not supposed to be not pathetic, you’re twenty.” 

“I’m twenty one.” 

“The extra year doesn’t mean much. I know you think you’re all grown up, but you’re still an idiot.” 

Wayne stands and shrugs on the jacket laying over the armrest. 

“Wait, where are you going?” 

“I thought you were definitely gonna ask her?” Wayne asks knowingly. That’s what Eddie told him, after all. “Next time I see her, Wayne, I’m asking her to go steady.” 

Eddie shakes his head. “You can’t leave.” 

“Eddie.” Wayne gestures for Eddie to stop slouching like some fiend from a bad horror. “Listen. I get that you’ve always been sort of… behind everyone, but that doesn’t mean you can’t do it. She likes you. She biked here in a hurricane.”

“What if she says no?” he asks. 

Truthfully, Eddie’s more scared of you saying yes. 

Wayne shrugs. “Girl like that’ll still be your friend after. It’ll be fine, okay? Do you need a hug before I go?” 

“No.” Eddie rubs his eyes some more, sore now from being touched. “Maybe.” 

Wayne crosses the room to give his shoulder a squeeze. “It will be fine. You’re great with rejection, Eds, but I have a good feeling about this one.” 

Eddie felt better about it, before he embarrassed himself staring at you. But Wayne’s right, even if Eddie’s read things wrong between you, he’s sure you’ll still want to be his friend. You and Eddie are the same kind of weird, though he’s more angry where you’re carefree. If everything goes wrong, you’ll probably just give an unnecessary apology and offer to braid his hair. Which will be torture, but Eddie’ll still say yes.

Wayne calls goodbye, and you shout, “Bye, Mr. Munson!” to which Wayne wiggles his eyebrows. 

“Get lost,” Eddie says. 

“Go make her a drink. I’ll see you later.” 

That’s not a bad idea. Eddie makes you a mix of orange and grapefruit juice with a couple of ice cubes and a plastic straw, your reaction predicted and then proved. 

“It’s a cocktail,” you say, pleased, sitting on the side of his bed. 

“It’s not a cocktail, just juice.” 

“Can I have some socks, please, Eddie?” 

Eddie passes you your drink, fingertips brushing. “Yeah. Anything else?” He pretends to be exhausted as he trudges back over to his dresser. 

You laugh and sip your drink. “No, I think you’re treating me quite well.” 

Eddie grabs a random pair and finally gets to sit down beside you, the dresser drawer left out, a spare sock fallen to the floor. You shuffle back into his pillows, propping your juice on his side table, and holding your hands out for the socks. Again, your fingertips touch his as he passes them to you. You seem to enjoy it, a smile lighting your face as you pull your knees up to put the socks on. 

“Thank you for waiting on me,” you say quietly. Not shyly, just quiet. 

“You’re welcome. Came all this way to see me, didn’t you?” He gives you a shove. You shuffle back further. “In the pouring rain.” 

“It felt important at the time.” 

“Yeah?” 

You get the socks on and don’t care about them once they're past your heels. Eddie does the honour of smoothing out the bands so that the elastic won’t dig into your skin, and when he’s done he can feel you looking at him heavily. You’re not one for continued eye contact, but you smile like you were waiting for it all day, like it’s a relief to see him. 

“Bad weather,” you say, slouching down. “I think I’m still wet on the inside.” 

“Gross,” Eddie says, pushing you over bodily to sit beside you. This isn’t new, he doesn’t need any nerves, and he’s grateful when they don’t come. “Here, I’ll pull the blanket over you.” 

“Can’t move,” you say, leaning back against the pillows.

Eddie stretches his legs out. You keep yours up, but you turn to his side, and before he can really make any sense of you, you’re dropping your face into his shoulder. 

“Are you still cold?” he asks, searching for the truth in your strange comment. 

You nod into his shoulder. “I’m freezing. The shower didn’t get very hot.” 

“Sorry,” he says, letting his cheek rest on your head. 

You lift your chin as he does it, his lashes pressed to your forehead, the two of you stuck together like two warped jigsaw pieces. You probably weren’t made to be together, but you make a nice picture, and you fit snugly now. That’s what Eddie thinks. 

This is the sort of moment that makes Eddie wanna ask you out. Maybe you’re just the best friend he’s ever had, but something about this closeness feels different. You wrap your arm around his stomach in a hug and he knows this is different. 

“It’s okay,” you say finally, sighing as you shift downward into his side, getting comfortable. 

“Please don’t bike here in the rain. It’s, like, torrential. You could actually get sick.” 

You feel warm where your body presses against his, but Eddie doubts that’ll make a difference if the cold already made you sick. The bike ride from your place to his isn't short. He covers your arm with his and tries to be your space heater, cheek sliding over your forehead. 

“Eddie…” You hug him with tenderness. Eddie’s reluctant to say cuddle, but it’s close. “This might be a surprise to you, but I think it’s worth the rain and the cold to see you. Especially when you do this.” 

“What am I doing?” 

“You’re rubbing my arm.” 

He hadn’t noticed his hand caressing up and down your arm where it rests on his stomach. 

“You make me feel amazing,” you say, dropping your face into his chest. 

That’s his last straw. Eddie gets both arms around you and cuddles you (it’s a cuddle, okay! he’s a loser!) to him, arms tight but not cruel. All this fuss and you’re finally laying on top of him. He decides he won’t ask you after all. He’s not that brave, and he doesn’t want this to end. 

Your legs fall onto him. You relax completely. Even after you shower he can smell your perfume. 

“You smell nice,” he murmurs. 

“It’s on my hoodie,” you murmur back. 

Right. Eddie should remember. 

“You make everything smell like you.” Even his van keeps your scent most days. 

“Too much?” 

“The right amount,” he says firmly. 

You lay on his chest for a while, just breathing. Eddie rubs your back, tells himself he will ask, actually, because he can’t imagine not getting to do this again. You might even stay over. He could live hours of this. He didn’t know having you lay on him could make him feel like this. 

He can’t believe you’ve never done it before. 

Rain pounds the window. Condensation drips down onto the sill. You let your legs stretch out flat and then manoeuvre to be laying half atop him, hoodie riding up your back. 

“Any warmer now?” he asks.

“Yeah, you’re warming me up.” You lavish in his arms for a moment, and then lift your face. “Oh, this is a bad angle.” 

“For me or you?” 

“For me, duh.” 

Eddie doesn’t think you could have a bad angle. He rubs at your upper arm as you start to shift. “You know, your bike has just as big a chance of getting hit by lightning as your car does. More, probably.” 

“You think so?” 

“It’s physics. So, please don’t do it again.” 

You hum. “Hm, should I risk getting struck by lightning, or spend the evening without you?” you murmur, your arm moving, moving slowly, your hand resting gently on the column of his neck. There’s something ironic in your voice, wry, but your eyes are warm. He’s paralysed. No one has ever spoken to him like you. “I think I’d rather get struck by lightning.” 

You stare at one another. He laughs. You join in, your thumb a pressure at his neck, and when you move up his chest to lean in, he isn’t expecting it. 

“We’re very close together,” you whisper. 

“Super close,” he whispers back. 

“…Eddie, can I ask you something?” Your eyes slip shut, your lips so close that something in him aches, just enough wit about him to cup your shoulders in his forearm. 

“Yeah.” 

He doesn’t sound half as calm as you do. 

“Would you… Do you think we could be official? Would you want that?” You tilt your head to the side. “Is that stupid?” 

“Official?” he asks, panicked, his eyes squeezed shut hard enough for a moment that they ache.

“Like, you’d be my boyfriend. I’d be your girlfriend. We’d be close like this all the time.” 

Eddie panics so hard he just says the first thing that comes into his head, “Like, we’d kiss?” 

“I hope so,” you say, your nose pressing against his, the tip to the side of his, and then against his nostril. The heat of your breath is hard to ignore. “What do you think?” 

What does Eddie think about it? 

He catches your lips in a slow kiss. Achingly slow, not even sure it’s a kiss until you reciprocate, and your fingers dig behind his neck to tease his hair. Your lips part against his, the heat of your tongue sudden and undeniable —Eddie didn’t know you had it in you. He squeezes you to him, attempting to crane his neck downward, reliant on your enthusiasm as you move up, as you use his neck to pull yourself closer. 

Your noses crush together, and it actually hurts. “Sorry,” he says, easing you back, “you okay?” 

“‘Nother kiss,” you say hopefully, distractedly. 

He can’t not give it to you. 

Your hand spreads flat against his chest and you kiss, you kiss, long and slow movements against him before turning your head to take it again. Eddie doesn’t always know what to do with himself, but he knows kissing, no matter what anybody might think about him, and he takes the lead. 

His hand screws into a fist against your hoodie, the slip of your back further exposed as you shiver into his mouth, a sound you shouldn’t make sweet on his tongue. 

You pull away, breath on his lips. “Wanted you to kiss me for so long,” you murmur. 

Eddie knows you’re not saying it to flirt, and that makes it worse. 

“I should’ve kissed you a long time ago,” he says roughly. 

“You wanted to?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, so much, I’m a loser about you–”

“I’m always a loser,” you interrupt, “but especially about you.” 

You scratch your fingers through his hair, encouraging his head down for another kiss. This one rougher but not rough, his arm slips finally behind your head where he’d needed it to be, hooking you in his elbow to keep you in one place. To kiss you soundly, without interruption. Your almost feverish ebbing inward is a dream, your nose rubbing up against his is a fantasy. 

His heart hammers and hammers at his ribs. 

You pull away to let him breathe. “You’re very excited,” you tease lightly. 

Eddie kisses you, breathless. He kisses you so much he’s surprised you allow it, but your thumb rubs his cheek, and he knows he’d been right all along. You want him like he wants you, with startling, mildly pathetic urgency. 

He feels like a fucking prince. Girl of his dreams in his lap, everything he wants, and he didn’t even have to ask. 

—

Eddie spends a week in bliss. You’re suddenly everywhere, all the time, attached to his hip or some other part of him, and he forgets for seven whole days that he bought you a ring. 

The rain dries up, the Munson emergency fund lives to die another day, and he remembers the ring only minutes before you’re knocking at his door. 

He trips over himself trying to answer it before Wayne, who’s taken to being as painfully embarrassing as is possible for one human being, can get it for him. 

“One day you’re gonna eat shit and break your nose,” Wayne says. 

Eddie yanks open the door. “Yeah, thanks. Hey, beautiful, what’s with the sunglasses?” 

You slide them down your nose. You’re a vision on his front step, not that you’d ever notice your own intrigue. “The sunglasses?” you ask, tucking them away. “What do you think they’re for? Three guesses.” 

He grabs your waist, leaning down out of the doorway so as to save Wayne the agony. “That’s smart,” he says, kissing you quickly in hello. “You’re funny. Need anything before we go?” 

“No, I’m okay. Hi, Mr. Munson!” you add.

“Hey, honey! How are you?” Wayne calls.

You look up into Eddie’s face with an obvious delight. “I’ve never been better.” 

Eddie grins back. 

He waves a quick goodbye to Wayne and then he’s out the door. You grab his wrist and practically dance him to the car, where you offer your keys, and he deigns to drive. From there it’s smooth sailing, familiarity with a better twist, Eddie driving with the windows down and your hands twined on your thigh. Things haven’t changed much since you asked him to go steady, there’s just a whole lot more of this. Touching, kissing, no weird guilt about staring. 

As it turns out, you’re as eager to be laid out in his bed as he is to lay you out. He’s never wanted to kiss you more, and now he’s allowed. 

“Eyes on the road.” 

He leans over to kiss your cheek. The sun has warmed your skin, and his kiss makes you smile. You look pretty no matter the weather. 

“Before we get there, I have something to give you.” He takes his hand from yours to slide the box from his pocket. He holds it up. “But you can only have it if you swear you’ll call me tonight before bed. No excuses. You know exactly what number to call.” 

“Ends with a three,” you say, nodding. 

He sighs. “No, it does not.” 

“I’m kidding! Two one nine seven, I have now committed it to memory.” 

Eddie pays attention to the road, though it’s clear and long heading out of the trailer park and into town. “That deserves a gift.” 

You’re back in your glitters today, a skirt to enjoy the fine weather, a button shirt with a cute triangle collar, you’re lovely as ever, if a tad much for some. Not Eddie. He loves the dark clothes, the tinkling bracelets, the fun way you smile like everything he says is a secret between him and you. People stare wherever you and Eddie go, but as long your arm is sewn through his he couldn’t care less. 

“A gift,” you say, smiling in your way, and taking the box politely. “I don’t think I deserve it for just remembering your number.” 

“You deserved it for less. It’s not much. You can pay me back in three or four amazing kisses. Right here.” He points to the tight juncture beneath his jaw. 

You attempt to lean over and kiss him immediately. He pushes you back, laughing, worsened by your own breathless laughter as you steal one exactly where he’d tapped. 

You settle back down, Eddie’s hand dropping kindly to your knee. “I wonder what it is,” you say. 

“Then open it.” 

“I am!” You pop the box open, it’s springing hinge snapping into place. “Oh, woah. Woah. Where did you get this?” 

It’s a slim ring, with a weirdly shaped band of quality metal around some cheaper but not totally worthless gemstones, of which there are three different colours: a topaz orange, a lime green, and a pinky-red ruby colour centre stage. They have nice cuts. It’s strange as you are, and he knew when he saw it you’d have to have it. 

“If I put it on my marriage finger, are we engaged?” you tease. 

“That one would be way heavier,” he says, giving you a squeeze. 

You slide it onto your middle finger and hold your hand up in the sunshine. It fits in with your other ring nicely, though it is, to Eddie’s pride, far prettier. 

He has half a mind to pull over and kiss each knuckle, but he’s trying to be less dramatic about you. It’s not working. 

“Thank you, Eddie. I love it.” 

“Best boyfriend ever?” he asks hopefully. 

To his mild fear but better pleasure, you climb up onto the console to press three quick kisses to his cheek and jaw, your hand under his ear holding him in tender place. “Best boyfriend ever. Even if you stare too much.” 

“How am I supposed to not?” he asks, with more weight than he’s intended. 

You speak matter of factly for the first time in your life. “I am going to cause an accident,” you promise, attempting to kiss his nose. “A bad one.” 

“Sit down, please.” He lets you kiss his nose, and then jabs you in the side. “Sit down, oh my god! That’s not funny, you’re so pretty I will total your car.” 

“Now who’s not funny?” 

You both laugh at the same time, the unfiltered, un-cute cackling of two idiots with the same sense of humour, and the same wealth of ridiculous honeymoon love. 

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

thank you so much for reading!! I hope you enjoyed. if you did, please consider reblogging or commenting!! thanks very much <3

[of-apollo]

₊⊹ HITTING THE SOFT SPOT !

PAIRING: Eddie Munson x Soft!Fem!Reader.

SUMMARY: Everybody in Hawkins knows that you are sickeningly sweet to everyone you meet. Nobody, however, understands that quite as much as Eddie Munson, and he will stop at nothing to make sure that you know how insanely loved you are.

NOTES: Mild profanity, reader is an absolute sweetheart, protective!Eddie, very minor hurt/comfort vibes, mutual pining.

NAVIGATION | S.T MASTERLIST | KO-FI

You never really meant to become the one person in Hawkins High who remembered so many people’s birthdays. It just happened. You liked making things nice. You liked seeing someone’s face light up when you gave them a cookie wrapped in cling film or a sweet treat you had scavenged from your own lunch. It pleased you to be kind. It felt like something you could contribute, even when everything else about school made your stomach twist in that thin, sour way.

Eddie Munson saw it before you realised he had been paying attention at all. The boy was a walking ruckus. He burst down corridors like he was the frontman of a band only he could hear, chains jangling, his voice echoing off lockers, hair refusing to behave in any discernible order. Even from a distance he had an effect on you, like static brushing across skin, both thrilling and a tiny bit unsettling. There were days you caught him looking straight at you and you had no idea what to do with the molten warmth that sparked behind your ribs.

He’d been staring a lot lately. More than usual. You assumed he was simply amused by how much you fussed over people. You had no idea he was keeping count of every time you pressed a bandaid into someone’s hand for a simple scratch, or offered younger students your umbrella when the sky opened over the car park.

Dustin Henderson, who possessed the subtlety of a fire alarm, caught on faster than anyone. He started giving you these little looks whenever Eddie mentioned you, a glint that suggested he knew exactly what was happening. The boy was determined to stir something that already simmered too close to the surface.

You were shelving returned books in the library on a bleak Tuesday afternoon when it really began. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead and the heating rattled as though the pipes were filled with gravel. Eddie strolled in without even pretending he had legitimate business. His boots thumped in that familiar way that made your heart perform tricks in your chest.

Eddie leaned on the counter, tapping a pencil you could have sworn he’d stolen. His smile was wide, the sort that tried its best to hide nerves but never quite succeeded. You noticed these things about him. You noticed more than you let on.

“Got anything new for me?” he asked, gaze flicking towards the fantasy section where he pretended to browse.

“I showed you the new arrivals yesterday,” you reminded him, soft voice disappearing into the hush of the room. “Not sure the library can replenish itself overnight.”

“Shame. I was hoping for something thrilling.” His eyes dropped to yours. “Maybe a little romantic.”

The comment had your pulse tripping, though you forced yourself to keep your expression neutral. People always assumed you were calm. They had no idea how loud everything felt on the inside.

Before you could respond, Jason Carver barged in with his usual graceless heaviness, nearly knocking a stack of science textbooks off their trolley. He didn’t apologise. He never did.

Jason spotted you arranging a pile of bookmarks. “Hey, could you make a few more of these? Coach wants something for the team to give out at that charity thing. You did the others, right?”

Your stomach sank. You had already made forty of them last week when he’d said, ‘it won’t take long for someone like you’. He’d smiled while saying it, the kind of smile that made your bones feel hollow.

“I’ve still got homework,” you said gently. “I’m not sure I’ll have time.”

Jason waved your concern away. “C’mon, you’re good at this stuff. Just whip some up tonight.”

Before you replied, Eddie straightened, the noise of it sharp in the quiet room. He planted himself a step closer to you, arms folding in a way that felt protective without being overbearing.

“She just said she’s busy,” he told Jason, tone light but absolutely firm. “Are you being ignorant today or is that just a natural talent?”

Jason scoffed. “Stay out of it, freak.”

“No problem,” Eddie replied. “Happy to stay out of it, long as you stop treating her like your personal craft machine.”

Heat crept up your neck. People didn’t usually defend you. It wasn’t that they didn’t care. They just assumed your gentleness meant permission.

Jason huffed and backed off, muttering something about the ‘weirdos taking over’. The library door swung shut behind him. The silence left behind felt enormous.

You focused on straightening a pile of returned novels, fingers trembling slightly. Eddie stood beside you, not saying anything for a moment. There was surprising quiet around him now, as if the loudest person you knew had chosen to match your softness.

“He always do that?” he asked, turning the pencil over in his hands.

You didn’t want to make a fuss. You rarely did. “I think he just doesn’t realise how much time it takes.”

“I think he realises perfectly well,” Eddie muttered, frowning. “People like him always do. They count on you being too kind to kick up a scene.”

“I don’t want a scene,” you said. “It never helps.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to let yourself get trampled.”

The words slipped in under your ribs, unsettling in their accuracy. No one ever said things like that to you. No one looked at you as though your feelings were urgent.

You stepped back, giving yourself a moment to breathe. “It’s not that important.”

“It is to me,” Eddie said.

The confession landed between you, soft as a leaf and heavy as stone. Your breath caught. His cheeks coloured in a way you had never seen before. Not on Eddie.

An awkward hum rose in your throat before you managed to say, “Thank you.”

He nodded, shaky and relieved. “Any time.”

For the rest of the afternoon he lingered in the quiet aisles, helping you stack books even when he put half of them in the wrong place. He looked at you like you hung the moon. Dustin’s words echoed distantly from last week, when he cornered you outside the science labs, ‘He’s not like that with anyone else, you know. He notices things about you’.

You told Dustin he was imagining things. Now, you weren’t sure.

When the final bell rang, Eddie walked you to the school gate. The sky had clouded over, grey and soft, the air thick with the promise of rain. He kicked at gravel as though searching for the right words.

“You alright?” he asked at last.

You nodded, though you wished you could find the courage to say everything that swelled inside your chest. Gratitude, embarrassment, something warm and terrifying all at once.

“See you tomorrow,” he said, flashing you a smile that lingered long after he left.

You watched him disappear across the car park. You didn’t realise until later that your heart had been glowing the whole way home.

Dustin cornered Eddie the next morning near the vending machines. It was barely eight and Eddie already looked frayed round the edges, pacing as if trying to burn off whatever storm brewed inside him.

“You look terrible,” Dustin said through a mouthful of crisps. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Not the point,” Eddie muttered. He ran a hand through his hair, only succeeding in making it stick up more wildly. “You should’ve seen Carver yesterday. Had her doing his homework but with glitter or something. Absolute parasite.”

Dustin stared. “He asked her for bookmarks.”

“Yeah, and? You know those take ages. She does little patterns and stuff. It’s labour, Henderson. She’s doing unpaid labour for a guy whose entire personality is hitting things.”

“You’re very passionate.”

“Someone has to be.” Eddie leaned against the vending machine, tapping his boot. “She looked so small. You should’ve seen her shoulders. All tense. Kept pretending she didn’t mind.”

Dustin swallowed another handful of crisps through a hearty laugh. “You’re completely gone for her.”

Eddie froze. “I am not.”

“You’re pacing like a dad waiting for a baby to be born. You’re describing her shoulders.”

“They were tense.”

“That’s my point.”

Eddie pushed off the machine, jittery. “I just hate seeing her taken advantage of. She’s too kind. She gives people cookies and she gives me those little heart attacks.”

“You mean heart-warming feelings?”

“Same difference.”

Dustin stuffing the rest of the bag away seemed like his attempt to be serious. “If you like her, you could tell her, you know.”

Eddie scoffed. “Are you kidding? She’s delicate.”

“She’s not made of glass.”

“She might as well be. Have you seen the way she smiles? It’s like a small animal trusting you for the first time. You make one wrong move and poof, she disappears into a log.”

“Into a log? She’s not a worm, dude.”

“It’s a metaphorical log!”

Dustin sighed with the weariness of someone decades older. “Just be honest with her.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie muttered, though the idea made him feel faint.

You arrived not long after, clutching your books to your chest, cheeks still tingling from the cold. Eddie brightened instantly. He didn’t mean to. He’d sell his soul before admitting how reflexive it had become.

You joined them by the lockers. Dustin greeted you eagerly. Eddie hovered, trying to decide whether to say good morning or recite sonnets at your feet. He settled for a quiet, “Hey.”

Your smile, small and soft, made him look away before he grinned too widely. You didn’t notice. You never did.

“Dustin, you dropped something,” you said, bending to pick up a folded bit of paper near his shoe.

Eddie caught his breath. You’d swept your hair forward and the whole hallway seemed to slow down. He nearly said something embarrassing just from watching the way your fingers brushed the floor.

“It’s from Mike,” Dustin explained, stuffing it into his bag. “He’s probably complaining about something unimportant.”

“Oh,” you murmured. You didn’t question it.

Jason strode through the corridor then, and your posture changed in an instant. Eddie spotted it immediately. Your shoulders subtly drew in, chin dipping, gaze dropping to the laces of your shoes.

Jason noticed you. That was the problem. “Hey,” he called, without bothering to sound pleasant. “About those bookmarks.”

You opened your mouth but Eddie spoke first. “She said no.”

Jason’s jaw flexed. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

“I know,” Eddie replied, standing beside you in a way that felt protective rather than confrontational. “Still relevant information.”

Jason looked at you again. “You didn’t finish them?”

“I told you I had homework,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Jason sighed loudly, an exaggerated sound that made your cheeks warm with embarrassment. “Could’ve just said you weren’t up for it.”

That hurt. Eddie saw it. He saw everything. The way your throat tightened. The way your fingers curled in towards your palms. He knew you would apologise, even though you didn’t owe anyone a thing.

“She did,” Eddie said. “You just don’t listen.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not dealing with you this morning.”

He walked off with a shake of his head. A few students snickered under their breaths. You looked like you wanted to sink through the linoleum.

Eddie wanted to march after Jason and express certain opinions with strong vocabulary. He didn’t. He turned to you instead.

“You alright?” he asked gently.

You nodded, though your eyes darted away. “It’s fine.”

“It isn’t.”

Some tension flickered across your face. You didn’t like arguments, even when they weren’t yours. You didn’t like people raising their voices or drawing attention. Every instinct in you seemed built to keep the peace.

Dustin, surprisingly gentle, said, “You don’t have to say yes to everything.”

“I know.” Your voice sounded brittle.

Eddie’s chest ached. He wanted to place a hand over your heart and cradle it like something precious. He wanted to tell you that you were allowed to take up space. Allowed to say no. Allowed to exist without being chewed up by people who mistook softness for weakness.

The bell rang. Students shuffled off. You breathed out slowly before saying, “Thank you. Really. Both of you.”

Eddie melted. He couldn’t help it. Your gratitude hit him in the sternum and spread through him like warm tea.

“Anytime,” he said, voice quieter than he intended.

The three of you walked to class together. Eddie deliberately kept his steps slow to match yours. Sometimes you got lost in your thoughts and drifted. He liked following that pace, the calm of it smoothing his usual restlessness.

Dustin peeled off at science, and you and Eddie continued to English. Halfway there he nudged your elbow, very gently. “You know, if people keep taking advantage, you can tell me. I’m not asking you to cause a scene. I can do that part.”

You almost laughed. “I don’t want you to cause one either.”

He pressed his lips together, a thoughtful expression flickering. “Then I’ll cause a very polite one.”

Your smile returned, small but genuine. “You really don’t have to get involved.”

“You’re right,” he said. “I don’t have to. I want to.”

That left you quiet again, though the tension in your shoulders eased slightly. He watched you as you entered class, slipping into your seat with that careful grace of yours.

For the rest of the lesson he barely paid attention. His mind looped one thought over and over:

He would do whatever it took to keep that worry line off your forehead.

It wasn’t love. Not yet. But something was blooming fast and fierce, like a fire catching on dry leaves.

He didn’t realise he’d been staring until you glanced over with a shy, puzzled look. He shivered, looked away, then scribbled nonsense across his notebook.

Dustin was right.

He was gone for you.

The sky was a flat wash of cloud by the time the final bell rang, the sort of drained grey that made the air feel heavy. You held your books close and walked towards the front steps, hoping to slip out before anyone made more requests of you. Your nerves still hadn’t settled. Jason’s sigh kept replaying in your mind, that disappointed sound that wormed its way into places you hated.

Eddie spotted you from across the courtyard. He had been waiting for you, although he would never admit it so plainly. Dustin had already sprinted home, leaving Eddie with instructions to ‘try not to implode’. Eddie had responded with a rude gesture, though the worry in his eyes gave him away.

He jogged over, boots thumping on the concrete. “Heading home?”

“Yes.” Your voice came out softer than usual.

He picked up on it instantly. “Come on. Walk with me. Or I walk with you. Whichever sounds less creepy.”

A tiny smile tugged at your mouth. “You can walk with me, and I’ll walk with you.”

He fell into step beside you, letting the rhythm settle. The wind tugged at your hair and the cold flushed your cheeks a delicate pink. Eddie tried not to look too long in case his mind sprinted directly into dangerous territory.

“You’re quiet,” he said after a moment.

You hesitated. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

He hummed in that way he did when he wasn’t convinced. You reached the pavement and the trees rustled overhead, dead leaves scraping against each other. The noise was soft enough that it didn’t overwhelm you.

“It gets to me sometimes,” you admitted at last. “People assuming I’ll do things. I don’t think they mean harm. They just… assume.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“It’s easier to help than make a fuss.”

“I know,” he said gently. “But it should be your choice. Not theirs.”

You blinked down at your shoes. That sharp coil of emotion twisted under your ribs again, that feeling of being seen in a way you weren’t used to. His voice had softened so much it felt like warm hands cupping something fragile.

“You don’t have to fix it for me,” you murmured.

“I’m not trying to fix you.” His tone had never been more sincere. “I just want you to feel safe. That’s all.”

You didn’t speak for several steps. Your throat felt warm, and you feared if you said anything it might tremble. A minute passed before you said, “Thank you.”

Eddie breathed out slowly, shoulders dropping as though he had been holding something tense and invisible. “Always.”

The wind picked up, blowing your hair across your face. Eddie reached out on instinct, then stopped himself halfway, fingers curling slightly. You brushed the hair behind your ear before he had to make a decision.

“Can I walk you to your place?” he asked. “I know it’s slightly out of my way. Only slightly though, I swear.”

“If you want to,” you said.

“I do.”

You didn’t look at him, but your cheeks warmed just enough that he felt it like sunlight.

You walked in comfortable quiet for a while. Dogs barked behind fences, a car rattled past, someone in a front garden swore at a hedge. Eddie kept close without crowding you. He kept checking your expression out of the corner of his eye, and each time he caught a little crease between your brows, something protective flared so strongly he had to clench his jaw.

When you reached your road, he slowed. There were puddles lined up like silver coins along the curb. You stepped around them with delicate precision.

“Carver won’t bother you again,” he said. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“I don’t want you getting into trouble.”

He let out a breath of a laugh. “For defending the nicest person in the whole school? Worth it.”

You shook your head but your smile gave you away. Eddie felt his heartbeat scramble like it had tripped over a step.

You arrived outside your house. The curtains were half drawn and the porch light flickered faintly, though it wasn’t dark yet. You turned to him, holding your books a little tighter.

“Thank you for walking with me,” you said. “I’m sorry if I’ve been strange today.”

“You haven’t.” He struggled for words. “You’ve been brilliant. You’re always brilliant.”

Your eyes widened slightly at that. He rubbed the back of his neck. His rings clicked together nervously. For a moment you both stood there, caught between the desire to step closer and the fear of disrupting something delicate.

He cleared his throat. “Can I say something without you running away?”

“I don’t run,” you said quietly.

“You sort of retreat into yourself like a shy woodland creature.”

You huffed a laugh. “You can say something. I won’t retreat.”

Eddie shifted his weight. “Yesterday, when Carver acted like you owed him something, I got angry. Proper angry. Not because of the bookmarks or any of that. Because you looked so… small. Not literally. Just… like someone had dimmed you.”

Your breath caught. He swallowed hard.

“I hate when people take advantage of you,” he continued. “You’re kind. You care. You remember things no one else notices. And it kills me that people think that means you’re easy to step on.”

“That’s not why I’m kind,” you said in a near whisper.

“I know. That’s what makes it special.”

You didn’t know what to say. His words settled over you like a warm coat, heavy and comforting. He shifted again, looking away briefly, gathering courage like it was loose coins in his pocket.

“I really like you,” he said. “I’m not asking you for anything. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I just… needed you to know. Because I think you’re the best part of most of my days.”

Your heart fluttered so sharply you had to inhale slowly to steady it. He looked terrified now that he’d spoken, eyes darting to the pavement as if searching for a crack to fall into.

You stepped forward before you lost your nerve. “I like you too.”

His head snapped up. “You do?”

“Yes,” you said, pulse racing. “A lot.”

A grin broke across his face so quickly it was almost ridiculous. He tried to rein it in but failed completely.

“Can I hug you?” he asked.

You nodded. He wrapped his arms around you with a gentleness that surprised even him. He held you as though you might slip through his fingers if he wasn’t careful. You pressed your forehead lightly to his chest, breathing in the faint smell of smoke and something warm beneath it.

When he let go, he looked like he might float off the front step. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, voice slightly trembling from trying not to explode with happiness.

“Tomorrow,” you echoed.

He walked backwards for a few steps, grinning at you like a fool before turning and nearly tripping over a recycling bin. You laughed softly. His laughter drifted back to you, bright and unguarded.

You stepped inside your house with a heart beating warm and full, already counting the hours until morning.

— COME AND JOIN MY TAGLISTS !

ALL STRANGER THINGS - @r6ven

[ssweeterthanfiction]

Blabbermouth

johnny storm x fem!reader content warnings: none! all fluff! summary: on a mission, Johnny gets sprayed with something that makes him way too honest. you try to keep him quiet, but he blurts out all the things he’s been holding back, especially how long he’s been in love with you. wc: 2k

masterlist.

It was supposed to be a standard sweep.

Alien bunker. Low threat. Weird tech, strange symbols, and enough glowing crystals to make Reed’s voice crack with excitement. Johnny had been bored from the start—hovering in the back of the group, tossing a ball of flame between his fingers while Ben kicked open doors and Sue cleared the path.

“I could be on a beach right now,” Johnny muttered, singeing the edge of a scorched blueprint with his pinky. “I deserve to be on a beach.”

“You got terrible sunburn last time,” Sue reminded him without looking back.

“It was a controlled burn.”

The air in the corridor felt stale, like something hadn’t breathed in there for centuries. They moved cautiously through the underground chamber, scanning for trip wires or pressure plates. Nothing. Just strange writing etched into the walls, humming with quiet energy.

That was the first sign something was off.

The second?

The pod.

It sat in the corner of the room. Dull silver, cracked slightly open, leaking a strange violet mist that curled and floated like it had a mind of its own.

Johnny, naturally, poked it.

“Johnny.” Ben snapped, too late.

The mist shot upward in a perfect puff—like a firework in reverse—right into Johnny’s face.

He blinked. Coughed once. Waved the smoke away.

“What the hell was that?” Sue asked, backing up with her arm half-raised for a shield.

“I’m fine,” Johnny said, squinting. “That was barely a breath. Not even spicy. Smelled kind of like lavender.”

Reed was already scanning him with some handheld monitor, muttering calculations under his breath.

Johnny grinned. “Relax, I’m fine. I feel great, actually.”

Then he looked at Sue and said, completely deadpan:

“By the way, your meatloaf sucks.”

A beat of silence.

“Excuse me?” she said, affronted.

“I’ve been pretending for years. I’m sorry. It’s bad. It’s like sadness in a pan.”

And that was when Reed declared the mission over.

The Baxter Building lobby smelled like smoke.

Not the scary kind. No alarms, no shouting, no flaming holes in the ceiling. Just a lingering warmth in the air, like someone had lit a match and forgot to put it out. You looked up from your notebook as the elevator doors slid open and the Fantastic Four filed in, one by one.

Reed had a sample tube in his hand. Sue was wiping green goo off her shoulder with a sigh. Ben was muttering something about “next time, I swear I’m bringing a flamethrower.”

And Johnny…

Johnny was beaming.

“Hey, guys!” he said way too brightly, his eyes going wide when he spotted you. “Look who it is! It’s the prettiest person in the tri-state area. No, the planet. Actually, the universe. Easy.”

You blinked. “Johnny?”

He marched right up to you with zero hesitation and zero regard for personal space.

“Hi,” he said, grin full blast, cheeks flushed. “You look amazing. I love that shirt on you. And your hair? Perfect. Is that a new lipstick? It’s making me go crazy. In a good way.”

“…Are you okay?”

“Me? Never better,” he said, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Got sprayed with a weird puff of alien gas in a tunnel, but I feel fantastic. And also, I’ve been thinking about how your laugh sounds like windchimes, and how it makes my chest all floaty and-”

“Johnny,” Reed interrupted from across the room, brows furrowed behind his glasses. “I need you to sit down.”

“I am sitting down,” Johnny replied.

“You’re standing.”

“Well, emotionally I’m sitting. Emotionally I am in a beanbag chair. Staring at-” he turned back to you, “a literal work of art.”

Sue groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Reed, tell me he didn’t breathe that stuff in.”

“He did,” Reed said grimly. “And based on his current behavior, I’m hypothesizing a psychochemical compound similar to a truth serum. But stronger. Less filtered. More impulsive.”

“Sweet,” Ben said. “So he’s just gonna be running his mouth until it wears off?”

“Correct.”

“Oh, this is gonna be good.”

You turned back to Johnny, whose attention hadn’t wavered once. He looked like a golden retriever that had just discovered affection. His smile was stupid. His eyes were shining. His hair was a little windblown and he had a small scratch on his cheek, but he looked annoyingly good.

“I am so sorry,” you whispered, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “You probably don’t feel like yourself right now.”

“I feel great,” he replied. “Your hand is soft. Did you know that? Have I told you that before?”

“Johnny-”

“And I love that perfume. It’s not too much. It’s, like, subtle but deadly. I would let it kill me.”

“Okay-”

“I’m in love with you, by the way.”

Silence.

Your mouth dropped open.

Sue choked on her coffee.

Ben muttered, “Aw, hell.”

Johnny blinked. “Oh. Should I not have said that?”

The words just…hung there.

Like a balloon popped in the middle of a silent room. Time slowed. You felt your ears go hot, your heart skip. Johnny stood there, blinking at you like he didn’t just say that, like he hadn’t just detonated the emotional equivalent of a nuclear bomb in the middle of the Baxter Building.

“Okay,” you said, voice tight. “Okay. So you’re, uh. You’re drugged. That’s cool. That’s fine. Everything’s cool-”

“I’m not drugged,” Johnny said proudly. “I’m just finally free.”

Sue set down her coffee with a loud clunk. “Johnny, shut up.”

“I won’t!” he declared, like he was giving a toast. “I have been in love with her for, like, six months- maybe more, who’s counting, not me, except that I definitely wrote it in my notebook at one poin=t”

“Oh my God,” you whispered.

“And I didn’t say anything because I thought, hey, you’re normal, right? And I’m me. Human torch. Fire boy. Disaster man. I figured if I told you, you’d run for the hills or laugh or worse. But I think about you all the time.”

“Johnny-”

“Like, all the time. Like, embarrassing amounts. Like I have quotes you’ve said stuck in my head like song lyrics.”

"Johnny can you-"

“I memorized the way you say my name,” Johnny added, eyes wide, honest to God sincere. “You say it different than everyone else. It’s like…softer. Like you’re letting me be someone else when you say it.”

You wanted to disappear.

No. You wanted to melt into the floor.

Or maybe fly into the sun.

But instead you stood there, frozen, while Johnny kept going, still not done.

“One time I flew over your apartment window to make sure you got home okay after that dinner with that guy you didn’t like. And I pretended it was a patrol run, but really I just wanted to make sure your lights turned on. And I saw them. And I smiled for, like, an hour.”

“Oh my God,” Sue muttered into her hands.

“Also!” he added brightly. “I have a collection of vinyls in a box labelled ‘If She Ever Lets Me Kiss Her’ and I will be playing it in full if that moment ever comes."

Ben was red in the face now, shaking with laughter. Reed just looked concerned.

You finally grabbed Johnny’s arm and pulled him into the hallway with a rushed, “I just need to talk to him, excuse us.."

Once the door clicked shut behind you, Johnny looked up at you with a dreamy smile.

“You’re holding my arm,” he said, like it was the best part of his whole day.

You stared at him. “Johnny.”

“Yes?”

“You are not in your right mind.”

“I’m in love.”

“No, you’re chemically compromised.”

He grinned wider. “Wow. That’s my favorite way someone’s ever said that.”

You ran a hand down your face, trying not to laugh. Trying not to feel the way your heart was pounding.

“You can’t just…say all that to me,” you whispered. “You can’t say things like that and not mean them.”

Johnny paused.

The smile softened. For the first time all afternoon, he looked a little serious. A little still.

“I do mean them,” he said quietly. “Every single word.”

You stared.

He wasn’t grinning now. He wasn’t performing. He was just looking at you like you were the only real thing in the room. No sparks. No flash.

Honest.

Open.

Yours, if you wanted.

“But,” he added, blinking slow. “If you don’t feel the same, that’s okay. I can…walk that back. Just, like, tell me, and I’ll make myself forget. Or I’ll pretend this never happened. I’ll do whatever you want. Just…don’t stop being in my life. I need you. Even if I don’t get to have you.”

You didn’t realize you’d moved until your hand was on his face, fingers cradling his jaw, thumb brushing the side of his cheek.

He leaned into it instantly, heat curling off his skin like instinct.

“You didn’t even ask if I feel the same,” you said softly.

“Do you?”

You nodded. Barely.

He didn’t say anything.

He just kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t fiery.

It was warm. Solid. Real.

He tasted like cinnamon gum and something a little electric. He sighed into it like it was the one thing he’d been holding his breath for all this time.

When you pulled back, he looked dazed.

“You taste like strawberry chapstick,” he whispered. “I knew it.”

You laughed, breathless, forehead pressed to his.

“What happens when the serum wears off?”

“I panic. Sue makes fun of me. Reed writes a report. I pretend I don’t remember any of this.”

“And then?”

He looked at you again.

“Then I kiss you again,” he said. “But on purpose this time.”

By the time Johnny woke up the next morning, the serum had long worn off, and the crippling realization of everything he’d said had kicked in.

He lay on his back in his bed, arm over his face, replaying it all in horror:

“I think about kissing you, like, constantly.” “I flew past your window to make sure you were safe.”

He groaned. Out loud. Into the void. Into his pillow.

“Oh my god.”

There was a knock at the door.

He flinched. “Go away.”

The door opened anyway.

“Morning, lover boy,” Ben said, way too cheerfully.

“I said go away.”

“Too bad. I brought company.”

Sue followed behind, sipping her coffee. “How’s our little truth bomb?”

Johnny rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. “Dead. Gone. I’m quitting the team.”

“Aw, come on,” Ben said. “You were adorable. Real rom-com material.”

“Kill me.”

“I didn’t know your middle name was ‘romance’” Sue added.

“I swear to God-”

“And Reed says he’s almost done charting your ‘emotional spike timeline,’” Ben said. “Apparently you got more honest every time she smiled at you.”

“I will burn this entire building down.”

A soft knock interrupted his growing spiral of despair.

You stepped into the doorway, holding two mugs of coffee. One of them had little flame doodles on the side. Johnny peeked over his pillow, eyes wide like a scared cat.

You gave him a slow smile. “You, uh…remember yesterday?”

He groaned. Again. “Please say it was all a dream.”

“Nope.”

You walked over and handed him the flame mug.

“But it was a very good dream for me.”

His ears turned red. Bright red. Like the serum had activated all over again.

You sat gently beside him on the edge of the bed.

“I liked hearing the things you said,” you added. “Even if they were…sudden. And chaotic. And a little concerning.”

“So…you’re not never speaking to me again?”

“Nope.”

“You don’t hate me?”

“Definitely not.”

You leaned in, brushed your hand across his cheek, and kissed the corner of his mouth, warm and quick and real.

“I kind of want to hear more of the truth,” you murmured. “This time without the alien chemicals.”

His eyes widened. “You do?”

“Only if you promise to show me that collection of records.”

Johnny grinned, wide and stunned, like he couldn’t believe his luck.

“I’ll even throw in choreography,” he said. “But I’m warning you—it’s a lot of finger guns and dramatic pointing.”

“Perfect.”

And for the first time in twenty-four hours, Johnny Storm thought:

"Yeah. That wasn’t so bad after all."

[lunar-month-library]

Johnny Storm on truth serum at Thanksgiving WHEN?

This made me so happy, thank you

[francixoxoxo]

• just across the hall masterlist

• Frank Castle x reader

series desc; Frank Castle is starting to be more than a neighbor who does you favors without being asked. He knows it; and it terrifies him as much as it thrills you. It's a strange 'friendship'. sometimes he's making you laugh your ribs thin, and other times you could cut the air with a knife. The biggest challenge is keeping him from backing away, while not risking ruining the only relationship you have in your apartment complex.

notes; slow burn, just-neighbors to friends to lovers! Frank is horrible at feelings, very manly (yes plz fix everything in my house and don’t let me pay you back), curtis hoyle makes an appearance, teeeennnsssioooon, rom com esque, banter, eventual smut

reader moodboard

on ao3!

part 1; don’t like debt

part 2; blueberry muffins

part 3; olive branches, wood bookshelves

part 4; grocery runs and guard dogs

part 5; a night in

part 6; easiest way to a heart

[lunar-month-library]

Nary have I seen such delicious Frank Castle characterization...

(This is so fucking good and does so much justice to Frank "Murder" Castle's character)

[lunar-month-library]

After many MANY trying years, the bitch is actually fucking back!

This is also my apology to all the fanfic writers I have liked but not reblogged.

I know what I did was wrong and I have no excuse other than lurking felt safer.

Trust I will be hitting the reblog button hard asf this day forward ✊🏻

[lunar-month-library]

THE BITCH IS BACK!!!!

it's me. I'm bitch.

[nsharks]

weyy idk if ur taking reqs rn but if u are… ik youve already wrote this prompt like twice but can we have more argument angst w ghost 😭😭

simon struggles with anger (you struggle to help him) —tags: brief gore mention, cursing, angst, argument, established "situationship" —part two here

His fingers find the crest of your waist in the dark, holding you against the side of him as shallow breaths pound in his chest. Your lips are puffy and red. You wipe your hand against your used mouth and curl up into the warmth radiated from the colossal form beside you.

"Fuckin' hell," he murmurs, a low rasp. "I swear... Where'd a pretty thing like you learn all that, huh?"

But, with a flush to your cheeks, you barely have time to part your lips before he grumbles into your hair:

"Don't answer that."

It's a quiet order. One that rumbles low under his heavy breathing. Because Simon is full of orders. Demands. In bed, it thrills you, incites a thrum in your veins, an urge to follow and please him. He will take, and demand— until your legs are sore and your skin is chafed. But sometimes this persona bleeds into life outside of his bed. You try to be patient. You try to understand how difficult it must be to adjust to being just a person, here with you, and not a SAS lieutenant.

Especially for him.

But where Simon is rough and demanding, he is also quiet and thoughtful.

He moves his hand to the underbelly of your jaw. Softly now, he mutters, "Need water?"

"Yes, please," you answer, hoarseness in your voice.

And soon the warmth beside you ghosts out of his bedroom to fulfill your request, leaving you with a few moments to feel the tiredness in your limbs. He'd kept you up longer than you anticipated. He usually did.

But a sharp ding from your phone widens your eyes.

A message.

Your phone— casually placed on his desk in the corner of his room.

You hadn't meant to leave it there, not when his desk was particularly off-limits to you. Another order of his: don't touch my stuff. Even though Simon wanted you over every night, he didn't want you meddling in the crevices of his privacy. You did your best to respect that, but in the heat of removing your clothes, the phone in your pocket had ended up on the nearest surface.

You tug on just your shirt. Bare feet against cold floor. But when you reach for your phone, you carelessly brush a hand against the notebook beside it, nudging it off the desk.

It sits on the floor with the spine propped up, pages parted.

It's terrible, the curiosity that itches from the sight.

You reach for it with your tongue poking your cheek. You shouldn't look. A whisper of warning echoes in your mind. His privacy, his trust— you valued those things. But perhaps it's the fact that Simon is still such an enigma to you, or perhaps the fact that you immediately notice penned sketches on the paper, but you pick it up and can't stop yourself from taking a peak at the opened page.

The inked images stun you.

Only for a second can you bear them.

A brief second filled with... horrid things. Gruesome things. Things you knew, deep down, he'd seen, but you never wanted to entertain the detailed reality of. The sight spurs something in your stomach: nausea, maybe. An unease that twists and churns and urges you to clamp the notebook shut with a gasp.

You shouldn't have looked.

And you're about to set it back down—

But a presence makes itself known behind you.

"What are you doin'?"

His voice is quietly tense. Enough to snap you out of the images brandished in your mind. If the moonlit room is a river, then his words are a stone— splintering the surface.

"Oh, I—" you stutter, looking at the notebook in your hand. "I was just—"

But you can't finish. No— there's a hand ripping it from you.

"Just what?"

In the dark, you turn to face him. He sets down the glass of water on his desk; flicks on the small lamp. The light reveals to you the pits of inky black in his eyes, notebook gripped tightly in his hand.

"I was just trying to grab my phone, Simon," you explain in a murmur.

"Right," a click of his tongue. Animosity presses against his teeth. You see it, you feel it. And you wish you could clamp your eyes shut and return to the moment, not so long ago, when he'd been holding you with warmth.

He holds the notebook up. "Does this... look like your phone?"

"No, it just fell—"

"Liar," he interjects, cold and low. "You were going through my stuff."

"I wasn't," you insist, shaking your head. "I mean... I may have taken a peek but only because it opened—"

"You..." a sharp inhale. "Took a peek, huh?"

"I'm sorry."

"How many times do I have to—" he closes his eyes for a moment, but they reopen with a hollow flame. "You never fuckin' listen, I swear. Do you have a thick skull?”

And maybe it's the way he is staring at you, or the lick of venom in his insult, but you mumble: "Well, maybe you shouldn't have me stay here if you can't handle people touching any of your things."

"No," he grits. "Maybe you need to be more obedient."

He holds your stare.

A presence that nearly smothers you.

But you squint your eyes through the tension. "Obedient? Really? I mean— do you hear yourself? I am human and I accidentally dropped your book—"

"Don't," he breathes through his nose, a flare under the mask. "Don't give me that. Goin' thought my shit when I told you not to. Now you wanna stand here with bloody excuses. You are so..."

"So what?" you snap softly. A hand grips the end of your shirt to properly cover yourself because right now, you're not sure if you want those eyes looking at you.

But he doesn't finish, just pinches the bridge of his nose and stares off at the wall behind you. Muscles beneath the fabric of his mask twitch and ripple and shudder with a curl of rage.

"I told you," he repeats, more to himself than to you. "I told you so many goddamn times. Fuckin' hell, you make me... I want to just— Jesus Christ. Why can't you listen to something so simple?"

"You know, Simon," you retort under your breath. "You have so much to say when you're pissed, don't you?" You huff out a breath. "Somehow you have no problem finding the right words to tell me I've done something wrong. But when it comes time to tell me you care, that's so hard, right? When was the last time you even said it? You can't find the words for those feelings?"

"Shut it," he orders— no, barks. The curl of anger flickers and seethes and looks back at you, staring you down as if you are an enemy who has gotten in his way. His free hand clenches. You regret everything you've said. "Shut up, I swear to God. You went through my shit. You have no fuckin' right to talk about how I feel."

And then he is pacing around, a short trajectory of thunderous footsteps. His chest heaves. Ragged breaths claw up his throat until his voice raises to a level you haven't heard before:

"You want me to talk about how I fuckin’ feel? I feel nothing."

The snarl of his words is loud but easily drowned out by the sound of the notebook hitting the wall. It's a sudden sound that jolts you.

And maybe, maybe now you see it— how much of a lie he has shouted. I feel nothing. But there is so much feeling, so much unadulterated anger and pain thrown against the wall that it causes tears to quiver at the rims of your eyes. And your stomach churns, not with nausea this time but with something else, a feeling that grips your shoulders and tucks you a few steps further away from him.

Because at this moment Simons scares you.

And with all his orders, all his demands, he has never truly scared you before.

And if the fear wasn't there, you might've realized why he felt this way. You might've realized the images in his notebook were pieces of himself he was so terrified for you to see, and it angered him more than anything that, despite his efforts, he couldn't hide them from you forever.

He only snaps out of it when he sees you.

Moments pass, and then Simon is looking back at you with wild eyes. Eyes that flicker over you— your hunched body, your hands pressed against the wall behind you because you've backed up so far, the tears in your eyes.

"Oh, Jesus Christ," he mutters, quieter now. He drags a hand over his eyes. "Babe, I—"

But when he tries to take a step closer, you flinch further.

"Please," you whisper. A few tears escape. "I want to... I want to go home."

I want to get away from you.

"It's late," he argues weakly, still struggling to control his breath. His anger fizzles rapidly, leaving behind a shell of regret and pain and worry as he watches you reach for your pants.

You're tugging them up your legs with fingers that fumble.

"Y/N," Simon swallows, pressing his hands over his veiled forehead. "Don't. I will— Fuck, I'll go."

And you don't have time to protest. With hands that tremble, Simon begins pacing around the room again, this time not in anger. No— something that has him mumbling quietly under his breath over and over: "I'll go, I'll go."

He grabs his keys and keeps his eyes on the floor. "You stay here, yeah? Don't... don't go out so late."

A bob of his throat.

This order arrives in a voice that sounds frail and hollow.

"Okay," you whisper, nodding.

And he leaves. Tugging on his coat and within seconds, you hear the sound of his front door shut. Simon, the man who was just blistered with anger over his privacy, leaves you here to sleep in his own home without him. And you're too shaken, too exhausted, to wonder where he could possibly go for the rest of the night.

------

Simon was always saying he would quit smoking.

Bad for my lungs, pet, I know it. He would mumble against your lips in a kiss that tasted sour. It didn't bother you, but you noticed how the taste turned thicker during those days he'd shut himself away in his room.

Got to help me, pet. He had said one time into your neck, tucking a pack in your hand. Hide 'em from me, yeah?

(The only request for help he's ever uttered.)

But it didn't really matter where you hid them—

—Simon could always buy more.

And when he returns the next morning, the smell is pungent.

You're already awake. A small bag stuffed with your things, but you are quick to hide it when you hear the front door creak open.

A shuffling of boots.

While his footsteps had been thunderous before, a solemn calm now replaces the storm.

Wordlessly, he searches for you. He finds you frozen in place near the bathroom where you'd just been collecting your things— a toothbrush, a tube of makeup. But your bag is placed on the counter where he can't see.

"Hey," he offers a soft, hoarse greeting. "Didn't expect you to be here."

And then he holds up a bagged pastry and a to-go canister of tea. "Got you breakfast, jus' in case."

It shouldn't be so strange. The sight. His large hands gripping food from some nearby cafe. His eyes: red, worn. He looks like he didn't sleep. The air outside is brittle and already wintery: had he just walked around all night in the cold? And even now, with the hollow pit in your stomach left from your crying, a touch of concern finds you when you notice how pale his exposed skin is. A slight pink creeping from under the mask.

"I don't want a pastry and tea."

Your voice. Is it—?

Defeated.

Because your care and concern can only go so far with a man who slips so easily into anger, but with even greater ease, isolates himself from care.

“Right,” he clears his throat. “I’ll jus’ leave it in the kitchen, then. You could have it later.”

Avoidance.

Is he really just going to pretend—?

“You scared me last night.”

The admission slips out in a whisper. But it's enough. It's all he needs to hear for his eyes to dig shut, a visible flinch rippling through his broad shoulders. His avoidance cracks.

A gruff, "I know."

"You were so angry, Simon. I—"

Dark eyes flutter back open. Gently now, "I would never hurt you."

"But you did. You do." A swallow that tastes salty. "You shut me out. I mean— your notebook. It was... You—"

"Think I'm fucked then, huh?"

Hollow words. The shell of a man speaking to you, with only a little boy inside. And you flutter your eyes because the backs of your lids remember the gore you'd seen. But your stomach has already swallowed and digested the sight, whittled it down to empathy.

"No, I don't," you whisper with a firm shake of your head. "I just think you need help. You deserve it, Simon. And I—" Hushed like a secret that rattles with defeat: "I don't know if I can give you that help."

There's just not much else to say.

The look he gives, pitiful and strained, tugs at your reserve. You have to walk away— you turn around to grab your bag. He sees it now. A sharp inhale sounds from his chest as you begin your journey to the front door with your belongings.

He follows. Sets the food on the table.

You don't really know what you want or what you need, but at this moment all you can think of is space.

"Don't," a quiet, rough plea.

A ghost hovers behind you as your hand wraps around the doorknob. A phantom cloaked in guilt and perhaps, the realization that what he'd expected you to do for so long, was finally coming to fruition.

"It's just space," you tell him in a murmur. "Simon, I just need space."

"Space from me?"

"From this."

"M' sorry," he breathes. "Please... I— it won't happen again. Fuck, I swear it. I'm so..."

And he struggles with the words because, fucking hell, you were right. Words of care, words of apology, always seem to evade him. But military jargon and sharp commands come with ease.

"I'm so sorry," Simon finally says, choppy. "I didn't want you seein' all that. But... bloody hell, I overreacted, didn't I?"

Salt lines your vision as he continues, urgently now, because your hand refuses to let up off the knob.

"Jesus Christ. I didn't mean to. You can't just— Pet, please. I'm sorry, alright? So fuckin' sorry, I mean it."

But his apologies don't do much to soothe the defeat in your chest. You can't look at him so you open the door instead.

A touch to your shoulder, perhaps firmer than he intends—

And you pause only because you think finally he might say what you were hoping he would. Something about care. Maybe even, a tinge of hope for— love.

(But no— he'd given you a clear warning from the beginning that he couldn't give that.)

So instead, he just shakes his head and drops his hand back to his side. The words die on his tongue, turned the same color of ash as his lashes, and he lets you leave.

[lunar-month-library]

I saw the angst tag and I thought "it's ok it's just for the plot" and now I am on the verge of tears

[bubble-dream-inc]

one kiss (is all it takes)

At first, you regretted agreeing to going to the game with the boys. Turns out a hockey game can be a lot more interesting than you thought.

Or; You and Price get caught on a Kiss Cam.

Pairing: Captain John Price x Reader

rbs greatly appreciated!

WC: 1.5K

a/n: i have no idea how a hockey game - or the military - works. anyways. this was written in an hour, is barely edited and not beta read lmao

tags: just pure fluff and Soap being a smug lil bastard :))

Sighing, you looked at yourself in the mirror one more time, accepting that yes, you did look as tired as you felt, but at that point you had no choice but to make your peace with it and try your hardest to rock those dark eye circles. At least you supposed your outfit looked presentable enough, since even if you were incredibly tired, you still felt like putting some effort into your appearance, telling yourself it was for no particular reason - or person - at all.

It had happened a couple of hours before. Sitting inside the bar across the street from the dingy hotel you and your teammates were staying after a successful recon mission, Soap and Gaz had disappeared for some time, returning later with a couple of tickets to a local hockey game. You found it best not to question how they got those, and, to be honest, you never pegged either of them to be into hockey, much like yourself, but Soap seemed so excited that you didn’t have the heart to tell him you were not looking forward to it one bit. Admittedly, you suspected the same thing happened with Price, who accepted the invitation somewhat hesitantly - you knew north american sports weren’t really his thing - and you admired Ghost for just saying ‘no’ to Soap’s face before returning to his cup of bourbon without another word. So that led you to where you stood at the moment, regretting falling into Soap’s trap and longing for your hotel bed that looked oh so comfortable. A knock on your door took you out of your reverie. Opening it, you found the devil himself standing outside with a smirk on his face.

“Hey, L.t. Ready to go?”  You rolled your eyes playfully at Soap’s nickname for your rank, humming in response while you fetched whatever you needed to go out from your room - making sure to grab a coat. 

Gaz and Price were already at the end of the corridor, waiting for the elevator, and, after greeting them both with a wave of your hand and a smile, you had to pretend to be very interested in the instructions written on the fire extinguisher by the wall to avoid gawking at your superior. It wasn’t often you got to see Price out of tactical gear and without his beloved boonie hat, and the sight of him in a basic and slightly too tight t-shirt under his jacket was doing things to you. Being pushed close to him in the impossibly small elevator once it arrived, too cramped for four soldiers to fit comfortably into, did not help you in the slightest. 

A short car ride later - and somewhat silent, since Soap had lost his aux cord privileges after the last time - you stood in front of the arena, swerving your way between the other attendees, except clearly less excited to be there. As the four of you looked for your seats, you wondered how long it would take for them to notice if you bolted to go back to the hotel and sleep, but decided against it. Soap and Gaz took the first two seats side by side, leaving you to sit at the other end, with Price on your left, and you found it both a blessing and a curse. As he removed his coat, clearly feeling too warm with the amount of people around, and left his bulky (and hairy) arms visible to the world, you decided it was more of a blessing. Not feeling like committing an HR violation, you scolded yourself to stop ogling at your unaware superior, too lost in your musings to realize he was side eyeing you with a knowing smirk. 

The first period flew by. You had no idea what were the teams names, you just know they were currently sitting at 1x0 when the first intermission rolled around, and, surprisingly, you were having a lot of fun. The crowd’s high energy and Soap’s enthusiastic cheering - even though he had said in the car he had no idea who was playing - was enough to make you momentarily forget how tired you were from the mission, and the fact it happened altogether. It was very rarely you got to enjoy some down time with your teammates, and that alone made you feel glad you accepted Johnny’s invitation.

Checking the time on your phone, you started scrolling through the various notifications, getting so immersed in the screen that you didn’t notice the way people around you were suddenly staring in your direction. Feeling observed, you looked up to the sight of people hollering and cheering around you, and, for some reason, Soap was angling his body out of his seat to look smugly at you, to which you only replied with a quizzical arch of your brow, receiving a nod upwards in response. Looking at the direction he nodded, you realized the huge screen in the middle of the stadium now displayed a banner written “Kiss cam.” 

Directly under a live feed of you and Price. 

That definitely could not be happening. 

Your blood froze, and you felt like you were both on fire and ice cold at the same time, trying to process what was going on in seconds. Instantly your brain conjured images of you watching with a side eye as Price rejected you publicly to the camera, probably sneering and making a “cut it out” motion with his hand, as if kissing you was something incredibly unimaginable. However, none of those visions came true, since, when you gathered the courage to actually look over to him - with what you imagined was a very wide eyed and flustered expression - he was actually calmly chuckling and smiling with that damn good looking smile of his. Looking this closely you could swear you saw a faint hint of red on his face as he turned to you with a very gentle gaze, clearly considering the idea and giving you a silent chance to back away if you didn’t feel comfortable with it. Of course, you knew that you would never even dream of shying away from an opportunity to kiss your very attractive Captain who you absolutely did not have a huge crush on, but he didn’t need to know that just yet. 

So, seeing no resistance from you, he leaned in closer and brought one of his huge hands to rest delicately holding your face, as if you were made of glass, and you felt like your heart stopped beating. Up close like this he smelled faintly of the cigar he liked to smoke and cologne he must have put on when you returned from the bar to get ready to leave for the game, and his blue eyes never looked so intense. You saw him smirk when you leaned in to meet him halfway before letting your eyes flutter close and your lips finally meet.

Kissing Captain Price was even better than you imagined. His mustache tickled your top lip and, in the background, you could hear the cheering of the crowd - particularly Soap’s hollers and someone, who you imagined was Gaz, wolf whistling - but you drowned it all to focus on the feeling of John’s lips moving against yours in a kiss that lasted a second, but felt like an hour inside your head. As you expected it, he did taste exactly like the cigar he smelled as, and a hint of mouthwash, and you found yourself embarrassingly sighing into the kiss. 

You decided you could spend a good few hours just kissing your Captain, but any second longer would be positively awkward for your audience, so, regrettably, you broke the kiss, almost going insane by the way he chuckled lowly against you before leaning back as well, giving the camera an uncharacteristic almost bashful smile. So much for not committing that HR violation. You didn’t find the courage to look anywhere, much less the damn camera, so you pathetically stared at your shoes instead, very aware of the way your face felt like a thousand degrees and you must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Distantly, you felt Soap’s eyes on you, burning holes in your face with what you imagined must have been the smuggest smile ever, but you didn’t turn to confirm your suspicions. 

Within seconds, the kiss cam had moved on, as well as the entire crowd, and you were the only one still dwelling on it as everyone cheered on another couple put on display. Trying to convince yourself it meant nothing, you shook your head and tried to pay attention to what was going on in the arena, something cut short when John Price himself discreetly leaned over for your ear, not turning his body or taking his eyes off the screen above you.

“You know,” He started above a whisper with his deep, gruffy voice. “If I knew you were such a good kisser, I’d have done this a lot sooner.”

With that, he leaned back into his seat, hand crossed above his stomach and a satisfied smirk on his face as he pretended not to notice the way you stared at him with wide eyes and your mouth gaping open like a fish.

That was going to be one long hockey game.

[lunar-month-library]

THIS IS SO CUTE IM DYING

[eowynstwin]

in the early morning

Pairing: John Price x f!Reader Rating: All Ages Word Count: 1.4k Warnings: none Author's Notes: I am dedicating this specifically to @yeyinde who is so graciously assisting my poor American ass with basic UK knowledge, and to @guyfieriii who I've had so much fun talking about Professor Price with and has thus inspired me to play with my own AU. Thus, I present: Neighbors AU!

You’re about to knock again when your neighbor finally answers the door.

It’s the last place, time, and chore you want to be involved in—nearly 6am, looking to register a noise complaint with a man you’ve never met, shivering in flannel pajamas and bundled into two coats on his stoop.

The landlady Mrs. Walmsley had pitched for your flat hard on the basis of this mystery neighbor being absent for months at a time.

“He’s SAS, dear,” she’d said in that little nasally voice. Her eyes had been excitedly wide behind thick, round glasses. “A captain. They have him going all over the world, so it’ll be quiet as the countryside here at home.”

Evidently not.

The world is still swaying a little, indignant on behalf of your interrupted REM, as the door swings open before your knuckles can connect. Then you’re sure you’ve fallen back to sleep, because in the doorway stands a tall, handsome, shirtless man with a bowl of cereal cupped in one very large hand.

You’re not sure where to look, but your gaze has not waited for your brain’s directive, because you take in a trim, sturdy waist, full pectorals, and thick, strong arms all dusted in a pretty composition of dark hair before thinking to actually look the man in the eye.

Oh. Equally disconcerting. He has a kind, lined face, a dark beard and soft blue eyes that are focused directly on you.

Whatever words you had half-planned to say flee like birds startled away from a park bench. You think, SAS. Captain. Couldn’t Mrs. Walmsley have mentioned even once that he looks like an honest-to-god movie star?

You must look like you’re staring into the headlights of an oncoming car, because the SAS Captain’s dark brows crease in the middle. “You alright, love?”

You blink. “Um.” Goodness, no man’s voice deserved to sound that sultry so early. Or did it sound that way because it’s so early? “I, um.”

He tilts his head, listening. You have to rub your eyes so you can stop looking at him.

“I’m sorry,” you say, noting the dumb, drowsy slur of your thus-unused voice. “I don’t mean to bother you.”

“Not a bother at all,” says the Captain. “What can I do for you?”

This is going somehow far better, and simultaneously much worse, than you could have imagined.

“It’s,” you try, peeking at him as you reluctantly lower your hands from your face, “it’s the telly. Or the music. I—you’ve got something playing, and I don’t mean to be a pest, but it woke me up, and—”

His brows shoot up his forehead, and you can see realization bloom across his expression. “And it’s loud, isn’t it?”

Before you can nod, he steps away from the door, and you can see him retreat into the living area to retrieve a remote. He points it at something, his long, muscled arm outstretched, and the noise, which you had failed to even notice once he’d opened the door, instantly silences.

He comes back to the door. “Better?”

You blink. You try very hard not to stare at his chest, which is pebbling with goosebumps in the morning cold. “Uh—yes, that should be alright. Thank you.”

“No trouble,” says the Captain, stirring his cereal without looking at it, blue eyes once again directly on you. “I’m sorry, didn’t know someone had moved in.”

“Just a month ago,” you admit. And you introduce yourself, because even half-asleep your manners haven’t completely fled you.

The Captain nods. “That explains it. I’ve been out of the country. I’m John Price. You can just call me John.”

Out of the country. SAS. Captain. Strong arms, and soft blue eyes. Suddenly you feel very small, shivering on this man’s—John Price’s—front doorstep, bundled up like you’ve never experienced a cold day in your life, while he stands there half-naked and not even blinking at the bite of 4C.

“Well,” you say, trying to remember how conversation worked, “welcome home?”

John Price smiles at you, then, and you’re struck even in your drowsy state by it. It’s a sad smile trying its best to be happy.

“Thank you,” he says. And by the way he’s looking at you, blue eyes gone even softer than before, you think he’s appreciated your half-hearted pleasantry far more than it deserves.

“Well, um.” You flounder. When you stepped up to the door, your only intention had been to make this as quick as possible, wanting to return to the warmth of your bed underneath six blankets as fast as you could manage.

Now—okay, you still want to get back into bed. But Captain John Price (still shirtless) seems in no rush to hurry you away, and it isn’t every day that a mysterious, dashing soldier trains his attention solely upon you.

The still-asleep part of your brain wonders shamelessly if he’d be as warm as those blankets if you touched his bare skin. You strangle the thought immediately.

“I don’t know if you know Mrs. Walmsley,” you say, “but she had some quite nice things to say about you.”

Captain John Price smiles again, and it’s a little less sad and a little more amused. “Did they have to do specifically with my absence?”

SAS. It’s only six in the morning. The lying part of your brain is still asleep, if it would even be any use here. “It came up? Sorry?”

He doesn’t laugh, but the huff that comes out of him resembles it enough that you know he’s not offended. “Don’t be. Seems like she has trouble keeping the place lived in as it is. Think you’re the first one who’s actually talked to me.”

“That’s a shame!” you say in earnest.

But John Price shrugs. “I can’t imagine they would’ve enjoyed talking to me too much. Career soldiers aren’t all that interesting—I should know, I spend most of my time around them.”

“Well, I think you seem very nice,” you insist, and despite the morning’s rude awakening, you’re being entirely truthful.

John opens his mouth to reply, but a cold wind chooses that exact moment to blow, and you are not able to suppress a full body shiver as it hits. You tug your coats more tightly around your body, tucking your hands into your sleeves.

John frowns. “Not nice enough to send you back inside where it’s warm, clearly.” He sets the cereal bowl out of view and crosses his arms loosely across his bare chest. “Aren’t you freezing?”

“Me?!” you exclaim, astonished, face warming. “You’re wearing less than I am!”

“I’ll be fine,” says John. “I hate to think I’ve kept you out here suffering. Please, I appreciate the conversation, but you don’t need to indulge me.”

But you want to, you find, and very badly. You want to stay in this man’s soft blue gaze, listen to his rumbling voice, even if you stop being able to feel your own body from the cold. There’s something about Captain John Price that’s unusually compelling (helped by the absence of a shirt), and you feel in that moment a little like you’re brushing up against someone more important than someone like you will ever be.

But you recognize a polite dismissal when you hear it, too.

“If anything, I’ve been the one keeping you,” you say, smiling apologetically. “But it’s been very nice to meet you, John.”

He smiles at you again, and it’s the same one from before—sad, trying to be happy. He says your name, and it sounds better than it has ever sounded, wrapped in the rough baritone of his voice. “Pleasure to meet you too. Truly.”

You smile back, and leave his doorstep. You’re not sure now how you’re going to fall back to sleep now.

You’re twisting the handle of your front door when suddenly John calls your name. When you turn to look at him, he’s leaning a little out of his doorway, balancing himself with a hand on the inside of its frame.

“If I ever get to noisy for your liking,” he says, “just knock on the wall, and I’ll bring it down, aye?”

“Okay!” you reply. “And you too, yeah? I don’t want to bother you, either!”

“I don’t imagine you could,” John says, giving you another amused huff, “but sure.”

You don’t know how to respond to that, so you wave, and escape inside.

[lunar-month-library]

OMG IM OBSESSED! This is such an interesting dynamic! This fic now has a little parking space in the parking lot of my brain teehee

[day0walker-deactivated20240527]

Crawl Home to Her

John Price x f!reader (mercenary commander reader)

also on ao3

The commander of the PMC Vipers hates John Price’s guts. That is, until the sexual tension breaks. 

This is porn-with-little-plot. Literally has a basic premise and then it’s just John Price being the absolute dilf he is.

Tags: 18+ Smut Minors DNI, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, shower sex, voice kink, belly bulge, size kink, shameless fuckin smut honestly WC: 4738

You lit the match with a swift stroke against the grain of the box. It wicked to life, the flame dancing. The smell is acrid and yet, delicious. You’d always enjoyed the scent of smoke, the little tang that came along with it, how it burned your eyes. You liked the way fire looked too, bright, hot, dangerous. A warning. For a moment, you only looked at the flame. Admiring it.

“Love,” Price’s voice was soft, yet commanding. He was a man so used to people following his orders; not just a man, but Captain John Price, a myth and legend unto himself. Special forces, military since before he could even drink. Here he was, underneath you, in bed. Your legs tightened around his hips and you went from admiring the match to admiring him. Both of you were naked, sweat slicked, exposed to each other.

Keep reading

[lunar-month-library]

busted out the ms paint for this one i love this so MUCH

[mixtapetraxx]

Bond girls are out. Blanc girls (underprivileged women who screw over rich assholes with the help of this silly detective) are in.