summary: a month after your move into your new house with robby alot of changes come to your life all at once.
a/n: im banking on there being one more part after this. i wanted to switch up the formula here so it wasn't the same as miracle's story.
tags: emetophobia (vomit), blood draw, fluff mostly, the d-a-d word, robby kinda slays, reader defo slays, mars is a college student!
wc: 2.5k
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
It didn't take long for you, Robby, and Mars to find your dream home. Or rather, a home that fit most of your needs. Mars was going to have to let go of the dream for a built in fume hood in the basement.
It was a lovely home for your newfound— possibly growing— family to thrive. A decent kitchen, big backyard, and 4 bedrooms, one being more of an office for you when the time comes.
Mars was very happy to be living in a house. Especially because he was living with Robby. They were now inseparable. Reading together, conducting experiments, and cooking. There were times you found them on Robby's reading chair napping together.
You were happy too. You felt a weight lifted off your shoulders and you finally felt allowed to be happy. Robby made you feel happy. You liked sleeping beside him, waking up and having breakfast together, eating together. You would even carpool together sometimes when you needed to come in early.
Robby couldn't ask for anything more. Except he wanted to. He wanted to ask you a very important question but he was nervous. You wouldn't say no, he knew that. You had discussed just a few months ago.
He wanted to do it right. You weren't the sappy type. You scoffed once when a man proposed at a restaurant you two were eating at. You recoiled at the idea of a public proposal.
He liked how jaded you were. It was what made your relationship work; your dry humor. The two of you mouthing off in the ED and making love that night. You two were cut from the same cloth. He had to get the proposal right. It was an ode to you.
"Why don't you buy her a star?" Javadi suggests, "Present it to her over a home cooked meal."
"Aren't those a scam? You can't really own a star, they're already dead." Langdon argues, "Why not a night out to the planetarium? They do an adult night with drinks."
"No public place, Lang-butt. Were you listening?" Santos rolls her eyes, "Just do it during her favorite movie. It's Wall-E, right? That's a cute movie to propose to."
"No offense but these all sound like things to do for Mars than his mom." McKay interjects.
"I hate to agree but McKay has a point. I really appreciate everyone's input." Robby rubs his forehead, "I'm sure an idea will come to me in a dream."
"I think no matter what you do, she'll like it, sir." Whitaker hesitates before patting Robby on the shoulder.
The residents then disperse back to work, leaving Robby alone with his thoughts.
Moments later, you appear in the ED with Gloria. She leads a group of prospective med-students through the unit as you herd from behind. You're not really paying attention to what Gloria is saying. This is the third time this week you've done the tour. Robby smiles when he sees you. Maybe he should talk to you now and just get it out of the way.
When your eyes meet you smile back at him. He mouths to you, "Do you have a minute?"
"Do you?" You reply pointing to Gloria. She approaches him and ushers him in front of the students to introduce them. He was now roped into finishing the guided tour, much to his dismay.
He was grateful a trauma had wheeled in at the right time. In the chaos of escaping the mob, he isn't able to catch you before you leave with the group. He curses to himself and sighs.
"I'll give you some advice, Robinavitch. I know this place brought you two together, DO NOT propose to her here." Dana warns.
"It didn't even cross my mind," He mutters shamefully, avoiding her gaze.
At the end of your work day, you come back down to the ED. You wait for Robby by the nurse's station and he seems happier to see you than usual. "I came down to say goodnight. I've got to get Mars from campus."
"Alright, I'll see you at home." He kisses your cheek.
"Hey, what did you want to talk about?" You grab his side keeping him from leaving.
"What?"
"Earlier today, you wanted to talk. What about?" You tilt your head.
Robby purses his lips as he pretends to think, "It was no big deal. I just missed you is all. I'll see you at home." He lets go and walks away, "Love you."
"Love you too…" You mutter back. Your brows furrow suspiciously then turn to see everyone quickly trying to busy themselves as if they weren't trying to listen in.
At home, Robby arrives to find you asleep on the couch with your laptop in your lap. He quietly approaches closing your laptop and setting it down. He sits beside your feet as you continue to sleep.
Looking at your serene face, he can't help but smile. It was warm in the house, so there was a gleam of sweat on your forehead. Gently, he wipes it away with his hand, trying not to wake you. You turn over to face the inside of the couch. Your hands lay between your chest and the back cushion.
He fishes the velvet box from his pocket and takes out the ring. He examines the stone and looks at your naked ring finger. He was not good at planning things so maybe simpler was better.
Quietly, he takes your left hand and slips the ring on your finger. It will surely be a surprise, he thinks. He then picks you up and takes you to bed for the night.
After he tucks you in for the night, he check on Mars and sees his bedroom light is on underneath the door. He smiles and knocks on the door. "Come in." Mars says.
Robby enters the room and finds the young boy at his desk doing his homework. The first week in the house, they painted his room together. They put glow in the dark decals on the ceiling. His room was space themed filled to the brim with books, solar systems models, hanging rockets, and posters of astronauts. Robby was a little jealous; He would have killed to have a room like this when he was a kid.
"It's getting late. Almost done?" Robby sits on the bed.
"Uh huh, almost." Mars doesn't look up from his work.
"Good." Robby looks at the boy's small telescope pointed out the window. It wasn't the one he used when they first spent time together. It was a house warming gift from Abbot. For the colder months and the sky is clear but don't want to sit outside in 30 degree weather. Now that Mars is in school, he didn't have much time for stargazing. With the new telescope he could do a little. He didn't pick a room until he saw the stars from each window determining which he liked.
Ever since the custody battle, it seemed like Robby blinked and Mars grew up. He was out of his arm cast and he changed. He knew kids grew up fast but he didn't realize how fast with Mars. Now that the kid was in college classes who knew what tomorrow holds.
Mars notices Robby unmoving from the bed, "Did you need something, Robby?"
"Not really." He purses his lips, "Actually, I did. Could you stop for a sec and sit with me?"
"Sure." Mars stops what he's doing and sits on the bed beside him, "What's up?"
"Well, you know I love your mom."
"I know."
"And I love you."
"I know that too."
"It's been a long time since I've felt this way. I've never had a family of my own." Robby wraps an arm around Mars, "You and your mom have become my family."
Mars smiles, "You too. You're a way better dad than my other one."
"I appreciate that," he chuckles, " but I've been thinking, I want us to be more."
"More…" Mars gleams, "You want to marry my mom?"
"I do. I want her to be my forever and that means you will be too."
"Yes! A million trillion times yes!" The boy jumps around the bed.
"Sh…" Robby grabs the boy and wrestles him to the mattress hushing him. They laugh together as they sit up again, "You are one special kid, Mars. I'm glad I met you."
"I'm glad too. Could I…" Mars twiddles his thumbs, "Could I call you dad, now?"
"Of course." Robby grins, "You can call me whatever you want."
"I love you, Robby."
"Love you too, buddy." They let go and Mars goes back to his desk, "Finish what you can and head to bed, okay?"
"Okay, goodnight, Dad." Mars smiles.
Robby's heart soars and he smiles in return, "Goodnight, Mars."
Robby heads back to his room and sees you're not in bed. The light in the bathroom is on. As he comes closer, he hears you vomiting. Quickly, he comes to your aid, rubbing your back as you rest your head on the toilet seat.
"You okay?" He asks.
You wipe your mouth and sigh, "I woke up and felt this rush of nausea."
"Was it something you ate?" He continues to rub your back.
"I don't think so." You throw up again, "Did you put this ring on my finger, by the way?"
"Uh, yeah. I started to get in my head about asking you and I thought I could sneak it on your finger and you would notice tomorrow morning. I would make a grand speech about it over breakfast and then ask."
"Aw." You pout, "I ruined the surprise."
"It's okay. Let's just focus on make you better." He stands up and rifles through the medicine cabinet. You look over and see you small box of travel tampons on the shelf.
You purse your lips and furrow your brow, "You know… I don't I had my period this month…"
"Your period? Is this a symptom?"
"I was only spotting last week but nothing more…" You shoot up, "Robby!"
"What?" He looks at you wide eyed.
"Oh no, oh no, oh no—"
"What? What is it?" He freezes, "Are you pregnant?"
"Maybe?! Oh man." You hold your head in your hands. The nausea had subsided as you felt the anxiety grow in its place.
"Do you think it's from when we first… 'inhabited' the house?"
"Robby!" You hiss, "We don't even know for sure that I'm pregnant. I could have missed my period for all sorts of things."
"Not many things I wouldn't notice." He holds you tight, "There is one way we can definitively find out."
The next day, you sit in the triage exam chair as your blood is drawn. You cover your eyes in embarrassment. Robby chuckles when he notices the grimace on your face.
"It's not funny." You mutter.
"You're right. I'm sorry." He bites back his smile.
"I can hear the smile on your face." You scold.
"I'm sorry, I'm nervous." He stops smiling as you lower your hand over your eyes, "If you are pregnant, do you have a plan?"
"Me? Don't you mean we?"
"It's your choice to make, honey. I will support you in whatever choice you make." He gives you a reassuring smile.
"Will you support me if I choose to kill you?"
"Uh, I won't enjoy it but yes." He finishes the draw pressing a piece of cotton on the site and wraps some medical tape around your arm keeping it in place.
"Hey, we're in this together." You lean over and kiss him.
"That's the promise." He kisses you again. He pulls you out of the chair and leads you to the hub. "I will label this for speedy results. I will call you when the results are back. I won't look before you do."
"You'll just get Dana to look." You pout.
"I won't." He crosses his heart, "I promise."
"You'll call me as soon as they come in."
"Expeditiously." He pulls you into a hug. You rest your hands on his back. Dana walks by and her eyes widen.
"Whoa Mama, look at that rock."
Everyone in the nearby vicinity drops what they're doing and swarm you to look. You hold out your hand and show the engagement ring. They all 'ooh' and 'ah' as the diamond twinkles under the fluorescents. "How'd he propose?" Princess asks.
"Oh, he just put it on my finger while I was sleeping." You explain.
Everyone side-eyes Robby in disappointment then go back to the ring.
"I had something planned! She woke up in the middle of the night!" He defends.
"It was sweet. I was going to say yes nonetheless. Better at home than somewhere ridiculous." You smile at him, "I think it symbolizes our relationship and how we can't seem to get rid of one another."
"She's right, that is sweet. Now everyone back to work, you slackers." Dana claps and the crowd disperses. Each of them give you congratulations as they take their leave.
"These results will do the same, won't they?" Robby looks at you fondly.
"No matter what they say, I think they will too." You kiss his cheek and head upstairs to work.
A few hours later, Robby sends you a message that your blood results returned. You chew on your bottom lip the whole way back down. You were sweating and nauseous. You were hoping it was just the nerves.
Robby spots you and leads you to a quiet room in the West hall. "Do you want to take a seat?"
"No, I feel sick when I sit down." You pace along the wall. Robby nods and opens your results on his tablet and puts on his glasses. As he reads he keeps a poker face. The panic sets in heavy in your stomach.
"Your levels indicate that you are pregnant."
"Oh my god." You sit on the bed and cover your face.
"4 weeks"
"It was when we first 'inhabited' the house." You mutter in your hands.
Robby stops himself from chuckling. He clears his throat, "There are options we can go over."
"I want to keep it." You wipe your face.
"You do? I mean, okay yeah, we're going to have a baby." He smiles.
"I'm gonna have your baby."
"We're gonna get married and gonna have a baby."
You run into his arms and hug him tightly. He holds you tight and kisses the top of your head. A million thoughts circle your mind seem to dissipate in his touch. "We'll figure it all out. We can get married at the courthouse, we can renovate the spare bedroom for the baby, we… we have to tell Mars!"
"What do you think he'll say?" Robby asks.
"Probably develop the hypothesis that geniusness is hereditary." You sigh.
Description: It’s been almost a year since Y/N’s long-term relationship ended, and she’s ready to step back into the dating world. Unfortunately for her, Dr. Jack Abbott and his counselor wife have taken her love life into their own hands. Enter Michael Robiavitch—a man thoroughly briefed, prepped, and sent in by Y/N's over-enthusiastic friends. As Y/N and Michael navigate the hilarious pressure of a high-stakes blind date, they realize that despite their friends' meddling, the spark between them might actually be real.
---
The bright morning sun streamed through the wide glass bay doors of Station 14, reflecting off the freshly polished side of Engine 14. It had been nearly two weeks since the incident with Eric, and after a restful period away, Y/N was finally back on shift. The nervous knot in her stomach had slowly dissolved into the comforting, familiar rhythm of life at the firehouse.
She was standing near the workbench in the apparatus bay, carefully coiling a section of yellow fire hose, when heavy footsteps echoed across the concrete floor.
"Hey, stranger!"
Y/N turned to see Quin walking over, holding two steaming mugs of coffee and wearing a bright, mischievous grin. She handed one of the mugs to Y/N, leaning against the side of the workbench with an amused eyebrow raised.
"So, now that you're back and things have finally settled down around here," Quin said, taking a slow sip of her coffee before nudging Y/N's shoulder playfully, "when are we doing this double date?"
Y/N blinked, momentarily caught off guard as she held her warm mug. "Double date?"
"Yes, double date!" Quin laughed, waving a hand in the air. "You, me, my husband, and your very handsome ER doctor. You've been gushing about Michael for weeks, and Jack mentioned he seems like a solid guy. Plus, I need to officially vet the man who's been keeping that huge smile on your face."
Quin took another sip, entirely unaware of the dramatic sequence of events that had unfolded during Y/N's absence, her face pure, expectant excitement.
"So," Quin pushed with a wink, "what’s his schedule like this weekend? Are we doing dinner, or what?"
Y/N couldn't help but smile, taking a warm sip from her mug. "I'll text Michael today and check his shift schedule, then get back to you," she promised. "I know he'd love to meet you guys."
"He better," Quin teased, taking another sip of her coffee. "As your Captain, I have to make sure he's worthy of our top firefighter."
Before Y/N could reply, the harsh, shrill blare of the station tones pierced through the bay speakers, cutting through the morning calm. The automated dispatch voice immediately echoed over the intercom:
"Station 14, Engine 14, Truck 14. Structure fire, residential. 412 Elm Street. Cross street Maple..."
The lighthearted energy instantly evaporated, replaced by second-nature urgency.
"Looks like double date planning is on hold," Quin said, her tone shifting seamlessly from friend to Captain as she set her mug down on the workbench. "Let's move!"
Y/N downed the last drop of her coffee, tossed her mug onto the counter, and jogged straight toward her turnout gear. Within seconds, she was pulling on her heavy fire pants and stepping into her boots, the familiar weight of the gear grounding her as the rest of the crew scrambled into action around the rigs.
---
Four and a half brutal hours later, Engine 14 finally rolled back into the bay.
The residential fire had turned into a nightmare. What started as an attic blaze quickly compromised the roof, requiring an intense interior attack followed by an exhausting, multi-hour defensive overhaul in the blistering heat. To make matters worse, the family’s frantic searches for their missing dog had ended in heartbreak—Y/N had been the one to find the family pet in the back bedroom, too late to save it, and holding the crying mother on the front lawn afterward had taken every ounce of emotional strength she possessed.
Now, covered in soot, sweat, and the heavy smell of wet ash, Y/N sat on the back bumper of the engine, staring blankly at the concrete floor. Her helmet rested between her boots, her turnout jacket unzipped to let the cool bay air reach her soaked shirt.
She was completely, thoroughly drained. The adrenaline that had carried her through the burning structure had evaporated, leaving behind a hollow, heavy ache in her chest and a bone-deep exhaustion.
Quin walked by, unbuttoning her own turnouts and giving Y/N's shoulder a gentle, understanding squeeze. "Go take a long shower, L/N. You did good out there today."
Y/N offered a weak nod, pulling her phone from her pocket with tired, trembling fingers. Sliding down the wall to sit fully on the bench, she opened her text thread with Michael.
Y/N: Just got back from a 4.5 hour structure fire. It was awful. I'm so exhausted.
She stared at the screen, resting her head back against the cold brick wall, waiting for the one person who always knew how to pull her out of the dark.
Her phone vibrated almost instantly in her hand, Michael’s reply lighting up the screen before she could even set it down.
Michael: I'm right here, sweetheart. Are you okay? Are you hurt at all?
Y/N’s breath hitched, the dam of emotions she’d been holding back all afternoon suddenly threatening to break. Her thumbs hovered over the keys, trembling as she typed out the heavy weight sitting on her chest.
Y/N: I'm not hurt, just... totally crushed. A teenage boy’s leg caught fire during the interior push—I got him out and put it out in time, thank God, but seeing him scream like that... and then I couldn't find their dog until overhaul. I was too late, Michael. I feel so guilty.
Across town, Michael was standing at the Trauma nurse's station, his heart sinking as he read her message. The familiar, sickening weight of a call going bad was something he understood down to his bones.
He didn't hesitate. He stepped into an empty breakroom and dialed her number, holding the phone tight to his ear as it rang once.
"Y/N," Michael’s low, deep voice came through the line, heavy with pure warmth and grounding empathy. "Take a deep breath for me, sweetheart."
Hearing his voice made the tears finally spill over her soot-stained cheeks. "Michael, I should have swept that back room sooner—"
"Listen to me," Michael interrupted softly, his tone unshakeable and absolute. "You saved that boy’s life today. Do you hear me? Burns are terrifying, but because you acted fast and put those flames out, he is alive right now. You were his hero today."
He paused, letting his words sink in before addressing the pain in her voice.
"And as for the dog... you didn't fail anyone, Y/N. You went into a burning building, risked your own life, and did everything humanly possible under impossible conditions. Fire moves fast, but you did your job with every ounce of heart you have. Don't carry guilt for things beyond your control."
Y/N closed her eyes, letting out a long, shaky exhale against the phone, the overwhelming darkness in her mind softening under his steadying words.
"I just miss you," she whispered, wiping a streak of soot and tears from her cheek.
"I miss you too," Michael murmured softly. "Go take a warm shower, wash the smoke off, and get off your feet. I'm off in three hours, and I'm coming straight to the station to bring you dinner, okay? I've got you."
Y/N smiled through her lingering tears, a heavy wave of comfort washing over her. "Thank you, Michael. I will. See you in three hours."
"See you soon, sweetheart," Michael replied softly, waiting for her to end the call before taking the phone from his ear.
Y/N pulled the phone away and let her hand fall to her lap, resting her head back against the brick wall of the bay. For the first time, she truly understood the quiet shadow that sometimes settled in Michael’s eyes when he came home from a brutal shift at the Pitt. It was that exact same hollow ache—the suffocating weight of holding human life in your hands, doing everything right, and still having to carry the pieces that couldn't be saved.
She pushed herself up from the bench, feeling lighter, and headed toward the station showers to wash away the soot, ash, and the remnants of a heavy day, ready for the moment he would walk through the station doors.
---
Fresh out of the shower and wearing an oversized hoodie with cozy gray sweatpants, Y/N dragged her tired feet down the hallway toward the kitchen. Her hair was still damp, and her body felt like lead, but the warm water had at least washed away the smoke and soot.
As she rounded the corner into the kitchen, she saw Captain Quin leaning against the stainless steel island, talking in low, serious tones with Torres and Miller. All three of them paused, turning their heads as Y/N shuffled in.
Quin took one look at Y/N’s pale face and heavy eyes, pushed off the counter, and crossed her arms over her chest.
"L/N," Quin said, her Captain voice firm and zero-nonsense. "Pack your stuff. You're taking the rest of the shift off. Go home."
Y/N stopped in her tracks, blinking in surprise. "Wait, what? Quin, no, I’m fine. I can finish out the 24. We're already down a person, and I can—"
"I didn't ask if you were fine, and I wasn't making a suggestion," Quin cut in instantly, stepping closer and raising an eyebrow with absolute authority. "I am ordering you to go home. And if you keep arguing with me, I’ll make it a month off with no pay. Try me."
Miller and Torres looked down at the island, fighting off tiny smirks at their Captain’s lethal efficiency.
Y/N snapped her mouth shut instantly. She held her hands up in defeat, knowing better than to push Quin when she had that look in her eyes.
"Okay," Y/N said softly, retreating a step back toward the hallway. "I'm going."
"Good," Quin's tone softened just a fraction, a brief flash of warmth breaking through her tough exterior. "Call your doctor boyfriend, tell him to pick you up or meet you at home, and get some rest. That's an order, too."
Y/N looks at Miller and Torres and says "At lease I have someone to go home to".
Miller and Torres both dramatically clutched their chests, groaning as Y/N delivered the quick jab.
"Ouch," Quin barked out a sudden, genuine laugh, shaking her head as she pointed a finger toward the hallway. "Alright, smooth talker, out! Before I add an extra chore shift to your schedule next week."
"Going, Cap! Going!" Y/N laughed softly, holding her hands up as she backed down the corridor toward her locker.
Y/N pulled her car into the underground garage, killing the engine and letting out a long, weary sigh against the steering wheel. She grabbed her heavy bag from the back seat and headed up the stairs to her apartment, the quiet silence of the building wrapping around her like a blanket.
Setting her bag down on the entryway floor, she glanced at the stove clock in her kitchen. The numbers read 3:00 PM.
She blinked, staring at the green digits for a second before realization hit her—she had completely misread Michael's text in her exhausted haze. He wasn't wrapped up at the hospital yet; he still had another two hours left on his shift at The Pitt.
Smiling softly at her own exhaustion, Y/N walked over to her couch, collapsing onto the soft cushions. Her body sank into the fabric, the quiet hum of the apartment instantly pulling at her heavy eyelids. She curled up on her side, pulling a throw blanket over her shoulders, content to just rest and wait until the sound of her phone dings.
Across town at The Pitt, the chaotic hum of the emergency department swirled around the central nurse's station. Michael stood near the computer terminal, finishing up a patient chart and pressing a warm hand to the back of his neck to work out a knot of tension.
Feeling his phone buzz in his pocket, he pulled it out, expecting a quick status update.
The screen lit up with a single text message:
Y/N: I got sent home for the rest of the day. My Captain said I needed a break
Michael stared at the screen, a soft, fond smile breaking through his tired expression. He could practically hear Captain Quin’s firm, non-negotiable tone behind those words, and he felt a quiet surge of relief knowing Y/N was out of the line of fire and away from the weight of that terrible call.
He glanced up at the wall clock above the trauma bays. He still had two solid hours left on his shift before he could clock out, but the thought of her waiting for him back at the apartment made the remaining time feel infinitely lighter.
Typing out a fast reply with one hand, he sent it off before sliding the phone back into his scrubs:
Michael: Your Captain is a smart woman. Go lay down, get under the heavy blanket, and rest. I've still got two hours left here, but as soon as I'm done, I'm coming straight to get you. Want to spend the night at my place?
Y/N’s phone buzzed against the coffee table. She reached out, her sleepy eyes blinking open to read the bright screen:
Y/N: YES
The tiredness momentarily evaporated from her body. Y/N instantly sat bolt upright on the couch, her blanket falling to her waist, a huge, unrestrained smile breaking across her face.
She quickly typed back in record speed:
Setting her phone down, she collapsed back onto the cushions with a giddy laugh, burying her face in a pillow. Two hours felt like nothing now. Pulling the heavy throw blanket all the way up to her chin, she let the warmth consume her, drifting off to sleep with the absolute certainty that when she woke up, Michael would be here to pick her up.
---
Sleep was officially impossible. Every time Y/N closed her eyes, her mind raced with the cozy prospect of spending the night at Michael's place, away from the memory of today's fire, completely safe, and wrapped up in him.
Throwing the blanket aside, she sat up with a sudden burst of energy, her exhaustion completely sidelined by sheer excitement.
"Okay, overnight bag," she murmured to herself, throwing on a pair of comfortable socks and heading straight for her bedroom.
She pulled a small duffel out from the top of her closet and tossed it onto the bed, unzipping it with rapid efficiency. She grabbed a pair of soft lounge pants, one of Michael’s oversized T-shirts she had borrowed weeks ago, fresh undergarments, and her favorite fleece sweater. Next came her bathroom essentials: her toothbrush, face wash, moisturizer, and a hairbrush, all zipped neatly into a small travel pouch.
She zipped the main compartment of the bag shut with a satisfying snap and carried it back out to the living room, setting it right by the front door next to her shoes.
Checking her phone, she saw there was still a little over an hour left before his shift ended. She smiled, pacing around her living room with a restless, happy sway in her step. Now, all she had to do was count down the minutes until he pulled up to take her home.
As she stood in the middle of her living room looking down at the packed duffel, a sudden flutter of butterflies hit her stomach the good kind, the kind that made her heart do a soft, nervous flip.
They had spent countless late nights together talking on the phone, holding each other after heavy shifts, and seeking comfort in quiet corners, but she had never actually spent the whole night at his apartment. Up until now, their crazy, overlapping shift schedules at the station and The Pitt meant someone always had to leave in the early morning hours to make roll call or rounds.
This was going to be their first real night together. No alarms, no emergency calls, and no rushing back to separate lives.
Y/N smoothed down her shirt, her hand resting against her stomach as she smiled at the sheer quiet intimacy of it all. Crossing the room to the front window, she pulled back the blind just enough to peer down at the street below, her eyes tracking every passing car light, completely eager for the moment his familiar truck would finally turn the corner.
---
Back at The Pitt, Dana was standing near the central desk updating a patient chart when a sudden blur of motion caught her attention.
She blinked, watching in absolute disbelief as Michael sprinted past the desk toward the double doors, his coat already half-on and his keys jingling in his hand. He hadn't even finished hanging up his stethoscope before he hit the keycard scanner, clocking out precisely at the second his shift officially ended.
"Whoa, Robby!" Dana called out, a bright, knowing laugh breaking through the sterile hum of the ER. "Where’s the fire? I don't think I've ever seen you move that fast in your life!"
Michael didn't even slow his stride, tossing a quick, rare grin over his shoulder as the glass doors slid open for him. "See you tomorrow, Dana!"
"Have fun!" she shouted after him, shaking her head with a fond smile as the doors closed.
Within forty-five seconds, Michael was already in the cab of his truck, slamming the door shut against the cool evening air. He tossed his bag onto the passenger seat, turned the key in the ignition, and the heavy engine roared to life. He backed out of his reserved spot in the hospital lot without wasting a single second, his eyes fixed on the road as he navigated through the city traffic, heading straight for Y/N’s building.
Michael pulled his truck into the visitor space outside Y/N's building, the engine idling for just a fraction of a second before he killed the ignition. He grabbed his phone from the cup holder and quickly sent off a text:
Michael: I'm downstairs, sweetheart. Ready when you are.
Inside, the vibration of her phone sent another wave of nervous excitement straight through Y/N's chest. She snatched up her overnight bag, tossed her phone into her jacket pocket, and double-checked her front door lock before hurrying down the hall toward the elevator.
When the glass doors of the lobby slid open, she saw him standing right by the side of his truck in his jeans and jacket, looking exhausted from his shift but completely, utterly relieved the moment his eyes landed on her.
"Hey," Michael murmured, stepping forward to bridge the distance between them as she stepped out into the cool evening air. His arms wrapped naturally around her waist, pulling her close into his chest, overnight bag and all. "God, I missed you today."
Y/N melted into his arms, resting her forehead against his chest for a brief, sweet moment as she let the last remnants of her awful shift completely melt away. "I missed you too," she whispered, burying her face in the collar of his jacket before pulling back to smile up at him.
Michael reached out, taking the overnight bag gently from her hand and tossing it into the back seat. He held the passenger door open for her, his eyes warm as he watched her climb in, before shutting it securely behind her.
As he jogged around to the driver's side and slid into the truck, the heater was already blowing soft, warm air into the cab. Y/N buckled her seatbelt and sank into the leather seat, turning her head to look at him as he shifted into gear and pulled out into the evening traffic. The quiet hum of the engine filled the truck, bringing a sense of complete, easy peace that neither of them had felt all day.
WannaB's is thrumming when Robby pulls open the front door.
You'd spent the last twenty minutes going through the pictures on Robby's phone, as he went through the handful he had of his co-workers, blurry park beer photos, one from a concert and a couple from what looked like a Christmas party - considering the garish red and green light up tie Robby was wearing
"Hey man!" A familiar voice calls, and you glance at Robby.
"John Shen?"
Robby nods, "that's Dana, Whitaker and Santos."
"Hi," you whisper, with an awkward wave and a table full of strangers, greet you warmly, and Dana stands up.
"Come sit down, honey." She grins, “what’s your name?”
“Oh, it’s (your name).”
“What are you having?”
“Water,” Robby interrupts, with a grin and you nod when Dana looks at you.
“Thanks.”
Robby grimaces glances towards the stage, "who gave Abbot the mic?"
Dana rolls her eyes, "as if we could've stopped him."
“So,” the blonde, named Mel King, leans across Whitaker, "how did you and Dr. Robby meet?"
"Triumph Bonneville."
Mel's brow furrows, and she glances at Dennis.
"His motorcycle?"
"No," you laugh, "his kitten."
"Wait -" Santos sets down her beer, "Dr. Robby has a cat?"
"Two," Robby interjects, and Trinity's face brightens.
"Let’s see a picture -“
Robby sighs, but you notice how his eyes crinkle as he reaches for his phone.
"Oh my god -" Mel gasps, "they're so cute!"
"Which one is Triumph?"
"The tabby, Rutabaga is the calico."
"Rutabaga?!" Trinity shrieks, and Dennis blinks, rubbing his ear. "Look at her tail -"
You bite back a grin as Robby's phone makes the rounds, and Dana returns with two bottles of water and a white wine spritzer.
"What did I miss?" Dana wonders.
“Robby has kittens!” Mel exclaims delightedly.
“So you decided to keep her?”
“Yes. (Your name) suggested I get Triumph a friend."
"Cats always do better when they're not alone. So has she been fakin' any more injuries?"
"Not since I got Rutabaga -"
Dana laughs out loud, shaking her head.
Jack makes his way back to the table after handing off the mic to Santos and Mel and he gives you a look.
"You must be (your name)?"
"Yes," you flush, glancing at Robby. He talked about you to his friends?
"It's nice to meet you."
"You too -"
The night passes quickly, and you nearly choke when Trinity convinces Robby to sing Wonderwall - something about a bet that Robby refuses to get into and you sit there, hiding behind your hands as he painfully warbles about how maybe you're going to be the one that saves me that after all, you're my wonderwall.
You cheer madly when the song finally ends, as Robby mutters that he 'should have just paid her the fifty dollars'.
"I'm sorry you had to see that," Robby laughs, looking embarrassed.
"Oh, no, that was incredible."
"Do you sing?" Dana wonders, and you shake your head.
"Oh, no -"
"C'mon," Dennis laughs, "everyone loves karaoke."
You take a deep breath, before standing up.
"Hey, you don't have to -"
"It's okay," you assure him, going to the DJ booth to request Creep by Radiohead, and the DJ gives you an appraising look before nodding.
"Solid choice."
You're shaking as Trinity hands you the mic, closing your eyes as the opening chords to Creep warble from the speakers and the first verse is swallowed by loud cheers and you swallow before continuing.
" I don't care if it hurts
I wanna have control
I want a perfect body
I want a perfect soul -"
"Yes, (your name)!" Trinity screams, and you bounce on your toes as you find Robby in the crowd.
" I want you to notice
When I'm not around
You're so fuckin' special
I wish I was special -"
You hold out the microphone, as a chorus of voices raise to sing the chorus:
"But I'm a creep
I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here -"
You practically fling the microphone at Shen when he comes up after you, and he laughs as he pulls you into a sweaty hug.
"That was awesome."
"Thanks," you mumble, fleeing for the back table.
Robby is looking at you incredulously, "I thought you said you were bad -"
You shrug, dropping into the seat next to him.
"You're coming out with us next time we go to karaoke," Trinity slurs, handing you her phone, and you put in your number before handing it back to her.
You tuck yourself against Robby's side, tucking your face against his shoulder as he grabs your hand.
"Will you take me home?" You whispers as Living on a Prayer blares in the background.
"Yeah?" Robby murmurs against your hair.
"Please."
Robby let's go of your hand so he can lean over to tell Jack that you're leaving.
"Bye!"
"It was nice meeting you!"
"I'll text you!"
You follow Robby outside, and he glances over at you.
"You're sure?"
"Yes," you laugh, and he tugs you closer so he can lean down to kiss you."
tags/warnings: 18+ mdni, contains written plot (!!!), potential ooc, swearing, innuendos/sexual comments & discussions, fluff, flirting, use of pet names, age-gap relationship, power dynamics, no use of y/n, vague discussions of violence & death, see masterlist for more detailed tags
author’s note: sorry i disappeared (i was sick) but i am back! hope you enjoy and don’t skip the written part after the texts!!!
previous | next
Spending the weekend at Jack’s house was a dream. You felt like the luckiest girl in the world staring at his toned and bare back as he cooked the two of you breakfast. You couldn’t help yourself as you walked over to him, wrapping your arms around his torso and pressing your cheek against his shoulder blade. His hand that wasn’t holding the spatula came down to hold your forearm. “Mm hi baby,” he speaks out, morning voice perfectly raspy.
“Hi,” you reply as you press kisses on the freckles across his back.
“Breakfast is just about done,” he says. “Why don’t you grab our coffee mugs and head over to the table, I’ll be there in a sec.”
You do what he said, unwrapping yourself from around him as you step away (but not before giving his ass a quick squeeze).
Once you were sat down at the table it wasn’t long before Jack came over with the food. He had made perfectly scrambled eggs accompanied by sourdough toast and a hefty fruit platter (he knew fruit was your favorite breakfast food).
“Thank you,” you say, as he presses a kiss to your forehead before sitting down next to you. He reaches over to tuck your hair behind your ear, looking you up and down as he does it.
“I love you in my clothes,” he says. You were wearing nothing but his tshirt and your underpants.
“Good because I’m stealing this,” you giggle out.
“What’s mine is yours sweetheart.”
Once you’re both done eating, you clean up the dishes together and then decide to lounge on the couch together. He sat up facing forward while you were sideways with your legs stretched across his lap, running your hand through the curls at the nape of his neck as he hummed softly in pleasure.
“I wanted to talk to you about something,” you say softly, breaking the silence. Jack immediately pauses the TV and turns his head to look at, giving you his undivided attention.
“What’s up sweetheart?” His eyes stared into yours so earnestly, making sure there was no part of you that doubted he was listening. You found the slight furrow of his brows to be so incredibly endearing.
“Okay so I’m just going to try to get this all out at once,” you say with a big breath in, Jack nodding encouragingly at you while trying to mask the concern in his eyes.
“I think you should stop volunteering as a SWAT medic. Obviously I’m your girlfriend and I will support you no matter what, but I honestly just hate it. The entire time you were gone I was a mess just imagining you lying lifeless somewhere never coming home to me. I know your therapist said you needed something to do in your free time but you have me now. We can go on walks, take pottery classes, cook, read together, have sex, play tennis, sleep, whatever you want. Or you can do those things alone if you want some space. I just- I know we haven’t been together very long but I can’t imagine my life without you and the thought of you getting hurt kills me. I’m sorry I know this is so selfish of me to ask you but, I just can’t-” Jack suddenly cut you off by slamming his lips against yours.
At first you’re taken back by the sudden interruption, but soon you’re melting into the kiss and the feel of his warm palms against your cheeks. “Thank you for telling me how you feel, that was really brave of you and I appreciate it. I want you to know you can always talk to me, tell me anything,” he says, finally pulling away from the kiss.
“I’ll stop,” he says resolutely. You can’t help but widen your eyes a bit at how quickly he agreed. “Don’t do this just because I asked you too, if it’s something you’re really passionate about I can learn to live with it,” you reply.
“I appreciate that baby, really I do,” he answers with a soft smile. “But it’s not something I need in my life, medicine is my passion, not that. And the only thing I really need in my life is you. I know you struggle with your anxiety already, and I hate the idea of adding to that,” he says firmly. “Plus, I liked everything you were saying about the stuff we can do together. Tennis and sex sound fun,” he smirks.
You giggle in reply, playfully swatting his chest. “Thank you, Jackie. You’re the best boyfriend ever,” you say into his chest, having melted into his embrace.
“And you’re the best girlfriend ever,” he says. “I would do anything for you, anything at all.”
You both knew he meant it, and that you would do the same.
Summary: Reader is Samira Mohan’s best friends, she is also a teacher and going through a really hard time. She reaches out to Robby after meeting him when she went out with Samira and Jack abbot (who are in love and dating and perfect). This is post Robby melting down and he gets help. I don’t really mention his sabbatical at least not yet but in my head it’s after that. He’s still struggling but getting help.
TRIGGER WARNING!!!! Talks of suicide (we learn about reader’s loss)
Pairing: Jack Abbot x F!Reader || Past!Michael “Robby” Robinovitch x F!Reader
Summary: It’s all coming together. But some of those pieces just don’t fit.
Series Warnings: Angst. Hurt/comfort. Emotional hurt/comfort. Fears and anxieties. Panic attacks. Language. Unplanned pregnancy. Post-break up of situationship. Robby being Robby (disrespectfully). Reader internalizes a lot of their emotions. Tensions. Possible arguments. Guilt. Reader does not like asking for help. Insecurities. Jack being the man he is (respectfully). Jack wanting to take care of reader. Slow burn. Older man x younger wan trope (unspecified age gap). No use of Y/N. Unspecified race and physical descriptions. Mentions of loss of limb. Medical inaccuracies. Mentions of loss of spouse. Mental health. Whatever else I failed to mention.
Author’s Note: I do not own The Pitt in any capacity. The franchise and its characters belong to their rightful owner(s). Similarly, I don’t own any the gifs or pictures used for my fics. All I own are the fic ideas.
I know these chapters aren’t the longest. I hope y’all are okay with that. I’m trying to make them a smidge longer the more chapters I write, but it’s like my brain hits a block after a certain number 😅 either way, I hope you enjoy!
Word Count: 2,714
Series Masterlist || Masterlist
<- Previous Chapter || Next Chapter ->
You paused just outside the deli’s entrance.
The glass door reflected your hesitant expression back at you. Your stomach tightened.
You swallowed thickly, trying to gauge whether you could actually make it inside without embarrassing yourself a second time.
Beside you, Jack reached for the door before glancing over his shoulder. His brows knit together slightly when he realized you hadn’t moved.
He didn’t say anything.
He simply waited.
The gesture alone eased some of the knot in your chest.
You let out a slow, unsteady breath before giving him a small nod. A tight smile tugged at your lips. “I think I’m okay,” you said.
Jack returned the nod and pulled the door open. Cool air drifted out to meet you. You took a tentative step inside. Immediately, the scent of food reached you.
Freshly sliced deli meat.
Sharp cheddar.
Warm bread.
Pickles soaking in brine.
Unlike the diner, there wasn’t a wall of grease or sizzling bacon waiting to ambush you the moment you crossed the threshold.
The smell of meat hit first.
Your stomach gave an uncomfortable roll. You stopped instinctively, breathing carefully through your nose. The nausea stirred. Not as violently as before, just enough to make your pulse quicken.
You closed your eyes for the briefest moment.
Okay. I can handle this.
Another breath.
The scent of cheese lingered beneath everything else, followed by fresh vegetables and bread cooling on nearby racks.
Manageable.
Your shoulders loosened a fraction.
When you opened your eyes again, you found yourself taking in the room.
It wasn’t crowded. A handful of customers stood near the counter, chatting with the employees as sandwiches were wrapped in crisp white paper. Someone laughed near the soda cooler.
The low hum of conversation felt oddly comforting.
Jack fell into step beside you without saying a word. Close enough that you knew he was there. Far enough away that you never felt like he was watching your every move. It struck you, not for the first time, how good he was at giving people space.
“You okay?” he asked. His voice was quiet. Gentle. Not because he thought you were fragile, but because he genuinely wanted to know.
You nodded. “I think so.”
Jack studied you for a second, as though deciding whether to believe you. Eventually, he gave a small nod of his own.
“Good,” he said. He gestured toward the counter. “You want to order together?”
You looked up at him.
There wasn’t any expectation in his expression.
No impatience.
No hint that you were taking too long.
He wasn’t trying to hurry you.
He was giving you the choice.
The realization settled warmly in your chest.
You’d spent so much of the last few weeks feeling like your life was no longer yours to control. Every decision suddenly carried impossible weight. This, ridiculously small as it was, didn’t.
You found yourself relaxing another fraction.
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I’d like that.”
As the two of you made your way toward the counter, you caught yourself glancing sideways at him.
Jack wasn’t looking at you anymore. He was reading the menu board with the same concentration he’d probably give a patient’s chart. For reasons you couldn’t quite explain, that made you smile.
By the time the two of you reached the register, the awkwardness from the grocery store had eased into something…comfortable.
Not familiar.
Not quite.
But easier.
Jack ordered first, stepping aside while you stared at the menu longer than necessary. Nothing sounded particularly appetizing, but the turkey sandwich seemed the least offensive.
When the cashier totaled everything, you instinctively reached for your wallet.
Jack was faster.
“You don’t have to—”
“I asked.”
“Jack.”
“You said one meal.”
“I can still pay for mine.”
He looked at you with an expression that was almost amused. “You really don’t like people buying you things, do you?” he asked.
Heat crept into your face. “I don’t like feeling like I owe people,” you emphasized.
“You don’t.”
He handed the cashier his card before you could protest again.
The conversation was clearly over.
You let out an exaggerated sigh. “I’ll remember this.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“You’ve become my financial enemy.”
Jack chuckled. “I’ll survive.”
By the time your sandwiches were wrapped, the two of you settled at one of the small outdoor tables just beyond the deli’s entrance.
The morning breeze was cool against your skin. It helped.
The fresh air made eating feel far less daunting than it would’ve inside.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
You unwrapped your sandwich carefully, taking a tentative bite. It stayed down.
Relief washed over you.
Jack noticed the tiny exhale that escaped you afterward. He pretended not to. Instead, he focused on unwrapping his own lunch.
After another quiet minute, he spoke, “So…” You looked up. “You and Robby.”
The words weren’t accusatory.
Just…careful.
Your appetite faded almost immediately.
“There isn’t a ‘me and Robby,’” you stated. The flatness of your voice surprised even you.
Jack nodded slowly. “That’s kind of what Dana implied.”
A humorless laugh escaped you. “Nothing gets past her.”
“No.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “She’s basically everyone’s unofficial mom.”
“Whether we ask for it or not.”
“Especially when we don’t.”
That earned the smallest smile. It disappeared almost as quickly as it’d come.
Jack rested his forearms against the table, his voice soft, “If something happened…” He chose his words carefully. “…I’d hope you’d tell somebody.”
Your eyes stayed fixed on your sandwich. “I’m a big girl,” you stated.
“I know.”
“I don’t need to make this mess any more complicated.”
Jack frowned slightly. “Looking out for yourself isn’t making things complicated.”
You didn’t answer.
He let the silence linger before speaking again.
“We both know how Robby can be.”
Your jaw tightened. A bitter laugh escaped your lips, “Yeah.” You picked absently at the edge of the sandwich wrapper. “I’ve learned that the hard way.”
The words came out quieter than you intended.
Jack’s stomach sank.
He didn’t know what Robby had done.
But whatever it was, it had hurt you.
Badly.
“I don’t want to talk about him anymore.” You shook your head. “I’ve spent enough time thinking about him.”
Your hand drifted unconsciously toward your abdomen before stopping halfway. You quickly folded both hands together in your lap instead.
“I have…” You searched for safer words. “…other things I need to focus on.”
Jack noticed the hesitation. He noticed the aborted movement, too. Not enough to understand it. Just enough to file it away.
“Like getting better?” he asked.
You looked down.
If only it were that simple.
If only a few days of sleep and decent meals could fix everything.
You nodded anyway. “Something like that.”
Jack wasn’t convinced.
But he also recognized the look on your face.
The conversation had reached a wall. Pushing harder wouldn’t help either of you.
After another few bites, you carefully folded your sandwich wrapper closed.
“I should probably head home,” you announced.
“You don’t have to rush off on my account.”
"I know,” you said, offering him a tired smile. “But you just worked twelve hours. Possibly longer.” Your eyes drifted toward the grocery bags resting beside his chair. “And you still have to carry all of that,” you added.
Jack looked down at the bags before giving a small, amused huff. “When you put it like that…”
“You should get some sleep.” There was genuine concern in your voice now. “I’ve seen what you look like after back-to-back shifts.”
He raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”
“You scared a med student once.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I was concentrating.”
“You were glaring.”
“I have a focused face.”
You laughed. An actual laugh this time. It lasted only a second.
But it was enough to make Jack smile in return.
He found himself thinking, She should laugh more.
The realization caught him off guard. Because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen you look this relaxed. Even if it was only for a moment.
“How’d you get here?” Jack asked as the two of you gathered your trash.
“I took an Uber.” You pulled your phone from your pocket. “I’ll just call another one.”
“I’ll drive you.”
Your head snapped up.
“Jack.”
“What?”
“You just got off a twelve-hour shift.”
"So?"
“So,” you repeated, “you should be going home.”
“I will. After I drive you.”
You let out an exasperated sigh. “No.”
Jack blinked. “…No?”
“I’m not making you drive across the city after working all night.”
“It isn’t a big deal.”
“It is to me.” You unlocked your phone, already opening the rideshare app. “I can wait,” you said offhandedly.
“I don’t like the idea of you waiting out here by yourself.”
“I’ll survive.”
Jack studied you. “You’ve got an answer for everything.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
For a brief moment, neither of you spoke.
Jack wondered how many years you’d spent convincing yourself you had to handle everything alone. Too many, judging by the way you automatically rejected every offer of help.
He tried one last time.
“I really don’t mind.”
“I know.” You looked up from your phone, offering him a small smile. “And that’s exactly why I’m saying no.”
He couldn’t help the amused huff that escaped him.
“So that’s final?” he asked.
“It is.”
Jack raised both hands in surrender.
“Alright. You win.”
You scoffed, “I usually do.”
“Oh?” Jack’s brows rose nearly to his hairline. A teasing smile tugged at his mouth. “You’re awfully confident.”
“I have to be.”
“You know,” he said, settling back into his chair, “you’re a lot more stubborn than I thought.”
You looked almost offended. “Only when I need to be.”
He laughed quietly. “I’ll remember that.”
“You should.”
Your phone buzzed. You glanced down at the screen and stated, “Twenty minutes.”
You looked back up at him.
“You don’t have to stay,” you stressed.
“I know.”
“You’ve got groceries.”
“I know.”
“You should probably get some sleep.”
“I know.”
Despite yourself, you smiled. “You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
Silence settled comfortably between you.
The kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled.
Jack picked idly at the label on his water bottle.
“So.” He looked over at you. “Any big plans while you’re off?”
You hesitated.
The prenatal appointment flashed through your mind. Leni meeting you. Trying not to have a panic attack in the waiting room.
You forced your expression to stay neutral.
“Nothing exciting.”
He watched you for a second. “You sure?” he pressed.
You nodded. “I’ll be fine.”
The answer came too quickly. Too automatically.
Jack recognized it for what it was—a conversation ender. He chose not to push.
“I know you will,” he said.
You looked down at your phone again.
“My driver’s about twenty minutes away,” you repeated. Another pause. “You okay waiting that long?”
Jack gave a single nod. “I just want to make sure you get on alright.”
You smiled softly. “Thanks. For staying.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
The two of you slipped back into silence. Jack found himself watching the morning traffic roll by instead of checking the time.
His mind, however, refused to settle.
He thought about Dana’s concern.
About the rooftop.
About the grocery store.
The diner.
The way you’d hardened when Robby’s name came up.
The way you’d insisted you were fine while looking anything but.
Something wasn’t adding up.
He’d known Robby for years. Long enough to know his friend could be immature. Careless. Thoughtless, especially when it came to relationships.
But this? This felt bigger than a messy situationship ending badly. Whatever had happened between the two of you had left cracks that were impossible to ignore.
Jack frowned almost imperceptibly. He wasn’t interested in prying into your personal life.
But…
The next time he saw Robby, he had a feeling they were going to have a conversation. Whether Robby appreciated it or not.
The twenty minutes passed quicker than either of you expected.
Conversation came in comfortable bursts, interrupted by long stretches where neither of you felt the need to fill the silence.
It was…easy.
Surprisingly so.
Jack glanced toward you.
“You have my number?”
You looked up from your phone, confusion flickering across your face.
“…No.” A beat passed. “Why?”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Come here.”
Your brows drew together. “What are you doing?”
“Just come here.”
You hesitated before leaning across the table.
Jack held out his hand. “Your phone.”
You looked down at it suspiciously.
“…Should I be concerned?” you murmured.
“Only if you think I’m about to order myself expensive gifts.”
A quiet laugh escaped you. “You don’t strike me as an online shopping kind of guy.”
“You’d be correct.”
Still smiling faintly, you unlocked your phone and placed it in his outstretched hand.
Your fingertips brushed briefly against his palm.
His hands were warm. Rougher than you’d expected.
Calloused.
Years of life and medicine etched into skin that looked strong enough to hold far more than a cellphone.
You pulled your hand back a little too quickly.
Jack, thankfully, either didn’t notice or pretended not to.
He opened your contacts and began typing.
“In case you need anything.”
You frowned. “…Jack.”
He didn’t look up.
“I’m serious. What if I never text you?”
“Then you never text me.”
Simple.
Matter-of-fact.
As though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
You watched him save the contact before he finally spoke again.
“I’m not much of a therapist.” A small smile crossed his face. “I pay someone else to be good at that.”
You couldn’t help the quiet chuckle.
“I do, however—” He handed your phone back. “—talk to one every couple of weeks.”
You blinked.
He shrugged one shoulder. “Have been for a few years.”
There wasn’t an ounce of embarrassment in his voice. Just honesty.
“It helped after…” He paused. “…everything.”
He continued before the brief silence could become uncomfortable. “I think people get the wrong idea about therapy.”
You looked down at your phone.
His name now sat among your contacts.
Jack Abbot.
“I don’t think you have to be in the middle of a crisis.” He leaned back in his chair. “Sometimes it’s just nice having someone whose entire job is listening.”
You traced your thumb absently over his contact.
“I appreciate it.” Your voice came out softer than you'd intended. “I haven’t really needed a therapist in a long time.”
Jack nodded. “I’m glad.”
There wasn’t any disappointment.
No attempt to convince you otherwise.
Just acceptance.
“But if that ever changes—” He gestured toward your phone. “—now you know someone who can point you in the right direction.”
You smiled faintly.
“I appreciate the concern.” You glanced at his contact before looking back up.
He gave a hint of a smile.
Before you could say anything else, your phone buzzed loudly in your hand.
Your driver has arrived.
A silver sedan pulled up to the curb. The driver’s window rolled down.
“Hey!” A woman leaned out, smiling. She called your name.
You stood, instinctively tightening your grip on your grocery bag. Jack stood with you.
“That’s me.” You turned back toward Jack. “I should…” Your voice trailed off.
He nodded before you could finish.
“I know.”
For a second, neither of you moved. You weren’t sure why. Maybe because saying goodbye suddenly felt…awkward.
Not uncomfortable.
Just unfinished.
“Thank you.” The words came quietly. “For the food. And…” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “…everything.”
Jack offered one of those small, reassuring smiles that seemed to come so naturally to him.
“Get some rest.”
You nodded. “I’ll try. And…you too.”
Jack gave a single nod.
He watched as you walked toward the waiting car.
Halfway there, you looked back.
Jack was still standing exactly where you’d left him, waiting until he knew you were safely inside.
Only after the car door shut behind you and the vehicle pulled away from the curb did he finally turn toward the grocery store, toward his own truck.
For reasons he couldn’t quite explain…
He found himself hoping you’d actually use his number someday. Not because something had gone wrong, but because you wouldn’t have to face it alone.
three: and you throw your head back laughing like a little kid
mateo diaz x robinavitch!reader smau
previous - masterlist
(there is a written part in this one so don't miss it!)
SIX YEARS AGO - first week of nursing school
It was a quick friendship from there. One night at the bar turned into studying together at the library, getting coffee between classes, and crashing at each others’ dorms after late nights.
A few months into freshman year, your dad wanted to meet this boy you had been spending all your time with.
“So Mateo’s coming for dinner tomorrow?” Your dad’s voice crackled over the phone.
“Yes. I think he’s nervous so please go easy on him – and he doesn’t like fish. He’ll try and pretend he’ll eat anything but he won’t eat fish.”
“I don’t know about going easy on him.”
“Dad, please.” You whined. You wanted your dad to like Mateo. You wanted Mateo to like your dad.
“You really like this boy, huh?” You could practically hear his teasing smirk through the phone.
“I do. Please make a good impression.”
“But you’re not together? Like, romantically? You know you can tell me if you are.” He pushed.
“No. And please don’t bring it up. I’m happy just being friends and I don’t want things to get awkward if he thinks I like him like that.” Mateo was one of the best people you’d ever met, and you weren’t about to jeopardise him being in your life over pesky things like feelings.
“Ok, baby. Whatever you say. I’ll see you guys tomorrow, love you.”
“Love you too.” You sighed as the phone call ended. You knew keeping these feelings bottled up wasn’t a good idea, but you were 99% sure Mateo didn’t think of you that way, and you were not about to embarrass yourself.
THE NEXT DAY
“Ok, I have the pie. I have the card and the flowers. Is there anything else I said I was going to bring?” Mateo rushed as he turned to you on the steps up to your childhood home.
“Mateo, he said not to bring anything anyway. You’re fine.” You said as you fondly rolled your eyes.
“I just want to make a good first impression.”
“My dad isn’t a scary guy. He’s going to like you no matter what.” You reassured with a smile on your face. Reaching the top step, you rang the doorbell. You took a step back and turned to Mateo. You’re pretty sure you could see his hands shaking.
The door swung open to reveal Michael Robinavitch in jeans and a button up shirt.
“Hey guys! Come in, come in.” He ushered you in and helped you out of your jacket. You turned to Mateo and he stood there in the entryway, white as a sheet.
“Mateo! It’s great to meet you, I’ve heard so much about you.” Your dad said, reaching out to give him a firm handshake.
“It’s great to meet you too, Dr Robinavitch.” Mateo said, shaking your dad’s hand.
“Please, don’t call me that. Robby will do.” He chuckled.
“Mateo brought stuff!” You exclaimed, hoping to get the ice broken.
“Oh yeah, it’s not anything. I made a pie for dessert. And these are for you, for letting me come over.” He said, handing Robby the card and bunch of sunflowers.
“Not anything? These will go great on the island. You made this pie in a college kitchen?” Your dad asked, one eyebrow raised.
“Yeah, it’s a recipe my mom used to make. I hope it’s alright.”
“It looks amazing! Let’s all go through.” You moved first, making your way into the kitchen, leaving Mateo and your dad in the entryway.
“Loosen up, kid. I like you already.” Robby laughed, patting Mateo on the back as he moved past him to the kitchen.
PRESENT DAY
a/n: sorry this one took so long, hoping to get the next one out sooner!! this is mostly establishing the relationship between mateo and robby
Series summary: Robby left for his sabbatical without a thought and you’re left to pick up the pieces. But now he’s back at PTMC and trying desperately to reconnect. Robby learns the truth of how long a year really is.
WC: 1.1k
Tags/Content: unexpected pregnancy, motherhood, past relationship, second chance relationship, slow burn, implied age gap, hurt, angst, reader is high key avoidant, no use of Y/N, possible OC ish, Robby calls reader baby, mental heaviness, lot of swearing, not proofed, consider this a part 1 of 11
(Masterlist) (Previous) (Next)
I’m calm.
I can be normal.
Right. Sure.
It had been on the calendar for weeks. Robby’s first overnight with Mason. Right there on “Baby Boy’s” shared Google Calendar.
That didn’t make Mason’s packed bag on your shoulder and the baby carrier in your other hand feel any lighter.
You were doing what you were supposed to. Openly choosing Robby to be in Mason’s life.
Just knock.
Fucking knock.
The door opens just as you’re raising your fist. Robby stood there in an old band shirt you use to steal and a pair of sweatpants.
“Hi.” He says softly. He smiles down at Mason and goes to unstrap Mason from his carrier. “Hey buddy.”
“He’s due for a bottle at eight. He’ll fight sleep around nine. The sound machine sticks.” You list off, matter of fact.
“Okay,” he says gently.
You keep going anyway.
“He likes the green sleep sack more than the blue one. If he wakes up after midnight, don’t pick him up right away. Sometimes he just…”
You stop.
Robby doesn’t interrupt.
He just waits.
“…I know.” He says quietly.
Of course he knew.
He’d been there practically every night for weeks.
“Mason, made you something. It’s in the bag.” You say quickly handing over Mason’s overnight bag.
“Mason?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“It’s not making it weird.”
“It’s a mug. You know, for Father’s Day. He insisted.”
The silence stretches between you longer than you intended. Robby fights the smile threatening to spill across his face.
“Mason picked it out?” He hums clearly enjoying this.
“You think I’d get you something for Father’s Day?” You hit him with a deadpan. “Don’t doubt your son like that.”
“Right, of course. He has impeccable taste in coffee cups.”
“Damn right.” You clear your throat. “I’m gonna leave now.”
“Okay.”
“He’s good?”
He shifts Mason a little higher against his shoulder.
“Why wouldn’t he be?” He watches you carefully. “You’re his mom. You’re supposed to worry.”
He smiles.
“My job is making sure you don’t have to while he’s with me.”
He says it so simply it almost irritates you.
“I’m supposed to go now…” you say like you’re trying to urge yourself in the direction of the elevator.
“Yes you are.” He says it with that all-knowing smile on his face. “We’ll see you in the morning?”
Why did this feel worse than daycare drop off? daycare had a set time. This did too, but daycare was never overnight.
Fuckkkkkk.
Tomorrow suddenly seems every far away.
You take a deep breath and force yourself to turn on your heels. The elevator door opens. Before it can close behind you, Robby lifts Mason’s little hand in a wave.
“Say bye to mommy.”
Mason blinks sleepily.
His eyes meet yours for the briefest second as a smile tugs at his mouth.
“Love you. See you tomorrow.”
The elevator door slides shut before you can decide who he was talking to.
The apartment is quiet.
Not sleeping-baby quiet.
The kind of quiet where you can hear the fridge running and the sound of your steps on the floorboards.
Usually by now you’d hear the sound machine through the nursery wall. Or Mason’s coos. Or the dryer running because Mason spit up on your clothes five minutes before bedtime.
Nothing.
Was the fridge always that loud?
Could you always hear the neighbor’s tv through the wall?
Huh.
You’d wanted silence for months.
Turns out silence is loud.
You don’t bother turning on the television.
Somehow manufactured noise feels cheating.
Instead, you kick your shoes off and grab the first hoodie draped over the back of a dining chair.
It smells faintly like laundry detergent and rain. The sleeves swallow your hands.
You tug it over your head before dropping onto the couch.
9:07pm
Your eyes drift towards the hallway before you can stop them.
Right about now, Mason usually lets out one offended little cry because he’d rolled onto his side and started to wake himself.
Two pats on his belly.
Maybe a pacifier.
Back to sleep.
9:37pm
You catch yourself listening for the faint rustle of him rolling around in his crib.
At 10:02pm, you make it exactly fifty-five more seconds before reaching for your phone. Mason was fine. You knew he would be. That doesn’t stop you.
Mason pic now.
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
Robby: Bossy.
A second later, a photo pops up on your screen.
Mason is sprawled in his crib, one first tucked beneath his cheek, mouth hanging open.
The crib Robby built catches in the edge of the frame.
Robby: He’s snoring.
Robby: Pretty sure he got that from you.
You scoff before hammering out a response.
He definitely got your inability to mind your own business.
You stare at it.
Delete.
Too flirty.
He’s lucky he’s cute.
Delete.
Absolutely not.
Whatever.
Delete.
Since when did texting Robby require this much editing?
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Reappear.
He was doing the same thing.
Robby: You okay?
It’s weird here.
Robby: Yeah.
Robby: it was weird here too the first night I went home without him.
You lock your phone, tossing it onto the sofa next to you.
The apartment falls silent again.
Right.
Now what?
You open the dishwasher.
Close it.
Walked to the fridge the forgot why.
Checked the baby monitor sitting on the counter before remembering it wasn’t plugged in.
You make your way into the nursery before you realize where your feet are taking you. Force of habit. It was your closing night routine.
The crib is empty.
The mobile turns lazily from the air conditioning.
You laugh once.
“Well, that was stupid.”
You climb into bed before eleven.
For the first time in months, you don’t set an alarm for a bottle.
You stare at your phone for a long time scrolling through photos.
Mason swaddled.
Mason and Dana.
Robby holding Mason. His little hand curled into Robby’s shirt. You don’t remember taking that one.
Summary: It’s Tommy’s birthday. You and Jack do everything you can to give Tommy the best day ever even if that means inviting your ex-husband in for birthday cake.
WC: 12K
Tags: autistic character, nonverbal autism, aac user, autism acceptance, parenting a neurodivergent child, single mom reader, found family, neighbors to lovers, slice of life
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7
Tommy is awake before the sun.
You know because you hear his bedroom door open at exactly 6:07 a.m., followed by the familiar shuffle of socked feet down the hallway and the soft electronic voice of his tablet before you’ve even managed to open your eyes.
“My birthday.”
The voice carries through the quiet apartment.
“It is my birthday.”
A smile spreads across your face before you even open your eyes.
“It is,” you call, your voice still thick with sleep. “Happy birthday, baby.”
The apartment falls quiet while Tommy searches through his tablet.
“I am 14.”
“You are.”
You push yourself upright just as Tommy appears in your bedroom doorway.
He’s already dressed. Last night, he’d carefully laid out his favorite blue T-shirt, the one covered in little white storm clouds, making sure there’d be no question about what he was wearing today.
His hair sticks up in every direction, sleep still clinging stubbornly to the back of it. His tablet hangs from the strap across his chest, and his eyes shine with the kind of excitement that never has to be loud to fill a room.
“We will have cake today.”
“We will.”
“And present.”
“There are presents.”
Tommy lowers his gaze to the tablet again.
“Jack will come.”
Your smile softens. “He will.”
Tommy nods once, satisfied.
“Birthday.”
“Cake.”
“Presents.”
“Jack.”
His morning checklist was complete. He turns and heads back toward the kitchen. A second later, the cabinet door opens.
You laugh quietly. “Tommy.” The door closes almost immediately. “No breakfast without me.”
“Okay.”
You swing your legs over the side of the bed, smiling to yourself. “Give me five minutes.”
“Okay.”
His footsteps drift toward the living room instead.
Fourteen years.
Fourteen birthdays.
And somehow every single one had started exactly like this, Tommy waking up determined to make sure everyone else remembered just how important today was.
—
By 7:15 a.m. the apartment looks like a birthday exploded inside it.
Blue streamers hang unevenly across the living room because Tommy insisted they had to look like rain. Blue balloons are scattered around the floor instead of tied together because he preferred them that way.
Tommy circles the apartment for what feels like the hundredth time that morning, checking every decoration as though conducting an inspection.
“Blue balloon.”
“Blue balloon.”
“Blue balloon.”
You laugh quietly from the kitchen.
“I know they’re blue.”
A knock sounds at exactly 7:45 a.m.
Tommy’s head lifts immediately.
“Jack.”
You grin. “I think you’re right.”
Tommy is already halfway to the door before you remind him.
“Walk.”
His pace slows just enough to satisfy you.
When you open the door, Jack is balancing two flat bakery boxes in one hand and a paper coffee carrier in the other.
“Morning.” His smile reaches you first. Then Tommy. “Happy birthday, buddy.”
Tommy taps his tablet almost immediately.
“My birthday.”
Jack nods seriously. “I heard.”
Another button.
“14 years old.”
Jack’s eyebrows rise.
“14?”
Tommy nods proudly.
Jack whistles softly. “That’s older than yesterday.”
Tommy’s mouth twitches.
You laugh as you take the coffees from his hands.
“Come in.”
Jack steps inside, slipping his shoes off by the door without being asked.
He hands Tommy one of the bakery boxes. “I was told the birthday foreman needed to inspect these.”
Tommy sets the box carefully on the coffee table before opening it.
Inside are decorated sugar cookies shaped like clouds, lightning bolts and little weather vans.
His eyes widen.
“Storm cookies.”
“I thought they fit the theme.”
Tommy immediately searches for another phrase.
“Nice cookies.”
Jack nods with complete seriousness.
“I certainly hope so.”
You shake your head as you carry the coffees into the kitchen. “You spoil him.”
Jack accepts the coffee with one hand. “It’s his birthday.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You already bought him presents.”
“I did.”
“Now cookies.”
His shoulders lift. “Also true.”
“There’s cake.”
“I’ve heard the rumors.”
You laugh, handing him his coffee. “You are impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
From the living room, Tommy’s tablet announces—
“Jack come help.”
Jack glances toward the doorway. “I believe I’ve been summoned.”
You smile. “You’ve been assigned since about six this morning.”
“I figured.”
He takes one sip of coffee before setting the cup down and walking back into the living room.
You lean against the kitchen counter for a second, watching without interrupting. Tommy is standing in front of the pile of balloons with all the concentration of someone organizing emergency response equipment.
He points.
“Balloon there.”
Jack picks up a balloon. “Here?”
Tommy shakes his head immediately.
“No.”
Jack moves it a few feet to the left. “Here?”
Tommy studies it.
“Yes.”
Jack places it carefully on the floor. “There we go.”
Another balloon. Another instruction. Another quiet adjustment. Neither of them says much. They don’t need to.
Jack follows Tommy’s lead with an ease that still catches you off guard sometimes. He never rushed him. Never finished the thought for him. He simply waited, listened, and then did exactly what Tommy asked.
Your phone buzzes against the counter. A text from the bakery confirms the cake pickup time. You answer it quickly before glancing back toward the living room.
Jack is sitting on the rug now while Tommy rearranges balloons for what must be the fifth time. Jack doesn’t seem to mind. He simply waits for the next instruction.
The apartment feels comfortably full, morning sunlight spilling through the blinds, blue balloons rolling lazily across the hardwood whenever the air conditioner kicks on. Tommy happily directs birthday preparations while Jack quietly helps wherever he’s needed.
You smile to yourself before pushing away from the counter. You walk over, careful not to disturb Tommy’s carefully planned balloon arrangement, and hold out the cup.
Jack reaches for the cup, but before he takes it, his free hand finds your waist with easy familiarity. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
He leans in, brushing a quick kiss against your cheek before finally taking the coffee. The gesture lasted barely a second. So ordinary by now that neither of you thought anything of it.
Tommy glances up long enough to make sure Jack has his coffee before returning to the much more important matter of balloon placement.
“Balloon there.”
Jack nods immediately. “Yes, sir.”
You laugh under your breath, shaking your head as you head back toward the kitchen. Looking around the apartment, you can’t help but smile. Blue streamers hanging from the ceiling. Weather cookies waiting on the coffee table. Balloons rolling across the floor. Tommy happily directing every detail. Jack following along without complaint.
It wasn’t a big party. Just the three of you. Blue streamers. Weather cookies. Balloons that apparently needed very specific placement. Jack quietly following Tommy’s instructions as if he’d been promoted to birthday assistant. Exactly the way Tommy liked it.
And if the smile that hadn’t left your face all morning was any indication, it was already shaping up to be one of his best birthdays.
—
By early evening, the apartment smelled like chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese.
Dinner had been exactly what Tommy wanted. Chicken nuggets cooked until the breading was crisp and macaroni and cheese made the same way you always made it, from the same box you always bought. Tommy had eaten at the kitchen table with his new weather station positioned on the windowsill where he could see the display without getting up.
Not that it stopped him from getting up. He’d checked it six times during dinner. Seven, if you counted the time Jack carried the whole weather station over to the table because Tommy kept twisting around in his chair to look at it.
Jack insisted that one didn’t count.
Now the three empty plates sat pushed toward the middle of the table, yours and Jack’s nearly matching Tommy’s because the two of you had eaten chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese too.
It was his birthday. When you’d asked what he wanted everyone to eat, Tommy had answered immediately. As always. Even his birthday couldn’t change his daily routine. So chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese it was. Jack had eaten twelve nuggets. You knew because you’d counted those too.
“You ate twelve.”
Jack looked over from where he was carrying plates toward the sink. “I was hungry.”
“You ate one off my plate.”
“You weren’t eating it.”
“I was saving it.”
“For what?”
“Later.”
Jack set the plates beside the sink and came back toward you. “You should’ve said something.”
“I didn’t realize I needed to protect my food in my own home.”
His mouth curved. “Now you know.”
You narrowed your eyes at him.
Jack stopped beside your chair and leaned down, one hand settling against the back of it while he pressed a quick kiss to your mouth.
“You’re impossible,” you murmured.
“I brought cookies.”
“That doesn’t help your case.”
“Thought it might.”
You smiled despite yourself.
Jack kissed you again, softer this time, his fingers brushing lightly against the back of your neck before he straightened.
Across the table, Tommy was watching the weather station.
“Cake now.”
You laughed. “Of course.”
You pushed your chair back. Jack caught your hand before you could get very far.
You looked down at him. “What?”
He tugged gently until you stepped closer. “You’ve been running around since six this morning.”
“It’s Tommy’s birthday.”
“I know.”
His hand slid around your waist. “You can sit down for thirty seconds.”
“I have to get the cake.”
“I’ll get it.”
“You don’t know where the candles are.”
“Junk drawer.”
“The lighter?”
“Cabinet over the stove.”
“The plates?”
“Second cabinet on the left.”
You stared at him.
Jack smiled. “Sit down.”
“You’re getting bossy.”
“I ate twelve nuggets. Feeling powerful.”
You laughed as he kissed your forehead and let you go. “Fine.”
Jack headed toward the refrigerator.
Tommy immediately stood.
“Cake.”
“I’m getting it.”
“I will help.”
Jack stopped.
He looked at Tommy. Then at you.
You smiled. “Good luck.”
Jack opened the refrigerator. Tommy came to stand beside him, watching closely as Jack carefully lifted the cake from the bottom shelf.
“Two hands.”
“I’ve got two hands.”
“Careful.”
“I’m being careful.”
“Do not drop.”
Jack glanced over his shoulder at you. “A lot of pressure in this house.”
Jack carried the cake to the table with Tommy walking beside him the entire way, supervising every step.
“Here?”
Tommy looked at the table.
“No.”
Jack stopped. You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing.
Tommy pointed.
“Middle.”
Jack moved the cake three inches. “Here?”
Tommy studied it.
“Yes.”
“Excellent.” Jack set it down.
The cake was exactly what Tommy had asked for. Bright blue frosting covered the top, with a weather radar map spread across the center in green, yellow, orange, and red. White clouds circled the edges, and a yellow lightning bolt stretched across one corner.
Tommy stared at it. He’d seen it earlier. Several times. Apparently it required another inspection.
Jack leaned against your chair. “Think it passed?”
“Give him time.”
Tommy looked down at his tablet.
“Good cake.”
You smiled. “Glad you approve. Candles now.”
Jack pushed away from your chair. “I know where those are.”
You watched him disappear into the kitchen. Tommy stayed beside the table, looking at his cake. You reached out and smoothed down the back of his hair.
Fourteen.
You still weren’t entirely sure how that had happened. There were days when you could remember every year of his life with painful clarity. The weight of him asleep against your chest when he was a baby.
The first time he’d looked at a weather radar and become completely absorbed. The years of appointments. Therapists. School meetings. Learning new ways to communicate. Learning that progress didn’t always look the way other people expected.
Learning Tommy.
And now he was fourteen.
Tall enough that you didn’t have to bend very far to kiss the side of his head anymore. Old enough to tell you when he wanted space. Still young enough to come looking for you when the world became too much.
You leaned over and kissed his hair. “Happy birthday, baby.”
Tommy looked at you.
“My birthday.”
You smiled. “I know.”
Jack returned carrying the candles and lighter. “Fourteen?”
“Yes.”
He emptied the candles onto the table.
Tommy immediately began counting them. Tommy touched each candle with one finger as he counted. When he reached fourteen, he started again.
Jack stood beside you, his hand finding the small of your back. You leaned into him without thinking. His thumb moved slowly against your shirt.
Tommy finished counting.
“14.”
Jack nodded. “Fourteen.”
Together, the two of you placed the candles across the cake while Tommy supervised. One had to be moved. Then another. The yellow candle was too close to the lightning bolt. Jack moved it.
Tommy considered the new placement.
“Good.”
Jack looked at you. “High praise.”
“The highest.”
When every candle was finally where Tommy wanted it, Jack picked up the lighter. “Ready?”
Tommy nodded.
Jack lit them one by one. Tommy watched every flame catch. Fourteen small candles flickered across the cake, warm light moving over his face.
You looked at your son. Your fourteen-year-old son. The boy who had been awake before sunrise because he couldn’t wait for today to begin. Your chest felt too full.
Jack’s hand moved from your back to your waist. You rested your hand over his.
“Ready?” you asked.
Tommy looked at you. Then Jack.
“Yes.”
You started singing. Jack joined you. Neither of you sang particularly well. Jack was worse. You started laughing halfway through the second line. You made it through the rest of the song. Tommy watched you the entire time, the candlelight reflected in his eyes, a small smile pulling at his mouth as the two people who loved him most badly sang him into another year.
When the song ended, you clapped. Jack did too.
Tommy looked at the candles.
“Make a wish,” you said.
He kept looking at them.
Jack leaned closer. “Don’t tell us what it is.”
Tommy drew in a breath.
The knock at the door came before he could blow out the candles.
You looked toward the hallway. Tommy did too. Jack’s hand remained against your waist. Another knock followed. You frowned. You weren’t expecting anyone.
Tommy looked down at his tablet.
“Someone at door.”
“Yeah.”
Jack glanced at you. “You want me to get it?”
“No, I’ve got it.”
You looked at Tommy. “Blow out your candles. I’ll be right back.”
He remained focused on the door. The change was small. Most people wouldn’t have noticed. You did.
The slight uncertainty in his face. The way his fingers tightened around the edge of his tablet. Someone was at the door. Someone wasn’t supposed to be at the door. Jack noticed too. He moved his hand from your waist but didn’t go anywhere.
You touched Tommy’s shoulder. “It’s okay. Stay here with Jack.”
Tommy looked at him. Jack was still standing exactly where he’d been, beside the birthday cake.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Jack said.
Tommy looked back at the door.
You headed down the short hallway. For half a second, you wondered if one of the neighbors had come over because they saw the banner outside.
You reached the door and glanced through the peephole.
Your stomach sank, a cold drop that seemed to hollow you out from the inside.
It was Evan.
You unlocked the deadbolt, then pulled the door open, your fingers suddenly clumsy against the metal.
The moment he saw you, he smiled.
“Hey.”
He looked much the same as he had last year, and something in your chest tightened at how little had changed.
Still tall enough that you had to tip your head back to meet his eyes. His broad shoulders came from years of hauling equipment and climbing offshore rigs. Weeks beneath an open sky had left his skin permanently tanned, and more gray now threaded through the dark hair curling beneath his navy ball cap.
He looked tired. He always did after coming in from offshore, like he carried the ocean back with him.
In one hand, he held a neatly wrapped birthday present covered in blue paper with little white clouds. His rental car keys rested in the other, the faint jingle sharp in the quiet hallway.
Then his smile widened. “Surprise.”
You just stared at him, your mind already racing ahead to everything this meant. “Evan…”
He heard it immediately. The smile didn’t vanish. It only grew a little less certain, like he could feel the shift but didn’t understand it yet.
“When did you get in?”
“A couple hours ago. I checked into the hotel first.”
“How long?”
“Five nights.”
You gave a single nod, forcing your expression to stay even. “Okay.”
He waited, and you could feel the weight of his expectation pressing against you.
“You didn’t call.”
“I wanted to surprise him.”
A slow breath slipped out through your nose, steadying yourself before the frustration could spill over. “Evan.”
“I know.”
“No.” Your voice stayed calm, though your pulse had started to thrum in your ears. “You don’t.”
He met your gaze.
“You realize after you’ve already done it.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, a familiar gesture that used to soften you. “I just thought…”
“I know exactly what you thought.” You folded your arms, needing something to hold onto. “You pictured him opening the door, getting excited, you handing him his present, and it turning into this great birthday surprise.”
“…Yeah.”
“And it never crossed your mind to call me first.”
His eyes dropped, and for a second you almost let it go, almost. “I know you ask me to.”
“I don’t ask, Evan.” The words came out before you could soften them, sharper than you intended. “I’ve been reminding you for years.”
He nodded quietly. “I know.”
“No.” You shook your head, a dull ache building behind your eyes. “If you knew, you would’ve picked up the phone.”
Silence settled between you. Not tense. Just familiar, and that somehow made it worse. The kind that only existed between people who had spent ten years learning each other’s habits, and still missing the same ones.
You sighed, the fight draining out of you in a slow exhale. “He’s going to be happy you’re here.”
“I hope so.”
“But he’s spent all day expecting one kind of birthday.” You glanced back toward the apartment, picturing Tommy inside, his careful plans, his anticipation. “He has a plan in his head.”
Your eyes returned to Evan. “And in thirty seconds, you changed it.”
He looked down at the present in his hand, his grip tightening slightly on the paper. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“I know.” Your frustration softened, just a little, though it didn’t disappear. “That’s the problem.”
He lifted his gaze again.
“You always mean well. I know you do.” A sad smile touched your lips, bittersweet and tired. “But loving Tommy has never been the issue.”
He swallowed.
“It’s remembering that Tommy needs different things than you.”
His shoulders sagged, and you felt the familiar pull of sympathy you wished you could ignore. “I should’ve called.”
“Yeah.”
“I really am sorry.”
You believed him. You always did, and that was part of what made this so exhausting. Evan had never struggled with apologizing. What he struggled with was slowing down long enough to avoid needing one.
Before either of you could say anything else, the familiar voice of Tommy’s tablet drifted down the hallway, sharp and unmistakable, cutting through the fragile quiet like a bell you felt in your chest.
“Mom.”
The single word pulled both your attention toward the apartment, your heart tightening instinctively.
Tommy stood at the end of the hallway, frozen where he’d stopped, his whole body rigid in a way that made your stomach twist. His eyes locked onto Evan immediately. Recognition came first. Confusion followed just as quickly.
For a second, neither of them moved. The air felt thick, stretched thin between recognition and confusion. Then Tommy looked down at his tablet.
“Dad here.”
He looked up again. Back at Evan. Then at you, his gaze flickering, uncertain.
His thumb found the same button.
“Dad here.”
He started walking. Not toward Evan. Toward the living room. Three quick steps, his movements slightly jerky, like his body was moving faster than his thoughts could keep up.
He turned. Walked back.
“Dad here.”
Again.
He turned around once more, pacing the short stretch of hallway you’d watched him walk a hundred times before whenever the world suddenly stopped making sense, each step echoing faintly against the floor, each turn sharper than the last.
His fingers tightened around the edge of his tablet, knuckles paling.
“Dad here.”
Evan shifted his weight, the soft scuff of his shoe loud in the silence. Concern replaced the excitement that had been on his face moments earlier, his brows pulling together as he watched, helpless, a flicker of guilt crossing his expression.
You lifted your hand slightly. A quiet reminder.
Wait.
Evan nodded, swallowing hard, forcing himself to stay still even as every instinct seemed to urge him forward.
Tommy kept pacing. Door. Living room. Cake. Door. His breathing had become a little quicker, shallow and uneven, the faint sound of it reaching you and tightening something in your chest. Not enough to frighten you. Enough that you knew he was trying to catch up, trying to reorganize a world that had just shifted without warning.
“Dad here.”
You walked toward him slowly, careful, each step deliberate so you wouldn’t overwhelm him. He stopped the moment you stepped into his path, like your presence anchored him.
You rested your hands gently on his upper arms, feeling the tension there, the slight tremor beneath your palms.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
His eyes met yours immediately, searching, grounding himself in something familiar.
You smiled, soft and steady. “I know.”
He looked back toward Evan, his gaze lingering a fraction longer this time.
His thumb pressed the button again.
“Dad here.”
“Yeah.” You nodded, keeping your voice calm, even as your heart ached at the repetition. “Dad’s here.”
You waited. Tommy had never needed more words. He needed time.
“This wasn’t part of today’s plan.”
His eyes came back to yours, a flicker of distress there.
“I know.” You brushed your thumbs lightly over his sleeves, the soft fabric grounding both of you. “We’ll change the plan.”
His breathing slowed just enough for you to notice, the tension easing by degrees.
You pointed toward the kitchen. “We’re going to cut your cake.”
His eyes followed your hand, tracking the familiar, something safe.
Then you pointed gently toward Evan. “And Dad gets to have birthday cake with us.”
Tommy looked between the cake and his dad, his gaze lingering just a little longer on Evan this time, curiosity beginning to edge out confusion.
His thumb hovered over the screen before searching for a different button.
“Dad.”
“Cake.”
You smiled, warmth spreading through your chest. “That’s right.”
He stood quietly for another few seconds, the stillness settling over him like a breath finally released. No more pacing. No more repeating. His shoulders relaxed, the tension draining away.
You gave his arms one last reassuring squeeze, feeling the steadiness return beneath your hands. “You ready?”
Tommy nodded once. Then, on his own, he turned and walked toward Evan.
Evan stayed exactly where he was, his chest tight, eyes shining as he watched his son come to him, resisting the urge to move, to rush, to close the distance too quickly.
Tommy stopped a few feet in front of Evan, close enough to see the smile on his father’s face and the wrapped present in his hand. His fingers tightened slightly around the edge of his tablet, as if anchoring himself.
For a moment, neither moved. Tommy’s weight shifted from one foot to the other, a small, restless motion he didn’t seem aware of.
“Hey, buddy,” Evan said, opening his arms on instinct, but Tommy took a small step back, just enough to keep the distance. The movement was subtle, but Evan noticed.
His arms hovered for a moment before lowering, his smile faltering just a touch. “Sorry.”
Tommy glanced at his tablet.
“Hi.”
Evan’s smile softened, though there was a flicker of something more fragile behind it. “Hi.”
“Dad.”
Evan let out a quiet laugh, the sound a little thinner than he intended. “Yeah. It’s Dad.”
Tommy’s gaze shifted to the blue wrapping paper. He pointed, his hand steady even as his shoulders remained slightly hunched.
“Present.”
“I did bring you a present.” Evan said, glancing down at it, then back up at Tommy as if searching for something in his face. “It’s your birthday after all.”
Tommy looked to you, waiting, his brows knitting faintly as if unsure which step came next.
“Cake first,” you said.
His eyes flicked to the kitchen, then back to the gift, lingering there a second longer than before.
“Cake.”
“Then present.”
Tommy nodded, a small exhale leaving him as the familiar order settled back into place, his grip on the tablet loosening just a fraction.
Without another word, Tommy turned toward the kitchen.
“Cake.”
You smiled. “Cake.”
Evan stepped aside, his shoulder brushing yours as he passed. Once, that kind of contact would’ve gone unnoticed. Now it lingered, drawing your attention simply because it had been so long since it hadn’t.
He caught your hesitation before you could hide it.
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah. Come in.”
A faint smile touched his mouth as he stepped inside. His gaze dropped briefly to his boots. “You still have the no shoes rule?”
“You know I do.”
He let out a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh and bent to untie them.
After lining his boots neatly beside the door, Evan straightened. He looked around the apartment, not obviously, not like a stranger, but like someone quietly taking in everything that had changed since the last time he’d been here. His shoulders were held just a fraction too still, as if bracing against something he couldn’t quite name.
The blue streamers still hung unevenly across the ceiling. Blue balloons drifted lazily across the hardwood floor whenever the air conditioner kicked on. Tommy’s weather station sat proudly in the living room window.
His eyes moved over the birthday decorations before settling on Jack, lingering there just a moment longer. Not suspicious. Simply taking in the man who’d clearly been part of Tommy’s day long before he’d knocked on the door.
Jack hadn’t moved. He still stood near the kitchen table, hands resting loosely behind him. He gave the three of you room without disappearing from it.
The apartment suddenly felt full. Not because anyone had done anything wrong. Simply because everyone was trying to find where they belonged.
Tommy had already climbed back into his chair, completely unconcerned with the introductions happening behind him. His attention stayed fixed on the cake, the present, the order everything was supposed to happen in.
You caught Jack’s eye. “Jack.”
He looked over immediately. His posture straightened just a touch as his gaze flicked toward Evan before returning to you, something cautious passing through it.
“I can head out for a—.”
“No.” You heard how quickly the word came out. Too quickly. You softened immediately. “I don’t want you to.”
Jack searched your face for a moment. His brow tightened slightly, as if weighing more than just your words. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He gave a small nod, though his shoulders didn’t fully relax. “Okay.”
You looked between the two men. The space between them felt like a live wire.
“Jack… this is Evan.” You rested your fingertips lightly against Evan’s arm, aware of the brief tension beneath your touch before he let himself go still. “My ex-husband.” Then you smiled toward him, gentler now. “And Tommy’s dad.”
Turning back to Jack, you continued. “Evan… this is Jack.” A smile came a little more easily this time, though your pulse hadn’t quite settled. “My boyfriend.”
Jack stepped forward and stopped a respectful distance away. He offered his hand, movements deliberate and careful. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Evan shifted the wrapped present into his other hand and shook it. His grip was firm and steady, just enough pressure to acknowledge the moment.
“You too.” His eyebrows lifted slightly, though something searching lingered behind it. “The boyfriend?”
You nodded, holding his gaze. “Yeah.”
His eyes drifted briefly between the two of you. He caught the way your body angled instinctively toward Jack and the way Jack stayed exactly where he was.
A small smile crossed his face, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Well… it’s good to finally meet you.”
Jack returned it, a little tighter but genuine. “You too.”
Before either man could think of another sentence, Tommy chimed from the kitchen.
“Present.”
All three of you turned at once. The tension snapped just enough to let everyone breathe again.
Tommy pointed directly at the gift tucked beneath Evan’s arm.
“Present.”
You laughed softly. The sound eased something in your chest. “We’re getting there.”
“Cake.”
“Cake first.”
Tommy thought about it, his fingers hovering over the tablet. Then he nodded.
“Cake.”
“Then present.”
“Then present.”
Satisfied, he folded his hands neatly on the edge of the table. He waited with far more patience than any fourteen year old should have possessed.
You looked back at Jack. “You’re still opening presents with us.”
Jack glanced toward Evan. His jaw tightened just slightly, not asking permission, simply making sure he wasn’t stepping somewhere he shouldn’t. “I don’t want to interrupt.”
“You aren’t.” You stepped beside him and gave his forearm a gentle squeeze, grounding both of you. “I want you here.”
He looked at you for a long second. Something softened in his expression before he nodded. “Okay.”
“Jack.”
Jack looked over. Tommy pointed to the empty chair beside him. Then he selected another button.
“Here.”
You smiled, warmth spreading through you. “I think that’s your seat.”
Evan looked at Tommy for a moment before letting out a quiet laugh, softer this time, almost resigned. “I don’t think either of us gets much say in that.”
Jack smiled, a little more relaxed now. “I guess not.”
He pulled out the chair and sat beside Tommy. Almost immediately, Tommy settled. His shoulders eased. His grip on the tablet loosened. The plan was back where it belonged. Cake. Then presents. Exactly the way he’d been expecting all day.
With a smile, you picked up the cake knife. Tommy immediately nudged his plate closer to the edge of the table.
“So eager.”
He glanced down at his tablet.
“Birthday.”
“I suppose that’s a good excuse.”
A single nod.
“Yes.”
A soft laugh escaped you as you cut the first slice exactly how he’d requested, blue frosting, part of the weather radar, no lightning bolt.
You slid the plate toward him. “There you go.”
He studied it briefly, then pressed another button.
“Good.”
“I’ll take the compliment.”
You prepared another slice for yourself, then one for Jack. The last piece lingered in your hand as your gaze shifted to Evan.
“You still like corner pieces?”
His eyebrows lifted, faint surprise flickering across his face. “If there is one.”
“There always is.” You passed him the plate.
“Happy birthday to our favorite weather guy,” he said quietly, setting it in front of Tommy.
Tommy smiled.
“My birthday.”
“It is.”
For a while, the apartment settled into an easy quiet. Forks tapped softly against plates, the refrigerator hummed in the background, and Tommy’s tablet chimed now and then. No one rushed to speak.
Without realizing it, your attention drifted to the two men.
Jack remained beside Tommy, as he always did during meals, close enough to help if needed, never overstepping. Across the table, Evan sat with his present resting carefully against his chair, waiting. His gaze lingered on Tommy, as though trying to hold onto the moment.
They weren’t ignoring each other. Conversation simply hadn’t found its rhythm yet. And somehow neither of them seemed in any hurry to force it.
Of course, Tommy finished his cake first. He set his fork down with deliberate care, then reached for his tablet.
“Present.”
You smiled. “I had a feeling that was coming.”
His eyes shifted to the blue wrapping paper beside Evan’s chair.
“Present.”
You glanced across the table. “I think you’ve made him wait long enough.”
Evan bent down, picking up the box. “I think you’re right.”
He placed it gently in front of Tommy.
Tommy rested both hands on either side. He didn’t tear into the paper, he never did. Instead, he found the edge of a piece of tape and peeled it back, one careful strip at a time.
The room quieted again, not awkward, just attentive, as everyone watched Tommy open his birthday present the way he always did, slowly, carefully, savoring every second.
He peeled away the first piece of tape. Instead of tossing it aside, Tommy folded it neatly and set it beside the box. Then he searched for the next. Across the table, Evan rested his forearms, making no move to help or hurry him. Piece by piece, the blue wrapping paper disappeared until the cardboard box was finally uncovered.
Tommy lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in brown packing paper, sat a weather radio. Not the small emergency kind tucked away in a hall closet. This one had weight to it.
Its dark gray casing showed wear, the buttons smoothed from years of use. The telescoping antenna bore faint scratches, and one corner near the battery compartment had been patched with a strip of black electrical tape.
Reaching in with both hands, Tommy brushed his fingers over the cool, slightly textured surface.
“Weather radio.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Evan’s mouth, though his shoulders remained just a little too still.
“Yeah.”
Tommy turned it over slowly, studying each button before extending the antenna with careful hands. Then his fingers paused. He leaned in closer, brow tightening slightly as recognition flickered.
Two initials, written in faded black marker, stretched across the back.
E.D.
You glanced from the radio to Evan. “You brought your work radio?”
He shrugged, as if it meant far less than you knew it did, though his gaze lingered on it a moment too long. “I bought a new one a couple months ago.” His hand rested against the edge of the table, thumb pressing lightly into the wood. “Figured this one ought to have a better home.”
You kept staring at the radio. The scrape along one side was instantly familiar. Years ago, before one of his offshore hitches, he’d dropped it on the kitchen tile while trying to carry too many things at once. He’d spent twenty minutes afterward making sure it still worked. That morning, you’d teased him that he cared more about the radio than the suitcase sitting beside it.
The memory slipped away as quickly as it came.
Tommy pressed the weather band button. Static crackled softly before a calm, automated voice filled the kitchen with the latest forecast, its familiar cadence settling into the space like something steady and known.
He listened without interrupting. Without looking away. When the report finished cycling, he lowered the radio and reached for his tablet.
“Works.”
Evan smiled, a quiet exhale slipping free. “It better. Used it for work all the time.”
Tommy turned the radio over again, his grip just a little firmer now.
“Work.”
Evan nodded. “Every ocean trip.”
“Ocean.”
He rubbed his thumb absently along the edge of the table, the motion grounding. “That radio’s been with me a long time. Every time I was in the ocean.”
Tommy looked down at the faded initials again, tracing them lightly with his thumb as if committing them to memory. Then he collapsed the antenna with care and held the radio against his chest, letting its weight settle there.
He reached for his tablet once more.
“Thank you.”
Evan’s smile deepened, quiet and genuine, something softer easing into his expression.
“You’re welcome, buddy.”
Tommy nodded once. Then he stood, carrying the radio toward the windowsill where his weather station sat. He stepped back from the windowsill, studying the weather station and the radio side by side.
He nodded once.
“Good.”
You smiled. “I think it belongs there.”
Tommy nodded again.
Across the room, you caught Evan looking at the windowsill instead of the radio in Tommy’s hands, not at the gift itself, but at where Tommy had chosen to keep it.
Tommy stood there another few seconds, studying the weather station and the radio side by side before looking back at Evan, his fingers already moving across his tablet.
“It tracks the weather.”
Evan smiled. “You want to see something?”
Tommy nodded immediately.
Evan walked over to the windowsill, stopping just far enough away that Tommy still had plenty of room.
He picks it up carefully. “This antenna pulls out farther,” he said, extending it another few inches before handing it right back.
Tommy watched closely.
“So when I was offshore…” Evan caught himself. “…when I was in the ocean, we’d listen to this every morning before we started.”
Tommy’s attention stayed fixed on the radio.
“Every morning.”
“Yep. Every morning.” Evan pointed toward one of the buttons. “That one takes you straight to the weather band.”
Tommy pressed it, and the familiar automated forecast filled the apartment again. Neither of them spoke until it finished.
Tommy looked at the display, then at Evan.
“You had storm.”
Evan nodded. “Sometimes.”
You smiled to yourself. He wasn’t overwhelming Tommy with explanations; he was answering exactly what Tommy asked, exactly the way Tommy understood best.
Jack stepped quietly beside you. “You need anything?” he asked softly.
You glanced toward the living room, where Tommy and Evan were still standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the window, not touching, simply sharing the same piece of weather equipment.
You looked back at Jack. “Actually…” You held up the stack of empty cake plates. “Can you give me a hand with these?”
“Of course.”
Together, the two of you carried the dishes into the kitchen. The quiet clink of ceramic and the steady rush of running water filled the small space.
Jack reached for the dish towel without asking, drying each plate as quickly as you rinsed it. Neither of you hurried. Neither of you needed to.
Jack never glanced toward the living room. He didn’t need to. He already knew exactly what he was doing. Giving a father and his son a few uninterrupted minutes together.
—
Jack dried the last plate and hung the dish towel back over the oven handle. “I should probably get going.”
You nodded. “It is getting late.”
Together, you walked back into the living room.
Tommy was sitting on the floor now, the weather radio beside the weather station, switching back and forth between the two with complete concentration. Evan sat on the couch nearby, watching without interrupting.
Jack smiled. “Looks like you’ve got everything under control.”
Tommy looked up.
“Dad got me new radio.”
“I see that.”
“It is a good present.”
Jack glanced toward Evan for just a second before looking back at Tommy. “Looks pretty good kid.”
Tommy nodded once, satisfied.
Jack crouched beside him. “I wanted to wish you happy birthday one more time.”
Tommy met his eyes.
“It is my birthday.”
“The best one?”
Tommy thought about it.
“Yes.”
Jack’s smile grew. “I’m glad.”
He stood again.
His attention shifted to Evan. “It was nice meeting you.”
Evan nodded. “You too.”
“I hope you guys have a good visit.”
“Thanks.”
Nothing more. Neither man tried to force a conversation that hadn’t earned itself yet.
Jack slipped his shoes on beside the door.
You reached for your keys out of habit. “I’ll walk you over.”
Jack looked at you. “You don’t have to.”
“I know.” You opened the apartment door. “I want to. I’ll be back Tommy. I’m going to say bye to Jack.”
Tommy barely looked up from the radio. He knew where you were going. The hallway. Across the hall. You’d be right back.
The apartment door clicked softly shut behind you. The hallway felt almost too quiet after the birthday party.
A moment ago, your apartment had been full of cake plates, wrapping paper, Tommy’s new weather radio, Evan’s low voice, Jack’s steady presence, and the careful politeness of two men trying very hard not to make the night about themselves.
Out here, only the soft hum of the building’s air conditioning and the faint buzz of the hallway light remained.
You walked beside Jack across the hall. Neither of you said anything at first. His apartment was only a few steps away, but somehow the space between your door and his felt longer tonight. Like both of you knew there was a conversation waiting, and neither of you wanted to be the first to start it.
Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. The metal shifted quietly in his hand as he found the right one by feel before sliding it into the lock.
The deadbolt clicked. He pushed the door open a few inches but didn’t step inside. Instead, he turned back toward you.
“You didn’t have to walk me over.”
You leaned your shoulder lightly against the wall across from him, your arms folding loosely over your middle.
“I know. I wanted to.”
Something in his expression softened. For a second, neither of you moved.
Your gaze drifted back toward your own apartment door. The birthday banner still hung crookedly across it, the blue letters slightly wrinkled from where Tommy had touched them earlier while inspecting the decorations. One balloon had started sinking lower than the others, its ribbon curled lazily against the wall.
It looked tired now. Happy, but tired. A little like you felt.
Jack followed your gaze. “Banner made it.”
“Barely.”
“Still counts.”
You smiled. “Tommy liked it.”
“He liked all of it.”
Your smile softened before you could stop it. “He did.”
Jack leaned one shoulder against his doorframe, keeping the door open behind him with his hip. His apartment was dark beyond the entryway, quiet and still, but he didn’t seem in any hurry to disappear into it.
“He had a good birthday,” Jack said.
You nodded, your eyes still lingering on the crooked banner. “He had a really good birthday.”
The words should have felt simple. Instead, they settled heavily in your chest. Tommy had been happy. Evan had been there. Jack had been there.
For one strange, complicated evening, everyone Tommy loved had shared the same room.
Nobody fought. Nobody made a scene. Nobody asked Tommy to choose where to look or who to sit beside.
Tommy had gotten cake, presents, and a brand-new weather radio he would probably carry around for the next three days. It went well. That was almost what made it harder.
You rubbed your thumb against the inside of your elbow, watching the balloon twist slowly where it floated against the wall.
“I’m sorry.”
Jack looked at you immediately. “For what?”
You let out a breath, already embarrassed by the answer and still unable to keep it in.
“For tonight.”
His brow furrowed slightly.
You glanced back at him. “For Evan showing up like that. I didn’t know he was coming.”
“I know.”
“If I had, I would’ve told you.”
“I know.”
His voice was gentle, but not dismissive. He wasn’t brushing you off. He was just answering the part that mattered.
You looked down at the carpet between your feet. “I hate that you walked into that.”
Jack was quiet for a moment.
When you looked up again, he was studying you with the kind of focus that made it hard to hide. Not clinical. Not intense. Just present. Like he was trying to understand what you were really apologizing for.
“You think you did something wrong?” he asked.
You opened your mouth. Then stopped. Because when he said it that way, it sounded ridiculous.
You hadn’t invited Evan without telling him. You hadn’t planned some awkward introduction. You hadn’t forced Jack into anything. Evan had shown up because it was Tommy’s birthday and because he was Tommy’s father and because sometimes life did not give you enough warning to prepare a room before everyone walked into it.
Still.
“I don’t know,” you admitted quietly. “Maybe not wrong. Just…”
Jack waited.
You looked toward your door again.
“I know today was supposed to be Tommy’s birthday. That was the important thing. I know that. But then Evan showed up, and suddenly you were meeting him, and he was meeting you, and I was trying to make sure Tommy was okay, and that Evan was okay, and that you were okay, and nobody felt weird, and I just…”
You shook your head.
“I hated that you had to be so careful.”
Jack’s face changed a little at that. Not much. Just enough. His eyes softened, and his shoulders settled in a way that made you realize he understood you now.
He wasn’t the part you were apologizing for. The care was.
“You don’t have to apologize for that,” he said.
You huffed a quiet laugh, but it didn’t have much humor in it. “I feel like I’ve been apologizing for things all night.”
“I noticed.”
Your eyes flicked to his.
Jack’s mouth curved faintly.
“Not to anyone else,” he said. “Just in your head.”
You looked away.
Jack didn’t let the silence turn sharp. He stepped away from his doorframe just enough to face you fully, his voice low in the empty hallway.
“Tommy’s dad came to his birthday,” he said. “That’s not a bad thing.”
“I know it’s not.”
“He wanted to see his son.”
“I know.”
“And Tommy wanted him there.”
Your throat tightened as you nodded.
Jack let that sit for a second before continuing. “That doesn’t hurt me.”
You looked back at him. The words were simple. Too simple, maybe, for how complicated everything felt inside you.
But Jack didn’t say them like he was trying to convince himself. He said them like he had already thought it through and found the answer solid enough to stand on.
“It doesn’t?”
“No.”
You searched his face automatically.
You knew him too well now not to look. If he was uncomfortable, you would see it in the set of his jaw. If he was hurt, it would show up in the quiet around his eyes. If he was trying to be noble about something that bothered him, he would get that careful, measured stillness that made you want to reach for him and shake the truth loose.
But none of that was there.
He just looked tired. And calm. And maybe a little sad in the way kind people sometimes looked when they knew a situation was bigger than anyone could fix in one conversation.
“Evan loves him,” Jack said.
You swallowed. “Yeah.”
“I could see that.”
“He does,” you said, softer now. “He’s not a bad dad.”
“I didn’t think he was.”
“He’s just…” You stopped, trying not to explain your whole marriage in a hallway after your son’s birthday. “He loves Tommy. He just wasn’t built for the day-to-day part of it.”
Jack’s expression stayed quiet. No judgment. No quick opinion.
“He showed up today,” he said.
You nodded. “He did.”
“That matters.”
Your chest tightened again, but this time it wasn’t guilt exactly.
It was the strange ache of hearing Jack be kind about a man he had every reason to feel uncomfortable around.
“You’re being very mature about this,” you said.
Jack’s mouth twitched. “I’m trying.”
“No, you are.”
He glanced down briefly, almost like the compliment made him uncomfortable.
“I’m not competing with him.”
Your breath caught a little, because there it was. The thing you had been afraid to name.
Jack looked back at you. “I’m not.”
“I know.”
“I don’t think you do.”
The gentleness of it made you quiet.
Jack slipped one hand into his pocket, thumb catching against the edge of his keys.
“I watched them tonight,” he said. “Evan and Tommy.”
You waited.
“He was nervous.”
“Evan?”
Jack nodded. “Not in a bad way. Just… he was trying to figure out where to sit. What to touch. How close to be.”
You pictured it: Evan on the couch, hands resting on his knees while Tommy spread his new presents across the floor. Evan watching closely, wanting to be involved but not wanting to disrupt a system he didn’t fully know anymore.
You hadn’t been the only one noticing. Jack had seen it too.
“He was trying,” Jack said.
“He usually does.” You looked down. “That probably sounds obvious.”
“It doesn’t,” Jack said.
You blinked, then looked back up.
He shrugged lightly.
“I mean, I know he’s his father. I know Tommy knows him. But seeing it is different.”
Your throat tightened. “How?”
Jack took a breath, slow and thoughtful. “He didn’t have to work as hard to understand some of it. Not all of it,” he added. “But some.”
You knew exactly what he meant.
Evan didn’t know every part of Tommy’s current routine. He didn’t know all the updated buttons on the tablet or which foods had changed or what new warning signs to look for before an escalation. But he knew Tommy’s history in a way Jack didn’t. He knew the little boy Tommy used to be. He knew the old versions. The early appointments. The first words that hadn’t come. The first time you realized the tablet wasn’t a failure but a door.
That kind of knowing could not be recreated.
Jack looked toward your apartment door again, not sadly, but with an awareness that made something in your chest ache.
“I’m not threatened by that,” he said. “I just don’t want to disrespect it.”
You didn’t answer right away. Because that was Jack too. That was exactly Jack. He would make room even if making room hurt. He would step back without being asked if he thought standing too close might crowd someone else. He would never demand space in a life that had existed before him.
And you loved him for it.
“You didn’t disrespect anything tonight,” you said.
“I know.”
“But?”
His eyes met yours before drifting down the quiet hallway. He didn’t answer immediately, and somehow that silence told you everything.
Your stomach dipped. “Jack.”
He rubbed his thumb against the edge of the keys in his pocket, his gaze lingering on your apartment door before returning to you.
“Evan’s only here for a few days.”
You went still.
“He doesn’t get this often,” Jack said quietly. “He doesn’t get birthdays and cake or evenings sitting on the living room floor with Tommy. He doesn’t get nights like this.”
You waited.
He let out a slow breath.
“I was thinking…” He hesitated. “I’d stay out of the way while he’s here.”
The words settled somewhere deep in your chest before your mind could catch up.
Not anger.
Fear.
A quiet, hollow feeling, like something steady had shifted beneath your feet.
“What?”
“Not completely,” he said quickly, already reading your expression. “I’m across the hall. If you need anything—”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“I know.”
You searched his face, trying to understand how he’d already decided this without ever asking you.
“Then why would you say it like it is?”
Jack exhaled through his nose.
“I don’t want him feeling like every minute he gets with Tommy has me standing in the middle of it.”
“You weren’t standing in the middle of anything.”
“I don’t want you trying to manage both of us.”
“I’m not.”
He gave you a look.
A reluctant laugh escaped you.
“Okay,” you admitted. “Maybe a little.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
“But that’s not because of you.”
“I know.”
You shook your head. “Then don’t make that decision for me.”
Jack’s expression softened. “I’m trying to make this easier for you.”
“I know.” Your voice cracked despite yourself. “But it wouldn’t make it easier.”
Silence settled between you. This time, you crossed the small space separating you. You reached for his hand before you spoke again.
He looked down as your fingers slipped into his. His shoulders loosened almost imperceptibly before his hand closed around yours, warm and familiar.
“Jack…” You drew a slow breath. “If Evan wants more time with Tommy, that’s something he and I need to work out.”
He stayed quiet.
“You don’t have to solve that.”
His thumb brushed slowly across the side of your hand.
“He’s Tommy’s dad,” you continued. “If he wants to spend more time with him while he’s here, we’ll figure it out.” You held his gaze. “And if he decides he wants to be around more after this…” You gave a small, tired shrug. “We’ll figure that out too.”
Jack watched you without interrupting.
“But that’s between Evan and me.” You squeezed his hand gently. “If he wants more time with Tommy, then he and I will figure out what that looks like.”
You let out a quiet breath.
“He made the decision to show up today without calling me first. That doesn’t mean you suddenly have to rearrange your place in Tommy’s life.”
Jack watched you carefully.
“Those are two separate things.” You stepped a little closer. “Evan and I will figure out his time with Tommy.”
You looked him steadily in the eye. “You keep showing up the way you always have.”
His eyes stayed on yours. “I wasn’t trying to upset you.”
You nodded slowly. “I know.”
The words came easily. Believing them took a little longer.
A sad smile tugged at your mouth. “But Tommy won’t understand.”
His expression shifted so subtly most people probably wouldn’t have noticed it.
You did.
The careful, reasonable argument he’d been carrying around all evening disappeared the moment you said Tommy’s name.
“He isn’t going to think, Jack is giving Dad some space.”
Jack stayed quiet, waiting.
“He’s just going to know you didn’t come.”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
You glanced toward your apartment. “He’ll wake up tomorrow expecting breakfast if you’re coming off nights.” Your throat tightened around the words. “He’ll hear footsteps in the hallway and think it’s you.”
The image came so easily it made your chest ache. Tommy looking toward the door. Listening. Waiting. Trying to understand why something familiar suddenly wasn’t.
“And when you don’t come…” You swallowed. “He won’t understand why.”
Silence settled between you. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy.
“He’ll notice breakfast,” you said more quietly. “He’ll notice dinner. He’ll notice if you don’t ask him about the weather.”
You looked back at Jack. “He’ll notice if your shoes aren’t by the door.”
Jack followed your gaze across the hallway. The birthday banner still hung crookedly against your apartment door.
Behind it was Tommy. Breakfast after night shifts. Dinner after day shifts. Weather before coffee. Shoes lined up by the door. Little things. Until they weren’t. Until, somewhere along the way, they’d become promises.
Jack let out a slow breath. “I hadn’t thought about it like that.”
“I know.”
“I should have.”
“No.” You shook your head before he could blame himself. “You were thinking about Evan.”
He nodded once.
“That wasn’t wrong.”
His eyes searched yours.
“But you were only thinking about Evan.”
He didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he looked toward your apartment again before finally nodding. “I don’t want to make this harder for Tommy.”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
You stepped closer until barely any space remained between you. “I do.”
His brow furrowed.
“I’ve spent fourteen years learning my son.” Your fingers tightened around his hand. “I know the things he can adjust to.”
You paused, choosing the next words carefully.
“And I know the things he’ll carry around because they don’t make sense.”
Your voice softened. “You leaving the routine would be one of them.”
Jack lowered his eyes to your joined hands. He didn’t answer immediately. You could almost see him picturing tomorrow morning.
Breakfast.
Coffee.
The weather.
Tommy looking toward the door.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before. “Okay.”
You searched his face. “Okay?”
He looked back at you and nodded. “Routine stays.”
Relief hit so quickly your fingers tightened around his without thinking. “You mean that?”
“I mean it.”
“No stepping back for a week?”
A real smile reached his eyes this time. “No stepping back for a week.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.
Jack watched it leave you. His expression softened.
“You thought I meant leaving.”
You looked down. “I know you didn’t.”
“But that’s what you heard.”
You nodded once. “Yeah.”
He stepped forward, closing the last few inches himself. His free hand settled gently against your waist.
“I wasn’t thinking about how that would sound.”
You looked up at him.
“I’m sorry.”
You let the apology sit between you instead of brushing it away.
His thumb stroked lightly against your side. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Your throat tightened. “You say that a lot.”
His forehead came to rest lightly against yours. “I mean it a lot.”
A watery laugh escaped you. “I know.”
“I don’t need Tommy to have less of Evan so there’s room for me.” His voice was quiet. Certain. “There’s room.”
You looked at him through the sting in your eyes.
“For him.”
You nodded.
“For me.”
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“And definitely for the weather radio.”
You laughed.
“Definitely for the weather radio.”
“That thing outranks both of us.”
“It really does.”
The laughter faded into something softer.
You stepped into him without thinking.
His arm wrapped around you immediately, his hand settling at the back of your head as your cheek rested against his cheek.
After the carefulness of the evening, after watching Evan and Jack give each other space, after trying to make sure no one felt pushed out or pulled too close, it felt almost overwhelming to simply stop trying so hard.
You listened to the slow, steady beat of his breath beneath your ear.
“I don’t want you to feel like you have to compete,” you murmured.
His hand moved gently through your hair. “I don’t.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
You leaned back just enough to meet his eyes.
They were tired.
Steady.
Honest.
“I’m not his dad.”
“I know.”
“But I love him.”
Your breath caught.
“And I love you.”
Warmth spread through your chest so suddenly it almost hurt.
“I love you too.”
His hand slid to your cheek, brushing away the dampness beneath your eye with his thumb.
“I just want to do right by both of you.”
“You are.”
He looked like he wanted to argue.
You smiled and shook your head before he could. “You are, Jack.”
Something in his expression finally settled.
He leaned down and kissed you.
Slowly.
Patiently.
Like neither of you had anywhere else to be.
The hallway light hummed overhead. His apartment door remained open behind him. Across the hall, Tommy’s birthday banner still hung a little crooked.
For just a little while, the whole complicated evening narrowed to the warmth of his kiss, the steady hand at your waist, and the quiet certainty that making room for one person didn’t mean losing another.
When he pulled away, he didn’t go far. His forehead rested lightly against yours.
“So,” he said quietly.
You smiled because you could hear the practical turn in his voice before he even got there.
“So?”
“Breakfast after nights.”
“Yes.”
“Dinner after days.”
“Yes.”
“If Evan has plans with Tommy, you tell me.”
“Yes.”
“If Tommy needs routine, routine stays.”
“Exactly.”
Jack nodded, like he was committing it all somewhere solid.
“And no guessing.”
You smiled. “No guessing.”
“No making decisions for each other because we’re trying to be polite.”
Your smile grew. “Look at you.”
His mouth curved. “Learning.”
“Proud of you.” You laughed softly and kissed him again, quick and affectionate.
Jack’s hand lingered at your waist afterward.
Neither of you seemed quite ready to move. But eventually, you glanced back toward your apartment door. The crooked banner. The sinking balloon. The life waiting behind it.
“I should go back.”
“Yeah.” His voice was gentle. Still, he didn’t immediately let go.
You smiled up at him. “You also have to let me go if I’m going to go back.”
“I know.”
“You’re not doing it.”
“I’m aware.”
Your smile turned warmer.
Jack finally released you, though his fingers brushed yours one last time before dropping away.
You crossed the hall and stopped with your hand on your doorknob.
Then you looked back.
Jack was still standing in his doorway, watching you with that quiet, steady expression that always made you feel like he meant every word before he even said it.
“You’re still coming tomorrow,” you said.
Not quite a question.
Jack’s answer came immediately. “Yeah. I’m still coming tomorrow.”
You nodded once. The certainty settled through you slowly. Evan being here didn’t erase Jack. Jack staying didn’t erase Evan. Tommy didn’t have to lose one steady thing just because another had come back for a few days.
Maybe it didn’t have to be a competition. Maybe love, when handled carefully enough, could make room.
You opened your door and stepped back inside, carrying that thought with you like something fragile and warm.
Across the hall, Jack stayed where he was until the door closed behind you.
—
Later that night, after you put Tommy to bed, you stepped quietly back into the living room.
Evan stood near the bookshelf, his hands resting in his pockets as his gaze wandered slowly around the apartment.
It lingered on the blue streamers still hanging from the ceiling. The half-deflated balloons drifted lazily near the hallway. On the windowsill sat Tommy’s weather station beside the worn weather radio that had spent years offshore with Evan before finding a new home beside his son’s favorite window.
His eyes moved from one familiar thing to the next, quietly taking it all in.
The apartment looked different than the last time he’d been here. Different artwork on the refrigerator. Different pictures on the wall. Tommy was taller in every photograph. There were small signs of a life that had continued moving forward while he was somewhere else.
At the sound of your footsteps, he turned.
“Out?”
You nodded. “Completely.”
A tired smile crossed his face, softening the lines around his eyes. “He made it longer than I thought he would.”
“He was determined.”
“I noticed.”
For another second, the smile lingered before fading into the quiet that settled between you, and you found yourself watching the exact moment it slipped away, as if you could hold onto it just a second longer.
It wasn’t uncomfortable. These days, it rarely is.
The hardest years are behind you now. The long conversations that never quite solved anything. The quiet realization that loving each other wasn’t the same as building a life together. Learning how to stop being husband and wife without ever stopping being Tommy’s parents.
Time had softened the sharpest edges, but the memory still lingered, like a bruise that had faded without ever completely disappearing.
What remained was something quieter. Not friendship. Not quite. Just the familiarity that came from years of knowing exactly how the other took their coffee, what made them laugh, and which conversations neither of you ever wanted to have but somehow always found your way back to.
You crossed into the kitchen and reached into the cabinet for two glasses, your movements automatic, guided by muscle memory before you could think too much about it.
Water filled the first, then the second.
“Thanks,” Evan said quietly as he accepted the glass.
You leaned back against the counter and took a sip of your own, the cool water grounding you.
For a minute, silence held. With Tommy asleep, the apartment felt different. Quieter. Somehow smaller, like the walls had shifted inward, leaving less room to avoid what lingered between you.
Looking down into his glass, Evan exhaled, his shoulders dipping slightly. “I should’ve called.”
You closed your eyes for just a second. Not dramatically. Just long enough to feel the familiar weight of the conversation settling onto your shoulders again, pressing down in a way that was both expected and exhausting.
When you opened them, you gave a small nod. “Yeah.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers lingering there as though he could work the tension out. “I know.”
Your thumb traced slowly around the rim of your glass, the repetitive motion giving your hands something to do besides tighten.
“I remind you every year.”
He nodded once. “You do.”
You lifted your gaze to his. “Every year, Evan.”
He looked away first, his jaw tightening just slightly. “…I know.”
Again, the apartment fell quiet.
You stared into your water, turning the glass a slow quarter turn against the countertop, watching the way the light bent through it, anything to avoid looking at him for a moment longer.
It wasn’t that you expected a different answer anymore.
That was the hardest part.
You already knew how this conversation went.
Every birthday.
Every visit.
Every surprise.
A slow breath left you, your shoulders rising and falling with it. “So why don’t you call?”
His brow furrowed as he stared into his glass, not defensive so much as genuinely trying to trace his own thinking.
Finally, he let out a quiet breath.
“Honestly?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t think I know I’m coming until I’m already on my way.”
Your brow creased.
“I finish a hitch.” He shrugged helplessly. “Book a flight. Rent a car.” A faint, self-conscious smile crossed his face. “By then… I’m already here.” He looked at you apologetically. “The only part I really picture is knocking on the door.”
A quiet laugh slipped out before you could stop it, your head dipping as you exhaled through your nose. Not because it was funny. Because after all these years, you still didn’t know what to do with answers like that, and because some part of you recognized the sincerity in it, even if it didn’t make things easier.
Shaking your head, your eyes drifted toward the ceiling for a moment before settling back on him, your expression softening despite yourself.
He stayed quiet.
You watched him, waiting to see if he would argue.
He didn’t.
“You don’t picture Tommy needing time to catch up,” you said quietly. “You don’t picture him standing in the hallway trying to figure out why his whole day suddenly changed.”
His eyes dropped to the floor.
“You don’t picture me trying to help him reorganize his whole evening.”
You shook your head, your fingers tightening around the cool glass.
“You don’t picture me wondering whether you’re staying for dinner… or disappearing back offshore tomorrow.”
His shoulders sank another inch.
“You don’t picture me trying to explain why Dad showed up without warning again.”
The words hung between you.
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, his jaw working as he searched for something to say.
Nothing came.
Finally, he looked back at you.
He let out a slow breath, shaking his head once. “…You’re right.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I don’t.”
He looked down at the floor, turning the words over before he spoke again. “I spend so much time thinking about getting here…” He let out a quiet breath. “…I don’t think about what I’m walking into.”
You let out a slow breath and set your glass on the counter.
“Okay.”
Evan looked up.
“Okay?”
A small smile touched your lips.
“Let’s figure out the next few days.”
Some of the tension eased from his shoulders.
“You’ve got five days.”
“I know.”
“And I want the two of you to have as much time together as you can.”
His expression softened.
You gave him a small, encouraging smile.
“So… what are you thinking?”
Evan frowned. “Thinking about what?”
“While you’re here.” You gave a small shrug. “If you want to come over for dinner tomorrow, come over.”
You leaned one shoulder against the counter, thinking it through as you spoke.
“If you want to take him to the park like you did last year, we’ll do that.”
A small smile tugged at your lips.
“If you want to come by for breakfast one morning, we’ll do that.”
You met his eyes.
“We’ve done this before.”
You smiled a little. “We just usually don’t talk about it until after you’re already standing at my front door.”
A sheepish smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“…Fair.”
“So this time…” You spread your hands slightly. “Let’s just be ahead of it.”
He studied you for a long moment.
“You’d really move things around?”
“Of course.”
The answer came easily.
“You’re his dad.” You shrugged lightly. “I want you to have a good visit.”
His shoulders relaxed another inch. “I appreciate that.”
“I just need you to call me.”
He let out a quiet laugh. “So you know when I’m showing up.”
“So I know when you’re showing up,” you agreed with a small smile. “If school was hard that day, I’ll tell you. If therapy wore him out, you’ll know before you get here.” Your smile softened. “And if he’s having one of those days where everything’s just clicking…I’ll tell you that too.”
Evan lowered his eyes, rolling the glass slowly between his palms. “I never really thought about everything you already know before I walk through the door.”
“I know.”
There wasn’t any judgment in your voice. Only the quiet acceptance that had taken years to build.
“You see pieces of Tommy’s life.”
His eyes lifted to yours.
“I live all the days in between.” You offered him a small smile. “So let me help you walk into the middle instead of the end.”
For a long moment, he didn’t say anything.
Then he nodded. “I’d like that.”
You were quiet for a moment before speaking again. “There is one thing I do want you to know.”
Evan looked at you, waiting.
“Jack’s become part of Tommy’s routine.”
You watched his expression carefully, giving him space to take it in.
“He comes over everyday. Breakfast after his night shifts. Dinner after his day shifts.” A small smile found its way to your lips. “It’s just… become part of Tommy’s week. Tommy expects it now.”
You let that settle before continuing.
“I’d like to keep that the same while you’re here.”
You paused, choosing your next words carefully.
“This isn’t about either of you.”
You held his gaze.
“It’s about Tommy.” Your voice softened. “You know how he is. When he knows what to expect, everything else gets a little easier.”
You glanced toward the hallway leading to Tommy’s room.
“I’d rather all three of us work around Tommy than spend the week worrying about each other.”
Evan was quiet for several seconds. His eyes followed yours toward the hallway before returning to your face.
“I get that.”
You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding your breath until something in your chest finally loosened.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I think that’s the right priority.”
“It always has been.”
He nodded once, slowly. “…Yeah.”
The apartment fell quiet again. Not awkward. Just thoughtful.
Evan looked toward the hallway again, quiet for a long moment. “I missed a lot.”
You didn’t rush to reassure him. “You did.”
He nodded once. “I don’t want to keep missing it. I can do that.”
What happens when Hotch finally gets an Instagram? And what happens when you, who's younger, who is unashamedly and unabashedly down for bad for him follow him?
pairings: hotch x gen z ! freader
warnings: probably ooc hotch, if this real life, you'd get written up or possibly fired lmao. age-gap relationship (duh). some cameos - you get a cookie if you know who they are. mostly fluff and crack, but there plans for angst. divorced!hotch. jack does not exist in the universe.
photo credits to all their rightful owners
part one | part two | part three, pt 3 excerpt | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight| part nine | part ten | part eleven | part twelve - end!
love is embarrassing written companion pieces
everything i know about love (the prologue)
[Transferring to the BAU was neat, especially from where you transferred from. Your boss was an added bonus.]
Summary: You surprise Jack in a soft baby blue number.
Words: 2780
Warning: Age Gap (Mid 30s/Early 50s), Sensual and Sexual Themes/Suggestive Tone
Authors Note: *NAWING AT THE BARS OF MY ENCLOSURE* Buckle up because this one is steamy!!! 🤪🫣 I’ve had this written so so so long ago. When I saw the gif and saw the look he gave (THE UP DOWN STARE GAHHH), the idea came about. I've had this written and saved in the dafts since october of last year GAHHHH. Those of you wondering what was in the black paper bag from Black Friday part…here ya go LOL. Enjoy - Ryn
SOL | MASTERLIST
You catch your reflection in the mirror, cheeks warm, pulse hammering in your ears. Nervous doesn’t even begin to cover it, you’re terrified. The light baby blue babydoll lingerie feels impossibly soft against your skin, unfamiliar in a way that makes your stomach flutter. It’s Jack’s favorite color, and somehow knowing that only makes your nerves spike higher.
You’ve taken the time to doll yourself up, hair softly curled, makeup just enough to make your eyes stand out, lips slightly glossy.
You shift slightly, tugging at the delicate fabric as if trying to make it feel more like armor than vulnerability. The reflection staring back at you is a mix of confidence and uncertainty, and you wonder, when he sees you, will he see both?
You smooth your hands down the sheer fabric, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Okay,” you whisper to yourself, “you can do this! It’s just Jack. Jack who makes you laugh. Jack who loves you. Jack who looks at you like you hung the moon.”
But your pulse won’t slow. You’ve never done anything like this before. You’ve never worn something so intimate, so revealing, so deliberately sexy. The thought of stepping out, seeing his face when he looks at you, makes your heart pound against your ribs.
You take one more breath, fingers tightening around the door handle. “Okay,” you murmur again. “Here goes nothing.”
You exhale, open the door, and pad softly down the hallway toward the garage. The faint scent of oil and metal grows stronger with each step, mixing with the steady rhythm of classic rock humming low from the radio.
Through the open door, you see Jack, bent over the hood of his truck, sleeves pushed up, forearms streaked with grease. The late afternoon Sun spills across his shoulders, catching in his hair as he works.
You hover just inside the doorway, out of sight from the street. The garage door is open, but from where you’re standing, no one passing by could see you, not with the truck angled the way it is. It’s your small bubble of privacy hidden in plain view.
He doesn’t notice you at first, too lost in the task in front of him. The clink of a wrench, the soft scrape of metal, the quiet hum under his breath. Then he hears the soft creak of the door.
“Beautiful, can you pass me the—”
He looks, mid-sentence.
The rest of the words die on his lips as his eyes land on you. For a long, silent heartbeat, he just stares, lingering over you as if memorizing every detail.
Jack doesn’t say anything at first. He straightens slowly, eyes never leaving you, and reaches for the rag on the workbench. The movement is almost mechanical, wiping his grease-stained hands one slow drag at a time like he needs to make sure this is real before he dares to speak.
He lets out a slow breath, the kind that seems to steady him against a force he didn’t expect.
“God…” His voice is low, almost a whisper. His eyes widen, flicking down and back up in a slow, stunned sweep that makes your skin hum. His breath catches faintly, like he wasn’t prepared for you to look like that, like he’s not entirely sure he’s awake.
Jack blinks, swallows hard, but doesn’t look away. His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking as if he’s fighting the urge to say or do something he might not be able to take back.
“H-hi,” you stutter out.
“Hey,” he says quietly, still wiping his hands with the rag, his movements slower now. He doesn’t step closer, doesn’t say anything else, just watches you, waiting. It’s like he knows you need to make the first move.
You shift under his gaze, heart pounding, suddenly aware of every inch of sheer fabric clinging to your skin. The confidence you had in front of the mirror starts to crumble.
His silence only makes you second-guess yourself further, twisting your confidence into something fragile and uncertain. The quiet between you feels heavier than words, and suddenly you wonder if what seemed daring in the mirror now looks… wrong to him.
“This was a dumb idea,” you mumble, crossing your arms instinctively over your chest as heat floods your cheeks. “I feel absolutely ridiculous… in this.”
The baby-blue babydoll that had seemed flirty and playful before now feels far too revealing, thin straps slipping off your shoulders, the hem brushing high against your thighs, and the sheer fabric doing little to hide the rapid rise and fall of your breathing.
Jack’s brow furrows, just slightly. He drops the rag on the workbench and takes a slow step toward you, careful, like he’s afraid to spook you.
This was new territory for both of you. You and Jack had been intimate before, closely, physically, but lingerie had never been part of your dynamic. Never something you’d worn just for him, just the two of you. The thought of exposing this side of yourself, letting him see you like this, made your pulse spike, and yet there was a strange thrill in the vulnerability, the trust in uncharted territory.
“Hey,” he says softly, stepping closer but not too close, like he knows you might bolt if he does. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” you mutter, still avoiding his eyes, arms hugging yourself tighter.
He gestures vaguely toward you, to the way you’re folding in on yourself. “That. Acting like you’ve got something to be embarrassed about.”
He chuckles softly, a low, warm sound. “Why are you hiding? It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
“I… I don’t know,” you whisper, voice shaky. “It’s… different. Wearing this for you.”
He exhales softly and takes another small step, slow enough for you to stop him if you want. “Let me see you.”
Your fingers hesitate at your elbows, unsure, trembling just a little. But the way he’s looking at you steady, patient, almost aching, pulls something loose inside your chest.
You uncross your arms slowly.
His breath leaves him in a quiet, stunned rush. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t even try, but his hands flex at his sides like he’s fighting the instinct to reach for you.
“Jesus…” he murmurs, the word barely audible, almost reverent. His gaze sweeps over you again, slower this time, lingering on the curve of the lace, the dip of the straps, the exposed skin underneath, the parts of you you’re trying, and failing, not to shy away from.
His voice gentles even more, the teasing stripped away. “You look… incredible.”
He tilts his head, studying you like he’s memorizing every line and curve.
“When did you get this?”
“Black Friday shopping…”
He lets out a low sound half laugh, half ache. “So this is why you told me to stay put?” His eyes flick to you, then back again, wide with disbelief and something brighter. “This is what was in that black bag?”
You nod.
He shakes his head slowly, a breathless, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re kidding…” His eyes lift to yours and then drift back down again “You’ve had this the whole time, and now you decide to—” He breaks off, swallowing hard, his voice rough with a mix of awe and want. “—wear it?”
You nod, cheeks warm. “I just thought it might be nice. Something different. For me… and for you.”
You nod, still not looking up, heat creeping into your cheeks. “ I bought it,” you admit softly, fingers fidgeting with the fabric. “Because I wanted to feel good in my own skin.” You hesitate, then add, quieter, “But… also for you. I thought maybe it would be something you’d like.”
You shake your head, embarrassed, wishing you could disappear for a second. “It’s silly, I know.”
He swallows, his gaze never leaving yours. “It’s not silly,” he says softly, voice low but steady, like he’s trying to anchor you. “Not even a little.”
“I wasn’t expecting—” He stops himself, clears his throat. “I mean, damn, you knocked the wind out of me.”
He steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him. His hand hovers near your arm, not quite touching, giving you just enough space to breathe while still making you acutely aware of him. “Thank you,” he murmurs, almost reverently. “For thinking of me. I appreciate it…”
Your heart hammers in your chest. “Do… Do you like it?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
He blinks, genuinely caught off guard that you’d even ask. “Do I—” He cuts himself off, a soft huff of a laugh leaving him. A faint smile curves at the corner of his mouth as his eyes drift over you again, gentler now. “Yeah. Yeah, I do…more than you can imagine.”
His voice drops, warmer, almost reverent. “And blue,” he murmurs, almost to himself, “my favorite color. You could’ve worn anything—hell, you could’ve worn one of my old shirts and I’d still be standing here thinking the same thing.”
You feel your chest tighten at that, warmth flooding through you. “What’s that?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.
“That I’m completely gone for you,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
He steps a fraction closer, and the air between you seems to pulse. “That you… look incredible. Just… you. Every part of you,” he says, voice low, reverent, a quiet intensity behind every word.
Jack’s voice drops low, almost tentative. “Can I… touch you?” he asks, like he’s afraid the question itself might scare you off.
Your breath catches. You look up at him, his hand hovering midair, his expression careful, waiting. He isn’t assuming, isn’t pushing, just asking.
You nod once, slow. “Y-yes,” you whisper.
He starts to move, then hesitates, glancing down at his hands, still faintly streaked with grease despite the rag. A quiet, sheepish smile tugs at his mouth. “I should probably wash up first,” he murmurs.
You shake your head before he can step back. “N-no. It’s okay,” you say softly, your voice steady now, sure. “I don’t care.”
For a moment, he just looks at you, eyes searching, like he’s trying to decide if you really mean it. The tension in his shoulders eases just a fraction. His fingertips brush against your arm first, feather-light like he’s giving you a chance to change your mind. Then a little firmer, tracing down until his hand settles against your skin, grounding you both.
His thumb grazes the edge of your strap, which has slipped off your shoulder, and he fixes it gently, an excuse, maybe, or just something to do with his hands while the air hums quietly between you.
You exhale, a soft sound that feels more like release than words.
His hands find your hips, warm and steady, grounding you when everything inside feels unsteady. He pulls you a little closer, not demanding, just waiting, giving you the space to pull away if you need to.
“Okay?” he asks quietly, his breath brushing against your temple.
You nod, the word catching in your throat before it can form. “Yes,” you whisper, though your heart is beating so fast you’re sure he can feel it.
Jack studies you for a long moment, his eyes searching your face, making sure. When he finally speaks again, his voice is even softer. “You’re sure?”
You nod again, this time a little firmer. “I’m sure.”
Something in his shoulders eases at that, the faint tension melting away. He lets out a quiet breath, thumb brushing along your hip bone like he’s memorizing the shape of you.
Then, without a word, he leans in closer. His lips press softly to the side of your neck, a gentle, lingering kiss that sends a shiver through you. You sigh, breathless, tilting your head slightly, caught between surprise and desire, heart hammering as the warmth of him presses closer, slow and deliberate.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice low and reverent. “God… you’ve got no idea what this does to me,” he murmurs, voice thick, almost a whisper. “You, here, like this…”
The words make your pulse skip, the nerves still there but dulled by the warmth in his voice, the care. You tilt your chin up slightly, meeting his gaze at last.
“Show me,” you whisper.
He exhales, a low, almost frustrated sound. “I… need to wash up first,” he says, voice rough, as if reluctant to break the moment.
“Jack,” you whine softly, tugging at his shirt, the heat and frustration coiling in your chest. “Don’t. Please… don’t.”
He groans, running a hand through his curls, shaking his head with a wry smile. “Beautiful… I’m not gonna be with you if I’m all greasy and sweaty from working on the truck” he says, voice low but teasing, the tension between you still humming in the air. His eyes softening just a fraction. “Come on… you deserve better than that.”
You pout, tugging at his shirt again, frustration and mischief in your eyes. “Jack… come on, not yet… Just for a minute? Please?”
He exhales, giving in with a slow, reluctant smirk. “Okay, fine. A minute—then we’re going inside. I’m gonna shower first… and then we’ll continue.”
Before you can react, he scoops you up effortlessly, and you squeal, the sudden movement sending a jolt straight through you. He carries you across the garage, swiping tools off the workbench in a careless clatter before setting you down gently on it, like you’re something precious despite the rough urgency in his movements.
He steps between your legs, close enough that you feel the heat of him, the air between you crackling. His hands settle at your waist, thumbs pressing in. Then his mouth is on yours fierce, hungry, unrelenting. The kiss steals your breath, leaves you dizzy, the world narrowing to nothing but him.
“Jack—” you gasp, pulling back just enough to breathe. “The garage door is open. Someone could see us—”
He pulls away just enough to grin, eyes dark and amused. “Relax. You really think anyone’s paying attention? Because I’m pretty sure the only one losing focus here is you.”
“You realize you’re sabotaging your minute of fun? You’re wasting time,” he teases, glancing exaggeratedly at his watch, clicking his tongue. “Your minute’s almost—”
You cut him off, grabbing the front of his shirt and kissing him again, messy and unapologetic. He laughs against your mouth, quickly turning into a low groan as his hands tighten at your waist. Your hands grip his shoulders, pulling him closer, the kiss deepening, urgent.
He breaks the kiss just for a moment, forehead resting against yours, breath mingling with yours. His eyes roam over your face, memorizing every expression. “God… you have no idea how much I want you right now,” he murmurs, voice low and rough.
A shiver runs through you. “Then don’t… don’t stop,” you whisper.
The straps of your lingerie slip again. You reach instinctively to take it off but his hands catch your wrists gently. “No,” he breathes, a little laugh tangled with a quiet groan. “Hey… don’t. I expect this to stay on. I want continue to admire you in it more later.”
You hesitate, breath catching, then nod. “Okay,” you whisper.
“yeah,” he murmurs, eyes dragging over you, unhurried and appreciative. “You got all dressed up for me. Leave it on.”
He grins against your lips before capturing your mouth again, hands roaming gently but insistently along your sides, each touch sending sparks through you.
His hand tightens slightly at your waist. “Okay… time’s up,” he murmurs, low and teasing. “I said a minute—now we go inside. Shower first, then we’ll finish this properly.”
“Jack…” you whisper, voice trembling.
“I’ll be quick, I promise,” he murmurs, pressing one last lingering kiss to your mouth. You sigh against him, breathless, heart hammering, fingers brushing lightly along his arms.
“Inside,” you say softly, eyes daring him. “And if you take your sweet time in that shower, I’m holding it against you.”
He laughs, smirking. “Don’t worry. I know better than to keep you waiting.”
Before you can react, he grabs your hand as you hop down from the workbench. Together, you rush inside, hearts racing, hands intertwined. The tension lingers, electric and promising, as the garage door closes behind you.
summary: robby falls head over heels for his new neighbor while on his sabbatical, an art history professor that seems to be his polar opposite on everything.
content warnings: fluff / angst, fucking on couches, sex with yearning feelings, slight grumpy x sunshine trope, robby calls reader 'peaches', fem!reader
wc: 8.4k
a/n: this is fully inspired by all of noah wyle's cute bed selfies of him reading novels!! i have a mini drabble / spin-off idea so keep an eye out for that!! very big thanks to lindsay (her ao3) to help me edit a couple scenes!!
Sleep did not evade him after a grueling shift of analog at the Pitt. A good sign, he thinks, of his sabbatical. When morning comes, he wakes to the sun filtering through his windows and a loud beeping noise of a van moving in reverse. He mutters incoherently as he drags himself out of bed, sleep clinging to his every muscle, to pad over to his kitchen.
Muscle memory takes over. Coffee beans. Machine. Grinding. Hot cup of coffee. He pours himself a cup before he finds himself wandering back to his bedroom, towards his drawers. He only freezes when he's staring at black scrubs and remembering he's technically on sabbatical. The pit in his chest yawns wider.
It takes another heavy step to make his way back to his living room, with the intent to deposit his body onto the couch in hopes to attempt a stab at normalcy, but the beeping of a van bleeds through his walls from next door. He grunts and pushes the front door open to lean against the porch columns to see a large moving van in the driveway besides his, teeming with men that's already sweating out of their shirts despite the early hour.
They've all got their hands full, drawers and tables and chairs filing out of the van and into the home next door.
"Where d'ya want this, ma'am?" One man with a handlebar mustache grunts, holding a large painting with a gilded frame that looks so laughably ornate in the midst of mismatched chairs.
You appear at your front door, probably from somewhere inside your home, with a frazzled smile. It's barely seven and you look as though you've lived through half the day already.
"Center of the east wall, please!" You chirp, hovering behind the burly man and you disappear inside. Robby finds himself smiling against the rim of his mug before he forces his attention elsewhere. The copious amounts of paintings and decor makes his walls look so empty.
Time slips away from him and lunch time is fast approaching. Cooking something feels a little bit like getting his life together so he throws a quick stir-fry dish together. He's just about to plate when he hears a quiet knock on his door.
"Can I help you?"
When he opens the door, he didn't expect you to stand on his porch with a bowl of peaches in your hands. The oddness of it all takes him aback.
"Um— maybe. I'm your new neighbor, I live right next door. Sorry again for the ruckus, I didn't think moving in would be so loud!" You offer a smile and Robby finds him smiling despite himself. "Peaches as an apology and a request for a favor all in one?"
He chuckles and leans against his doorframe, taking the bowl out of your hands. When he gives his name, you give yours. "So what's this favor?"
"Ah. One of the movers must've gotten lazy and left one of my cabinets crooked? I tried moving it myself but it's a vintage and those things are heavy," you explain with a little laugh.
Robby nods and sets the bowl aside. "Yeah, I'll see what I can do."
Entering your space feels a bit surreal. The layout should be similar to his, considering the whole block of homes here were developed in one season, and yet how you've decorated makes your home look far more different than his.
"Which cabinet—?"
You lead him towards the small room tucked beside the kitchen, something he uses for storage but what you've turned it into resembles a small studio space. An easel is folded in the corner, unused canvases leaning onto the wall beside it. On the opposite end of the room is a large, vintage brown cabinet that's placed diagonally off the wall.
"I know it's silly but the thing nearly tipped over when I tried pushing and the last thing I need is a hole in my wall," you say with a soft sigh, watching Robby push the cabinet with ease until it's flush against the wall. "Thanks, that would've bothered me all day."
"You're welcome. Anything else?" He asks and he finds himself wanting to stick around longer.
You turn slowly where you stand before giving him a smile he doesn't know how to interpret. "I think I might've smelled something cooking in your kitchen. Any chance you got an extra plate to share?"
The next day, he stares at his Bonneville in his garage and digs deep to see if he still has that urge to ride and… ride 'til he stops. He lets out a heavy sigh and steps out. Like clockwork, his head swivels to your porch and something in his chest twists at the sight of you curled up on a chair with a book in hand. Cozy.
"Good morning, Michael."
A short laugh escapes him. "Morning, Peaches."
Your eyes roll halfheartedly before you wave him over with a delicate hand. "You never told me what you do."
"Neither have you." He leans against the porch railing, trying to steal a glimpse of your book.
"I'm an art history professor," you offer first. "Now you."
"I'm… a senior attending at PTMC." He doesn't know why it feels like pulling teeth admitting it out loud, like his life prior to the sabbatical feels like sacrilege mixing it with meeting you.
"Impressive." You whistle lowly before you give him a little grin. "I'm a doctor, too. Not in the way my mom wanted for me but hey, at least she can call me Doctor Peaches. Any reason why you aren't in a hospital, Doctor Robinavitch? I thought you attendings are utter workaholics."
He crosses his arms as he leans against the porch column, a half grin that you're slowly becoming obsessed with. "We are. It's why nearly my entire workstaff had me on this sabbatical…"
"Sweet workstaff." You offer him a cookie which he takes. "Any big plans for your sabbatical?"
"A road trip, but—" he shrugs and looks around. He can't seem to maintain eye contact. "I thought it'd be better to stay home for a bit. And a good thing, too. How else would you have moved that cabinet of yours?"
"You're right. I'd be stuck working with a meathead mover rather than a handsome doctor."
"Oh, you think I'm handsome?"
"Well, I'm not blind, Michael."
"So you can also see I'm a bit too old for you."
"I'm thirty-one, I'm hardly too young for you."
He's got nothing to say to that, just fixes you with an incredulous look before his face lines with a bright laugh.
"You're trouble, Peaches."
The next month, he's become a regular guest in your home, fixing things that should be easily covered by any other professional but you've been deadset on knocking on his door. Leaky faucets, creaking door hinges, and even screwing a lightbulb in the spare bedroom where the roof is just a bit too high to reach even with a stepladder.
The conversations get longer and he stays a little later. Soon, coffee breaks turn into lunches and dinners.
"Michael," you hum as you approach from the kitchen, both hands holding a mug of tea before you join him on your couch. The evening's taken on a softer hue, something gentler that he's scared to disrupt. He cooked for you, you poured wine, and he played footsy with you beneath the table.
And now he's lifting an arm for you to tuck yourself into, your head tucked beneath his chin so he can turn his head to kiss the top of your hair. "Thanks, sweetheart. What're we watching?"
You chuckle and take a sip of your tea. "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. It's about a couple who broke up and decided to wipe their memories of each other only to fall in love over again."
"Hm."
You lightly swat his chest. "Don't be such a cynic, Michael. It's romantic."
"I didn't say anything," he laughs but he runs a hand up and down your sides, holding you closer. "Just thought it's an interesting plot."
"You hate it."
"I don't hate it, sweetheart. I'll watch the whole thing for you."
And true enough, he does. Michael Robinavitch sits through the entire film without falling asleep, his tea finished and his arms around you. His hand skims your skin beneath your sleep shirt and when you don't shy away, he lets himself get bolder. A shiver runs down your spine as you feel his fingertips coast along the underside of your breast.
"Mikey," you whisper and that stupid little nickname elicits a fond chuckle anyways, his grip tightening as he uses his free hand to guide your chin up for a kiss. "The movie—"
"The credits are rolling…" he murmurs, lips ghosting above yours in silent request. You grant permission by surging upwards, closing the distance before clambering onto his lap. He chuckles at your enthusiasm and feeling his hardness beneath you elicits a moan so loud you'd be embarrassed if it isn't for your insatiable need for his touch. "Fuck, sweetheart—"
A whimper spills from your lips, your knees bracketing his hips. Your greedy hands run down his chest, along that soft tummy that you've steadily grown obsessed with for weeks now. "Michael, I need you."
Something darkens within him, that selfish ache that's spread like a disease, parasitical in nature. You're young, not so young that he'd truly be disgusted of himself, but enough that you two have been drawing looks whenever his hands wound wander a little too low on your hips in public.
"Tell me what you want," he coaxes, a gutteral noise building in his chest when your lips find his, your nails scratching along his scruffy beard. Your resounding reply is another needy moan, your hips grinding along his until his large hands are tugging your shirt up and off before he could kiss down your neck. He revels in your sweet gasps, sugar-spun and delicate while his teeth and tongue graze along your flesh before he's burrowing his face in the valley of your tits.
"Michael—!" You squeal, fingernails scratching the nape of his neck. His low moans send shivers down your spine, teeth grazing along sensitive flesh before his lips latch onto your nipple. A string of expletives spill past your kiss-swollen lips when he bites, rolling the pert nub around before switching to the other.
He paints a myriad of lovebites along your chest, possessive and obsessive in the way he meticulously places it just above the usual cut of your tops; not enough to be lewd but a hint to show that you've got him to take care of you.
"Stop teasing…" Your voice hitches higher when he sucks a harsh bite onto your jugular before he rucks up your skirt to slide his middle and ring finger across your soaked panties. His chuckles are low and mean as he rubs your clit through the fabric. "Mm, fuck…!"
"You sound so sweet for me, baby," he murmurs against your heated skin before he impatiently tugs the fabric aside to plunge his knobby fingers into your dripping cunt. He hisses at the warmth, pulling just far back enough to see the way your pretty features tighten in arousal as he fucks you nice and deep with his index and middle finger. "Your little pussy's just sucking me in, how's my cock gonna fit inside you, hm?"
He's so mean like this, so condescending that you nearly cry out in frustration if it weren't for the fact that you could feel his own thickening erection against your inner thighs; he's just as affected as you are, if not more. If you aren't so preoccupied with his large fingers inside you, you would've noticed the way there's a streak of need underlying every syllable, the way his eyes track your every movement to heighten your arousal. It only adds onto what you know about him, attentive and determined with a dry sense of humor that carries into mocking condescension into bed.
"Mikey, please— need your cock in me," you mewl pathetically, nearly riding his hand before he pulls out right before you could tip over to the edge. An indignant whine escapes you before he sucks his fingers clean, the pink muscle laving along his knuckles to clean up your slick. His eyes are shut, looking utterly blissed out at the taste of you.
"I got you, sweetheart," he shushes you gently with another mocking coo, reaching between you to tug out his cock from his sweatpants. He brings up his hand to your mouth and without hesitating, you spit into his waiting palm before he uses that hand to stroke his thick length. You brace yourself with both hands on his shoulders, lifting your hips up to grind your folds along his swollen tip. "Think you can make it fit, hm?"
You nod eagerly—desperately—and slowly lower yourself onto his cock while your walls adjust to his size. When a quiet whimper threatens to spill, he closes the distance to swallow your breathy moans. It's messy, open-mouthed, and sloppy but it's enough that once you're seated completely, his first thrust within you elicits more pleasure than pain.
"Feels so fuckin' good for me, sweetheart," he praises and there isn't a trace of that condescension left as he picks up the pace, holding your hips steady so he can do all the work for you. Each thrust punches out a string of staccato moans, mingling with his own breathy grunts. It's heady and destructive, flaying away layers from both of you as his eyes meet yours. Your hands find his jawline, cradling his face in reverence as he brings you closer and closer to your climax.
"Nngh… 'm close—" you gasp against his mouth, eyes shut as your lips drag along his cheek as you ride him in tandem to his thrusts.
His grip tightens around your hips as he plants his feet into the bed for leverage, fucking you with a brutal pace that has you hurtling over the edge with a scream of his name. He's quick to follow but he's got enough wherewithal to pull out just in time to paint your lower abdomen in his release.
Your chest is heaving as he sits you back on his thighs, his hand slowly stroking his cock 'til he shudders and lets the afterglow of his orgasm settle in.
"Whoa." His gaze resettles on you as he falls back against the back of the couch, carefully pulling you down to settle beside him with an arm around your shoulders. His free hand reaches to the side table by the couch to grab some tissues, gently wiping you down before offering a wordless apology by kiss to your temple. You toss your legs across his lap, curling into him as close as possible.
"You alright, Peaches?"
Your sigh is quiet but content, nuzzling into his chest with an arm thrown atop his abdomen. "Peachy keen, Michael."
His resounding laugh rumbles beneath you as he tips your chin up with a finger to plant a kiss onto your lips. "That's comforting."
"Take me to bed?"
"Sure, sweetheart—"
"Then stay with me?"
"… Of course."
He brings the covers up where you tuck them beneath your armpit to fight the chill of your bedroom before he hauls you closer to hold his arm around your shoulders. Your skin is warm, your chest still steadily rising and falling as you catch your breath with your head upon his pec.
He presses a lazy kiss to the top of your head as he lays out, humming while you play with the curls of hair that smatters along his chest. He responds with tracing shapes along your shoulders.
"So… a three month sabbatical," you begin curiously, eyes still shut as you bask in the afterglow. "Is that a build up of PTO or the perk of being the chief of attending?"
He stiffens beneath you and you look up, surprised to see the warm expressions you've been used to seeing completely fade. He's looking at the ceiling but his jaw is tense.
"Hey." Your hand gently takes his scruffy jaw. "You don't owe me answers, Michael. You don't have to tell me your darkest backstories… but you do owe yourself to tell someone if it has you feeling like that."
Something dislodges in his chest when you pull yourself up to kiss the edge of his beard, his nose, then his lips. He melts beneath your touch and his strong hands grip your hip, as though he's afraid you'll disappear.
"It's a lot. Not your problem," he mutters against your lips.
You smile as you kiss back. "I know, but I wanna help. That's what happens when you get attached to scruffy old doctors."
Dr. Grumpy: Alive. Stop calling.
Adrenaline Junkie: Had to make sure. It's been a month, can't blame your best friend from worrying.
Dr. Grumpy: Who said you're my best friend?
Adrenaline Junkie: Well it sure as hell isn't Dana.
Dr. Grumpy: Could be. Now leave me alone, I still got two months left.
"Michael, you can't wear a hoodie."
He laughs, mid-zip, as he leans against the doorway of your bedroom where you're sat by your vanity. "And why not? I thought museums didn't have a dress code."
You meet his gaze through the reflection of your mirror, your grin playful. "They don't but I do if you're gonna be my date, Robinavich. So lose the hoodie."
He steps further into your bedroom to stand behind where you're seated, a hand on your shoulder before he leans down. His lips catch your hairline; he knows better than to kiss you before your setting spray.
"Yes, ma'am."
He's grown used to the feeling of your hand around the crook of his elbow. From little walks after dinner around the neighborhood to perusing the grocery aisles for a recipe you've found on Tiktok. Whenever he's with you, you've got your hand on his arm like he'd disappear if you let go.
He likes it.
"You're not even looking at the paintings, Michael."
He barks out a laugh and tugs you in to kiss your hair again. You're right, of course. He's been stealing glances at you the entire time at the museum rather than the paintings you've been so excited to show him. "I've got my eye on something prettier."
"Not the smartest thing to say to an art history professor, Doctor Robinavitch," you say dryly before tugging him to stop in front of one of your favorites. When he gives the confirmation that he's listening, you happily begin to discuss the history and techniques applied.
He listens, dear god does he fucking try to listen, but you look so pretty that he can't help but let his mind wander. You look younger than you actually are but even so, the age gap between you two is enough to make even himself secondguess his choices.
But you're clever and charming, burrowing your way beneath the walls he's been building for decades now. Even now, sharing your expertise displays your intellect and maturity as well as the passion you hold a doctorate in.
"Alright, I'm calling it. Is it time for dinner?" You cut through his thoughts with a light tug to his sleeve. He glances down and nods.
"Sure, but I thought there was another exhibit you wanted to see?" His free hand comes up to cover yours, the one holding onto the crook of his elbow, to pat gently.
Your smile is sardonic but the light in your eyes cuts through any kind of genuine annoyance. "It can wait. My old man's attention is wandering."
His bright laugh would've shocked him if it hadn't been for the fact that you've been eliciting more of it lately. "Old man, huh? Alright, sweetheart, dinner it is."
There's something convenient in being neighbors with the woman that's been making a home in a heart that he didn't realize still beat. It makes the short walk in the mornings after spending the night a lot less shameful.
Could one be too old for the walk of shame?
Regardless, there's nothing shameful about being able to share a bed with you, to wake up to your feather-light kisses before you reluctantly get ready to head to campus for your early morning classes.
("Stay a few minutes longer…"
"Mikey, I have a 9:00 AM—!"
"It's the summer, sweetheart, let the kids have a break."
"Summer sessions for universities are a thing, Michael.")
It's become a routine now, either he wakes in your bed and he watches you get ready or you wake in his and you scrounge around something in his closet you could steal and style into an outfit that's passable for your usual style.
Today, he gets to wake up in his own bed to you stealing one of his old, faded band tees that you tuck into a spare pair of jeans you've left behind in one of his drawers. You spritz on a bit of perfume you've left in the nightstand on your side of the bed (he tries not to let himself dwell on it too much, you having a space in his drawers and having your own side of the bed) before you lower yourself to kiss his forehead.
"Running late, I'll be staying on campus for longer office hours to make it up to my students," you murmur against his temple. Before you can get too far, his arm reaches out to tug you in by your waist for a proper morning kiss.
"What if I bring you lunch?"
"Yeah?" The smile you give him is near blinding, something that steals his breath away.
He chuckles and nods, his thumb grazing along your jaw. "Yeah. How about sandwiches from Primanti's?"
"Mm, my favorite. That's perfect, Mikey," you sigh and steal one more kiss. "Alright, I'll see you later."
He watches your retreating figure with a dopey little smile and nearly groans when his phone buzzes on the nightstand, cutting through his blissful start of the day.
Adrenaline Junkie: How's Buffalo?
Dr. Grumpy: Wouldn't know.
Adrenaline Junkie: You didn't go?
Dr. Grumpy: Something else came up.
Adrenaline Junkie: ???
Read at 8:54 AM.
He exits out of the messaging app as his eyes snag on the date.
It's been nine weeks since he's met you, eight since he's realized he likes you more than being a friendly neighbor.
He sets the phone down and lays onto his back, zoning out. The gossip in the pitt is as virulent as any other disease — he isn't unaware of the rumors circulating him, his so-called seven week itch. How Dr. Robby can't seem to find a woman interesting any longer than seven weeks. It didn't really matter much to him, he's too old to pursue the nuclear family route, what's wrong with a little fun despite his age?
But time goes by quickly when he's with you and the idea of being bored with you is absurd. How can he be when he's constantly seeking you out, eager to see you?
University of Pittsburgh is a sprawling campus of old and new buildings, interlacing pathways that seek to lead to nowhere, but Robby is a man on a mission and he'd rather throw himself off the hospital roof if the sandwiches he bought for both of you get limp and soggy by the time he arrives at your office.
He finds the building soon enough, sunglasses low on his nose when he enters. He garners a few looks but they must've found nothing of importance because the students go back to what they're doing. The elevator brings him up to the third floor and a long hallway greets him.
Your office is situated near the far end on the left side and he knocks on the door before entering. "Hey, Peaches," he greets before he falters. While you're seated behind your desk, you have four students across from you with notebooks and questions scrawled all over it.
Unlike the students he initially passed by on the first floor, these students look up with shit-eating grins before they turn their attention back to you. One of them, a young woman with electric blue hair and copious facial piercings, speaks up first.
"Doctor Peaches?"
The other one, a stout young man with a patchy beard that didn't quite match his face that's yet to drop his baby fat, interjects, "I think it's a cute nickname."
"Look what you've done," you sigh dramatically as you shut your laptop to give your best students a withering glare. They giggle amongst themselves. "Michael, these are my most rambunctious students. Francine," the blue haired girl's grin widens, "Carmen, Richie," the two inconspicious ones in the middle give a wave in perfect unison, "and Neil," the one that defends you gives Robby his best smile. "My sweeties, this is Dr. Robinavitch."
He gives them all an awkward wave before he steps closer to set the takeout bag down. "If I knew you had company, I would've bought more."
"Don't feed them, then they'll never let you go," you snark but you ruffle Neil's head before you circle around your desk to greet him with a kiss. "Thanks for coming, Mikey."
He should've known being with you is too good to be true.
The night had been derailed the moment his traitorous brain had hooked him back to that fateful night, the crushing grief that resettled into his chest when he remembers Adamson's body hooked up to the ECMO machine after days. While he didn't spiral the way he did in Peds in front of Whitaker, his mind shuts down and cruelty becomes an instinctive defensive response.
You didn't see him during the days leading up to his sabbatical, never witnessed how easy it had been for him to tear down his most brightest residents all to put his rage somewhere.
But as he lets you into his home after dinner (at the restaurant you had been raving about), he begs desperately to try and change the subject, to return back to the normalcy you brought to his life. The door slams behind him and something creeps up, like a cold hand slowly wrapping digit by digit around his windpipe.
"Just talk to me, what happened in there?" You beg, your throat raw from the building argument in the drive back.
"Stop- just stop. This isn't something you can fix-"
"I'm not trying to fix you, Michael!"
"Jesus Christ, yes you are!" He laughs humorlessly, large hands rubbing at his lined face. "Do you know how fucking useless I feel when my own goddamned girlfriend thinks I'm something to be fixed?!"
"Listen to yourself, you're too busy thinking I'll bolt the moment you show a modicum of weakness. Do you think that low of me?"
"I don't know what to think of you anymore, sweetheart."
You rear back like you've been slapped. "What does that fucking mean?"
"It's…" He takes another sigh, heavy and exhausted like you're another burden to the load of issues he refuses to show you. "You're young, you don't know—"
"Don't you dare. Don't bring my age into this, Michael," you hiss. "Don't patronize me, I'm not a fucking child. I know when someone doesn't want help but I didn't think it was a crime to want to help you."
"It isn't your job."
"Loving you isn't a job, Michael."
The culmination of the fight didn't really explode in the way he had expected it to. There hadn't been any slammed doors, screaming matches that wakes the neighbors. It had been you, a silent retreat and a short but solemn walk home without a kiss goodbye.
Your anger would've been difficult to swallow but your disappointment feels like a leaden weight on his chest, pinning him to the middle of his living room floor to face the way you've crept into his life. Your scarf is strewn across the back of his couch. He can see a spare set of sneakers by the door, small and clearly yours. If he opens his fridge, your favorite snacks would be nestled beside his.
You've made a home in his heart and he had shut the door in your face.
However, his pride is a prickly thing, demanding that you break this cruel cold war rather than him reaching out first, except he seems to be the only one fighting. A day has passed and you haven't done anything he thinks he deserves. No demands of your items back or any returns of his possessions. No ultimatums or cruel break-up monologues. Just silence.
You still sit outside on your porch reading, never gone out of your way to avoid him. When he lets himself stare a few seconds more, he notices you have two mugs out — as if you're still expecting him to join you. His traitorous heart beats wildly, demands him to close the distance, but he turns back around and lets you read in peace.
A few more days pass and the realization comes in like a tide crashing onto a shoreline. You aren't icing him out, didn't shut him out the way he expects you to. The ball's in his court now, his move, but there isn't an overarching pressure to act quickly. You've always been gentle and patient, coaxing out love from him when he had held it so closely to his chest. You're the type to love in slow motion.
He chews over his probable opening sentences, turns over phrases and greetings in his head until the words no longer sound like english, when he receives a knock on his door. His heart leaps into his throat as he quickly rushes to open it.
—
Worry for Michael Robinavitch sits beneath Jack Abbot's skin like an extra layer. It keeps him warm at night, he thinks, when he's tossing and turning and his mind whips back to his troubled brother in arms and his stupid decisions. Knowing he didn't end up going on his hare-brained plan for a roadtrip (on that deathtrap, no less) did calm his nerves somewhat but the radio silence is still unsettling at best.
So he parks across the road of Robby's place, markedly notices the empty house beside his friend's seems to finally be occupied, and swiftly crosses the street. As he does so, a woman exits her vehicle and nearly drops the armful of groceries she's got blocking her view.
"Hey, careful now—" Jack instinctively steadies the paper bag in her arms before peeking around it to show his face. She's pretty, maybe a little down, but charming as she gives him a half grin. "You got it, stranger?"
"Absolutely. Thanks for the assist." She carefully jostles the groceries before lowering it just enough to angle it slightly towards Jack. "Wanna grab a peach for your chivalry?"
Jack catches the dry tone and plucks a peach from the top before depositing it in the front of his jacket pocket. "Thanks. You need help gettin' anywhere?"
"No, I'm just right here. But thanks!" She points to the house beside Robby's before she disappears behind her front door.
With a fond shake of his head, he turns back to head up Robby's steps to knock on his door. When the man in question opens it with the most hopeful light in his eyes only for it to deflate when he sees him, Jack chortles. "Well, don't look too excited now. Were you waiting for doordash or something?"
Robby scowls and steps away, opens the door wide enough for his friend before he retreats back inside. "What do you want? Is this a welfare check?"
"Do you need a welfare check?" Jack raises a brow, shutting the door behind him. He follows Robby further into the kitchen and pointedly ignores the traces of a woman that's infiltrated his best friend's space.
"I'm alive, aren't I?" He shoots back sardonically, large hands bracing onto the marble countertop of his kitchen island. Jack settles across from him, arms crossed with a weighted look that it even has Robby giving in with a sigh. "I'm fine. Would you believe if I told you it's relationship troubles?"
Now that takes Jack aback; that might've been the last thing he would've expected leave Robby's mouth. "Is this about Noelle?"
"No," Robby shakes his head with a quiet laugh. "Definitely not. It's my neighbor."
"The one next door?"
"That's the one."
When Robby doesn't elaborate, Jack chuckles. Recalls your easy smile and your cute outfit. He still has the peach in his hoodie pocket. "She's pretty."
"She is."
"… she's young."
"She's not that young," Robby blusters, tossing over a beer can. "She's an art history professor."
"Young and educated."
"Get out of my house, Abbot."
An amused laugh follows, shaking his head. "Not until you dish out every dirty detail, brother. Come on, is this all her stuff?"
Robby circles the island to return back to the living room, pops the tab on his beer, with a shake of his head. Jack follows and settles onto the couch beside him, legs propped up onto the coffee table. Beside his feet sits a copy of your favorite novel, tattered and well-worn and wholly loved with the broken spine. Under it is a ring-stain from where you've left your iced coffee a little too long on his overpriced table.
"Yeah," Robby mutters as he leans his head backwards where he gets a whiff of your perfume. His head rolls to the side to see your scarf draped along the back. "Yeah, it's hers."
"Did you two have a fight?"
The question is well-meaning, he knows this. He knows Jack cares, that every question and query comes from a place of concern. And yet—
"We did not have a fight," he blurts out anyways, his walls rebuilding themselves in seconds before he remembers he's with a friend. Jack waits, frustratingly patient. "… okay, we had a fight. It was a pathetic excuse of a fight because she didn't even yell, she just… she took it."
Robby leans forward, sets the beer down beside the stupid ringstain and rests his elbows onto his knees. Jack still doesn't say a word and the silence would've been frustrating if it hadn't been for the fact that he now realizes that it isn't because his feelings are a burden but rather the space to work through his own thoughts.
"Looking back on it, what she was asking wasn't difficult. It shouldn't have been difficult," he mutters as he scrubs a palm across his face. "She just wanted me to talk. Except I clammed up and I did that thing where I yelled—"
"You yelled at her?" Jack interrupts with a slightly scandalized expression. But perhaps he shouldn't be as shocked; Robby's yelled at the kindest souls just for being collateral in his warpath and the sweet professor next door isn't any different. Except—
"I yelled at her and I shut down when she didn't yell back."
Except Robby doesn't feel guilt when he's so far up in his rage and heartache, he feels defensive and those walls are drawn up just as fast as anyone could blink. But this time, he didn't build those walls, just lets himself feel the hurt and the pain that he's caused you, lets Jack see how it's killing him from the inside.
"So what are you gonna do now?"
Robby peeks up at his friend who still lacks any judgment although wholly deserved for being a companion to someone like him. "I don't know."
"I'll tell you what you're going to do, now that you seem to be… receptive to advice that'll actually help you in the long run," Jack grins and the eagerness in his eyes sets something off inside Robby.
"Hold on. How long have you been waiting for this moment?"
"For awhile now. Now listen up, Robinavitch— I need you to take your head out of your ass and go apologize to that woman. Two, make sure you grovel like a motherfucker. She seems like a nice girl and she must've done something right if you're letting her leave her shit around like she owns the place," Jack says, his voice dry and leaves no room for any kind of nonsense.
"Alright, alright," Robby manages to cut in with a quiet laugh. "Thanks for the advice, Dr. Phil."
"Thank me if you'll actually use it, Robby."
Robby might've overdone it with the flowers. Although he couldn't be fully blamed by it, the florist had seemed overeager to put together an 'I'm sorry' bouquet. Maybe cruelly giddy given the sharp smiles that's been sent his way as he hovers by the counter to pay because rather than an assortment of flowers, he's given a dense and large bouquet of 150 deep, red roses that ultimately costed him half a grand.
But there's no time to regret it now as he rings your doorbell, feeling like a complete asshole with his extravagant 'I'm sorry' bouquet.
The door swings open and a startled noise escapes you when the first thing you see is red. "Michael?"
It's only been a few days since the fight but hearing you call his name — especially when he realizes you're the only one that calls him Michael — feels like coming home.
"Hi, Peaches," he greets, a tentative smile on his lips. "These are for you."
You take the bouquet with a smile you don't bother hiding. The sight of it brings a sense of ease for him; at least you like the flowers. "Thank you. Do you want to come in?"
At least you aren't slamming the door in his face.
He follows you inside and shuts the door behind him. Muscle memory has him stepping over the pair of rain boots you leave by the door, recalling the time he had nearly faceplanted because of them. As he looks around, something warm nestles in his chest at the sight of his own items strewn about, very much like yours in his home—
"Is that mine?"
A pretty blush dusts across your cheeks when he points out his navy blue hoodie draped along the armchair of the couch. "Yeah. I wear it when I read," you admit and the intimacy of it nearly floors him. He's grown accustomed to your little habits and routines, knows that after eight pm, you like to settle down with a novel with minimal conversation. The first time around, he had offered to leave but you gave him a pout so deep that he hauled you into his embrace where you could read to him instead.
Knowing that you attempted to continue with his hoodie as a placeholder has him striding towards you with hurried, determined steps.
"Michael—?"
He drops to his knees before you, wrapping his arms around your waist. "I'm sorry," he blurts out, desperation bleeding into his gravelly tone as he clutches at the hem of your shirt. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I don't want you to feel like you can't talk to me, I'm so fucking sorry, sweetheart."
"Michael, please—"
He chokes on the shallowed breaths he fights for, desperate and shameless as he clings to you. Pride be damned, he presses his face against you, nuzzling you as if you're his lifeline.
"Please, baby, I can't— I can't lose you. You're so fucking good and I know you deserve better, you do, but I need you. Christ, I need you, I didn't realize it 'til you left and it all felt so goddamn empty— I think I've known it for awhile now but I didn't see what I needed fixing until you gave me those fucking peaches…" he lets out a shaking sob, squeezing you tighter. "Give me another chance, sweetheart, please, I'll do better, I promise. I can be better. For us—"
Your hands drop down to his shoulders, sliding up to cradle the back of his head when he hides his face into your stomach. "Baby, breathe for me," you whisper, taken aback by the raw vulnerability that he's letting you see. It's rare for him to be so open, so exposed. And you know that this is a genuine moment he's giving you, a piece of him he's kept to himself.
The term of endearment nearly sets him off and you can tell the sharp prickling sensation at the back of his eyes are prompting him to hide. Despite your gentle hands trying to guide his gaze upwards, it's there taunting him to retreat and give up and keep himself from the scorn he fears from you. Instead he takes a deep breath and wills his heartrate to slow down. His hand encircles your wrist gently, counting your pulse points to match the beat.
"No, I need to say this," he lifts his head from the warmth of your stomach to meet your eyes. His beard rasps against your skin and his eyelids flutter close when your thumb sweeps across the space beneath his lash line. "Before you, I was a goddamn mess."
You try to interject but he shakes his head. "No, listen. I was a fuckin' wreck and there isn't any changing that. It's— I'm glad you didn't meet me then, sweetheart, you would've never knocked on my door for help. I didn't deserve you then, and I sure as shit don't deserve you now. But I swear to fuckin' God, I'm gonna spend the rest of my fuckin' life trying to earn you back. because you're you and you make me… Look, the bad shit doesn't disappear, it's never gonna disappear, but it doesn't feel as heavy as it was. And that's," he swallows, staring up at you as if you hung the moon. "That's because of you."
Your hand travels up his cheekbone, cradling the side of his head before you're bending over to lay a kiss on his forehead. "It's because you're finally letting me in, Michael, you don't have to carry it all on your own."
For a moment, he stares up at you in bewilderment. He shakes his head and averts his eyes, pressing his forehead against your naval. "You're letting me off too easy, sweetheart." His voice is gruff, broken in his disbelief that you'd forgive him so easily. You aren't sure of what he's looking for, what more he could want. So you break the thick clouds that's hanging over the both of you with a gentle smile.
"Oh no, you're not out of the woods yet, Robinavitch," you chuckle lowly, a gentle hand tipping his chin back up. "I just don't want you to think that you're unforgivable. Because you aren't, not when you feel guilt far more than you could ever admit out loud."
"I do, it's— some days it feels like I'm drowning," he admits and with his face still angled up towards yours, his eyes close not to avoid your reaction but to rest. To set down the walls he's been trying desperately to rebuild the moment he had lost his temper a few days ago because he doesn't need them anymore.
You gently scratch at his beard, centering him into the moment. "I've been throwing you a lifeline, Michael, I'm just happy you're taking it. Just… don't let me go."
"Never," he vows. A newfound sense of determination fortifies his spine as he gazes up at you. He's still on his knees but in supplication rather than desperation.
"I'm yours, sweetheart. For as long as you'll have me."
The roar of a familiar Bonneville steals the attention of Ahmad and a couple of nurses near the ambulance bay. Larry and Antoine let out an impressed whistle before they're being called back in by Lena to finish up handoffs but Dana raises a brow, puts her cigarette out, and watches Robby climb off his motorcycle—
With a helmet on.
"You're about a month and a half late from your sabbatical, Robinavitch. Didja get lost on your way back from Alberta?" Dana quips and the bright smile she receives in greeting nearly floors her. She hasn't seen that smile since Adamson.
"Never went." Robby throws over his shoulder before he shoulders his way into the locker room. When the door swings shut behind him, Dana's left staring in utter befuddlement.
The rest of the shift brings its usual chaos and little by little, the staff that had initially tiptied around Robby are now staring in blatant bewilderment. Robby's levelheaded, efficient and not as likely to snap at a resident that has a misstep. When he pulls Dr. Al-Hashimi into a spare exam room, Princess hovers to try and catch traces of their conversation.
"… behavior was unprofessional. I did not handle it well and I deeply apologize for my conduct."
"Clearly," Baran replies coolly and a quiet, self-deprecating chuckle follows from Robby. But the other attending places a warm hand on his shoulder. "But it looks like the sabbatical did you good."
"It did. I truly am sorry," he adds with a touch of sincerity that shines through.
Dr. Al-Hashimi gives him a soft smile. "You've been less… volatile. I see that. Maybe keep those temper tantrums for the higher-ups, yes?"
A surprised laugh escapes Robby. "You got it."
The door slides open and Princess quickly makes herself busy, giving both doctors a smile before relaying what she heard to Perlah in rapid-fire Tagalog. The two attendings share a knowing look before separating off to continue checking in on their residents.
In North Five, a young woman sits, relaying her pain around her head after a minor collision of her e-bike against her dorm building.
"I just lost control," she explains to Santos who's carefully examining the laceration on her chin. Her bright blue hair is tied back. "The brakes didn't work and I think there was a rock I didn't see— oh! Dr. Robby? This is your hospital?"
Santos looks over her shoulder to see her attending by the door, his large hands rubbing in the sanitizer. He frowns slightly before realization kicks in. "You two know each other?" Santos asks.
He snaps his fingers as he recalls the student that had been the first to tease you about the nickname he'd given you. "Natalie— right?" At her nod, he offers her a little grin of his own. "We met a few weeks ago, she's an art major. Did you tell your professor you're not coming to class, kid?"
"I did, I shot her an email when I was in the waiting room," Natalie confirms. Such dad behavior, she thinks to herself.
Santos' head moves back and forth in absolute confusion but decides it isn't her place to figure out the connection between the two; she'll just ask Princess or Perlah later.
"Good," Robby nods and starts to retreat, gives a nod of acknowledgment towards his resident. "Dr. Santos will take good care of you. I'll be at Central if you need anything."
The cacophany of the emergency room floods in when Robby opens the door to leave. When the door shuts and envelops them in silence, Santos turns to Natalie. "How do you know him?"
"He's dating my professor."
"I'm sorry, what—?"
News travel fast in the pitt and soon, Ahmad's got a new betting pool drawn up before noon:
Doctor
Doctor (at PTMC)
Nurse
Nurse (at PTMC)
Teacher
Lawyer
In between patients, Santos makes her way over to the security station and hands over a twenty while ensuring her poker face is on. "Put me down for art history professor."
Ahmad gives her a suspicious look. "You know something."
"I have a hunch."
The security guard takes the twenty without breaking contact, scrawls her name down on a bright post-it before slapping it onto the board.
By late afternoon, a woman walks through the ambulance bay. Gravity seems to shift, the space of the emergency department rearranging to center her. Heads turn as she walks by, gazes linger.
"How can I help you, hon?" Dana asks, peering above her glasses while balancing a clipboard against her hip. "Do you have family in here?"
You shake your head and when you smile, it's infectious. Jesus, Dana thinks, you're like sunshine incarnate. "No, I'm here for Michael— sorry, Dr. Robinavitch?"
Surprise paints itself onto the charge nurse's features, brows flying up as a wicked grin curls onto her lips. "Oh, yeah? He's with a patient right now, but I'm sure he'll be right out. You wanna wait in the break room?"
You shake your head with a sheepish laugh. "I'm on a lunch break but I have his wallet, could you give it to him when you get the chance—?"
"Sweetheart, what're you doin' here? Is everything alright?"
Robby's imposing figure cuts through the staff of the emergency department, instinct having everyone part like the red sea as he makes his way towards you. The intense weight of concern and worry in his gaze nearly floors you so you're quick to reassure him with a smile, a hand on his chest. "I'm fine, you worrywart. You left your wallet on my dresser," you chuckle as you retrieve his tri-fold from your purse.
In the background, the entire department almost goes still — or rather, as still as the pitt could be — as they watch the entire scene unfold. Even Joy's mouth is agape, staring at the grumpy old attending nearly buckle under your sweet attention.
"Thanks, Peaches," he chuckles and pockets the wallet before his hand finds your waist. It sates the need to be closer to you but he has enough sense to keep himself from kissing you in front of his colleagues and subordinates. "I'll see you at home?"
"Mhm, I'll see you tonight, Michael. Don't forget your helmet, alright?"
"You got it," he promises, then gives in to drop a fleeting kiss to your hair. When you exit, Ahmad snaps to attention and rushes out with the most important question of the day.
"What's your occupation?"
You pause and look over your shoulder, an incredulous chuckle spilling from your lips. "Art history professor. Why?"
He only groans in response, waving away your questions as he trudges back inside. Before you walk off, you hear a woman cheer in utter triumph.
"Oh, fuck yeah—!"
"Language, Santos."
thank you for reading! likes / reblogs / comments / asks are highly welcomed and heavily appreciated! ♡
author's note: This is my first ever smau, so please bear with me, this is just for fun. I might go back and edit it later if I want to make some little changes. I hope you enjoy it, though. Dana and Jack are Robby's number one supporters here, also Santos mentioned cause she's my fave pittling, and Mohabbot! :) x
taglist, please comment if you'd like to be added: @purplekitty2019 @popecodysgirl @itsme-jessss @startaegi @metal-armed-muse @bloodink94
Summary: Eight months in, June and Dennis have finally found something soft, steady, and almost easy. But when June starts feeling off during a shift, one quiet answer changes the shape of everything she thought she was ready for.
Warnings: anxiety/spiraling, fear of ruining a relationship, brief emotional distress/crying, hospital/workplace stress, mentions of medical procedures/surgery, lots of softness and Dennis Whitaker being painfully sweet. Long Af
June Bug Masterlist (1-14)
Main Masterlist <--- check out my other stories
Eight whole months. That is how long Dennis and you have been dating. Eight whole months. But you couldn’t say they were uneventful. There have certainly been ups and downs. Mostly on your end and giving Dennis a heart attack every single time.
But being through what you’ve been through, it’s really easy to feel like you’re undeserving of love. Dennis however, has proven that love isn’t conditional. He’s been slowly picking up each piece of your broken heart that you thought was unmendable.
He loves you in a way that never feels like a bargain. He loves you even when you're sharp from exhaustion, when you're buried in work, and panicking in silence. You don't have to shrink down to be kept with Dennis.
He makes you breakfast, remembers your coffee, holds you through the ugly feelings, and looks at you like every complicated piece of you is still worth choosing. For the first time, love doesn’t feel like something that can be taken away when you become inconvenient. It feels steady. Patient. Safe. Unconditional.
Which is why him practically living in your apartment doesn’t terrify you. He doesn’t officially live with you. His name is still on the lease with Trinity. Half his clothes still live in his bedroom at their place, his mail still goes there, and his toothbrush is still tucked in the cup beside Trinity’s like evidence of an actual roommate situation.
But unofficially, his favorite hoodie is draped over the chair in the corner of your bedroom. His boots are by your front door for when he goes and helps Amy. Who is slowly becoming a regular person in your life, rather than some competition for Dennis’ love.
His razor is in your shower. There’s extra clothes tucked away in your closet. His scrubs folded neatly in the laundry basket with yours. Avocados in your fridge, even though you do not like them. But he does, plus it keeps him from eating all of Trinity’s. His book on the nightstand. He sleeps next to the window because he knows you like the wall.
e bed. And somehow, somewhere between eight months of sleepovers and shared groceries and him learning which blanket you like when you come home from a bad shift, Dennis Whitaker has become part of your apartment in the same quiet, steady way he became part of your life.
You should be terrified by that. Eight months ago you would’ve been.
Sometimes you are.
Mostly, though, you are happy.
Happy in a way that still feels new enough that makes you suspicious if you think about it too long. Happy in a way that sneaks up on you during ordinary moments.
Dennis barefoot in your kitchen.
Dennis brushing his teeth beside you before work.
Dennis asleep with one arm thrown over your waist, breathing warm against the back of your neck.
Dennis treating your family like it was his own. Penny and Tanner are attached to him the minute he walks through the door. Frank pretending he doesn’t like him that much. Abby politely conversing with him about his hometown.
You are happy.
Safe and happy.
Today when you wake up, the first thing you notice is the lack of Dennis next to you. You hear him in the kitchen making breakfast like this is part of the normal routine now.
The second thing you notice is the feeling like your stomach is trying to crawl out of your body. At first, you blame the smell. Which is unfair because Dennis is making eggs, and Dennis makes good eggs. Soft scrambled, because he once watched you overcook them while post-call and has never emotionally recovered.
But today, the second the scent reaches your bedroom, your stomach rolls.
Hard.
You press a hand over your mouth and sit up too fast. The room tilts. “Oh, absolutely not,” you mutter. From the kitchen, Dennis calls, “You awake?”
You close your eyes and breathe through your nose.
Bad choice.
Eggs.
You gag. “June?” Dennis calls again, closer this time. “I’m fine!” you yell, which is both unconvincing and deeply suspicious. You scramble out of bed and make it to the bathroom just in time to kneel in front of the toilet.
Nothing comes up. Which is the most awful feeling. You are crouching in front of the toilet, one hand on the edge of the skin. The other pressed to your abdomen like that will somehow calm down your GI system. News flash, it does not.
Dennis knocks lightly on the half opened bathroom door. “Can I come in?” “No,” you said immediately, voice hoarse. He pauses, one hand on the door. “Okay,” A beat. “Are you throwing up?” “No.”
A short terrible silence follows. Then you add, ‘Not successfully.” You can see his shadow shift underneath the door. “Do you want water?” You rest your forehead against your arm. “Yes, please.”
He leaves, and you use the precious seconds alone to splash cold water on your face and try to pull yourself together.
You look terrible. Not objectively. Probably not. But your face feels wrong. Too pale under the bathroom light, eyes too tired, mouth too dry.
Your scrub pants are folded on the bathroom counter because you had planned to be efficient last night.
Cute.
Optimistic.
Stupid.
You reach for them, and that is when your fingers brush against the box tucked behind the hand towels.
Pregnancy tests.
Your entire body goes still. You forgot they were there.
No, that is not true. You did not forget. You shoved them there three days ago after Dana stared at you over the charge desk while you turned away from someone’s microwaved salmon and said, flatly, “Little Langdon, when was your last period?” You told her to stop practicing witchcraft.
Dana told you to pee on a stick before she made you pee on one between consults. You bought the tests on the way home and immediately decided that you weren’t mentally ready to see what the test actually said. Now the test sit behind the hand towels in the bathroom closet, mocking you.
Your stomach flips again, but this time out of fear and anticipation. Not from the eggs cooking in the other room. Dennis knocks once and pushes the door open slightly, just enough to pass in a glass of water without looking in.
Because that is the thing about Dennis. He listens. He respects closed doors and boundaries. He is the type of man to make things worse by being too good. “Thank you,” you say quietly, taking the glass.
“You sure you’re okay?” You stare at the test box. “Yeah,” you lie. “Just give me a minute.” “Okay.” His voice softens. “Breakfast is almost done.” Your stomach lurches. “Great,” you say weakly. His footsteps retreat.
You stand there for another thirty seconds. Then another, then you finally grab the box. You tell yourself it is only to prove Dana wrong.
That is all. A practical step. A clinical ruling out. A basic diagnostic measure.
You are a doctor. You like data. Data is neutral. Data is calm. Data does not rearrange your entire life before seven in the morning while your boyfriend makes eggs in your kitchen.
You take the test because you are brave.
No.
You take the test because you are terrified and need not know to stop.
The three-minute wait feels violent.
You sit on the edge of the bathtub in your scrub pants and bra, one sock on, one sock off, with the test face-down on the counter because you cannot look at it yet. You can hear Dennis humming faintly in the kitchen.
The coffee maker beeps. A cabinet closes. But you barely hear them, as you focus on the test in front of you. A thousand thoughts run through your mind as you silently panic.
Your phone buzzes on the sink.
Yoyo, My Lover: Tell me why Park texted me to be quiet today.
Yoyo, My Lover: I haven’t even drank my coffee yet.
You do not answer.
Your timer goes off. You stare at the phone in your hands, then at the test. Your hand reaches for it before the rest of you is ready. You turn it over. And low and behold, two pink lines stare back at you.
For a second, you do not understand what you are seeing.
Which is ridiculous.
You are a physician.
You have seen pregnancy tests before. You know how they work. One line negative. Two lines are positive. False positives are rare. You know the next steps. Repeat test. Confirm with serum or urine hCG. Estimate gestational age from LMP. Prenatal vitamins. OB appointment. Avoid alcohol. Watch meds and blood pressure. Adjust caffeine. Think about everything.
Everything.
Everything.
Your vision narrows around the two pink lines.
Pregnant.
You are pregnant.
Your breath comes in shallow. You stare until the lines blur. Then, suddenly, all the options hit at once. You could tell Dennis right now. He is in your kitchen making breakfast. He is probably cutting fruit because he is annoying like that. He would turn around when you walked in. He would know immediately something was wrong because Dennis notices when your left eyebrow moves half a millimeter.
You could show him the test. You could say the words. I’m pregnant.
Your chest tightens so sharply you almost gasp. Because you can see him. Not leaving. Never leaving. That is not what scares you. Dennis Whitaker would not leave you. Not like that. Not for this.
He is too loyal. Too steady. Too good in the way that scares you because it does not come with obvious escape routes. Dennis would stay even if he did not want to. He would sit beside you at every appointment. He would hold your hand. He would buy the prenatal vitamins and read every pamphlet and ask Dana too many questions and probably start tracking your protein intake like a man possessed.
He would stay. Even if this was not what he wanted. Even if he looked at you one day and realized his life had narrowed around something he did not choose. Even if he never said it. Even if the resentment came quiet. He would stay and you would ruin his life plans and goals but one stupid test.
Your hand shakes around the test. You love him.
God, you love him.
You are happy with him. Normal with him. For the first time in your adult life, your relationship is not something you are surviving, managing, or bracing against. Dennis is not a storm. He is not a test. He is not another person asking you to be less so he can feel like more. He is just present, always showing you how much he loves you.
He is breakfast before work. He is warm hands at your waist. He is your favorite coffee appearing beside your elbow on bad days. He is asleep in your bed with one arm thrown over his face and his mouth slightly open while you pretend not to think he looks adorable.
He is yours.
But now there are two pink lines on your bathroom counter that may potentially ruin everything. But instead of being unhappy, you’re not. Which is surprising, scared yes, but not unhappy. You do not feel unhappy. That may be the worst part.
Under the fear, under the panic, under the spiral of every catastrophic possibility your brain can produce before seven in the morning, there is something else. Something tiny. Something bright. Something that looks suspiciously like joy.
You press a hand over your mouth.
Dennis calls from the kitchen, “You almost ready?” Your heart jumps so hard it hurts. You look at the test. Then the door. Then the test. You do the only reasonable thing. You tuck the pregnancy test into your scrub pocket like it is contraband and pull your top on over your head. “I’m coming!” you yell, voice too high.
You brush your teeth twice because your mouth tastes like panic and mint and secrets.
When you finally step into the kitchen, Dennis is standing at the stove in his navy scrubs, hair still damp from the shower, one hip against the counter. There are eggs on two plates, toast, fruit, and your coffee in your travel cup.
He turns when he sees you. His face softens. Then immediately sharpens.
“You okay?” “Yep.” Dennis stares at you. You grab your coffee. “June.” “What?” “You look pale.” “I’m always pale. I’m Irish through Dad’s genetics.”
He does not smile.
Annoying.
You lift the coffee to your mouth and take one sip. Your stomach revolts instantly. You lower the cup down.
Dennis sees that too. “You sure you should work?” “I am not calling out because I dry heaved once.” “You said you didn’t throw up.”
“I said not successfully.” “That is worse.” You grab your bag from the chair. “We’re going to be late and then Park will kill me.”
He looks like he wants to say more. He does not. Instead, he turns off the stove, packs the toast into a paper towel, and hands it to you.
“Take this.” You stare at it. Your stomach turns again. “Thank you.” “Eat it when you can.” You nod.
You do not eat it.
The drive to work is quiet. Not silent. Dennis asks about your OR schedule. You answer. You ask about his patients from yesterday. He tells you. The radio plays low. The morning traffic is normal.
Everything is normal. Except there is a positive pregnancy test in your scrub pocket. You can feel the plastic edge against your thigh like a brand.
Dennis drives because he always does in the morning even when you pick him up from your own apartment, which makes no sense and makes perfect sense at the same time. His hand rests on the gear shift. Your hand stays in your lap.
He notices that too. You know he does. But he still does not push.
By the time you walk into the ED, you have convinced yourself you are fine. You are a highly trained orthopedic surgeon. You can compartmentalize. People do it all the time. There are worse things going on in this hospital than the positive pregnancy test in your pocket.
Frank is at the physician station when you arrive, looking down at a chart while Mel talks beside him. He spots you immediately.
Then Dennis.
Then your face.
His brows pull together. “What’s wrong with you?” You blink. “Good morning to you too.” Frank points his pen at you. “You look weird.” “I’m choosing to believe that’s a compliment.” “It wasn’t.” Dennis shifts beside you.
You feel his worry like heat. “I’m fine,” you say. Frank’s gaze narrows in the exact same way it has since childhood when he caught you lying about stealing his Halloween candy.
“You’re doing the face.” “What face?” “The lying face.” “I have never lied in my life.”
Frank barks a laugh. Mel looks between you and Dennis. “Should I leave?” “No,” Frank says.
You reach across the desk and steal his coffee. “Hey.” You take one sip and immediately regret every life choice that led you here. The coffee tastes wrong. Not bad, just wrong.
Too bitter. Too warm. Too much.
Your stomach rolls. You set it down fast. Frank notices. Dennis notices. Dana, twenty feet away at the charge desk, notices without even looking up because she is a witch.
You swallow hard. “That’s disgusting.” Frank looks offended. “That is my coffee.” “My condolences.” “You drink iced sugar milk. Your opinion means nothing.”
Dennis touches your elbow lightly. “Water?” You step away too quickly. “I have to go review cases with Park.” Dennis’s hand drops.
You see it. You hate yourself a little. “I’ll see you later,” you say, softer. His face smooths into something calm for you. “Okay.” But his eyes are worried.
Frank waits until you walk past before he turns to Dennis. You do not hear what he says. You do not want to.
Upstairs, Park is already in front of the board, arms crossed, radiating disapproval at the entire orthopedic census. “You’re late,” he says. “I am thirty seconds early.” “You’re late objectively.” You stop beside him. “What does that mean?”
He looks at you. His eyes narrow.
No.
Absolutely not. You are not going to be mentally evaluated by Park this early in the morning.
You turn to the board. “Cases.” Park does not move. “Langdon.” “Cases,” you repeat.
Yolanda appears at your other side with an iced coffee in hand, cheerful and loud and exactly the wrong person to be around when you are keeping a life-altering secret.
“Good morning, bone gremlins.” Park says, “You’re loud.” “Thank you.” She turns to you. “You didn’t answer my text.” “My phone was in my bag.” “It was about Park calling me loud before arrival. Historic event.” Congratulations.” Yolanda’s smile dims slightly.
She studies you. “Oh no.” You do not look at her. “Don’t.” “I didn’t say anything.” “You were thinking loudly.” “You taught me.” Park looks between you both. “Why is everyone being annoying before seven?” “Because you inspire us,” Yolanda says.
The morning board is not terrible, which feels like the universe is mocking you.
A tibial plateau fracture from a scooter accident. A distal radius that failed closed reduction overnight and needs operative fixation. One hip hemiarthroplasty. Two post-op checks. A possible septic knee consult waiting for aspiration depending on labs.
Normal things. Bones. Blood. Metal. Plans. You latch onto them like a lifeline.
Park makes you present each case, and you do it well enough that no one would know your entire internal world has split into before and after. But Park knows something is wrong. Of course he does.
He watches you the way he watches fracture reductions: silent, suspicious, looking for the hidden displacement. During the first case, the distal radius, you are fine. Mostly.
You scrub. You breathe through the smell of chlorhexidine because apparently your body has decided even familiar hospital smells are now personal attacks. You focus on the incision, the exposure, protecting tendons and neurovascular structures, reducing the fracture, plate positioning under fluoroscopy, screw length, restoring volar tilt and radial height.
Park corrects you twice. Normal. Yolanda hums under her breath until he threatens to remove her vocal cords. Also normal. But when the scrub tech opens a packet of something with a sharp plastic-chemical smell, your stomach flips so violently you have to turn your head.
Park sees it. “Orca.” “I’m fine.” “Stop saying that.” “Stop making it sound untrue.”
Yolanda’s eyes flick to you over her mask.
You focus harder.
By ten, Dennis has texted you twice.
Dennis💕 : Are you doing okay?
You stare at it in the OR lounge between cases.
You type: yes
Delete it.
Type: long morning
Send.
A second later:
Dennis 💕: Did I do something?
Your heart drops. You close your eyes. Oh, Dennis.
Sweet, anxious, ridiculous Dennis, who has been loved badly enough to assume distance is something he caused.
You type back immediately.
You: no
You: promise
You: you didn’t do anything
The dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Dennis 💕: Okay. I love you.
Your eyes sting.
You look away from the phone because Yolanda is watching. “Are you crying over a text?” she asks. “No.” “Is it a Dennis text?” “No.” “So yes.”
You shove the phone into your pocket. The pregnancy test hits your fingers. You freeze.
Yolanda notices that too.
You pull your hand away too fast and stand. “Coffee?” She blinks. “That was a transition.” “I need coffee.” “You look like coffee might kill you.” “Then avenge me.” She follows you anyway.
The walk to the coffee cart is usually sacred.
It is your ritual. Yours and Yolanda’s. A small pocket of gossip and caffeine and orthopedic complaining between ORs. You usually spend it mocking Park, discussing hospital drama, or arguing about whether Dennis looks more like a golden retriever or a man who would apologize to a chair after bumping into it.
Today, you walk quietly.
Yolanda lets it last exactly one minute. “Okay,” she says. “Who died?” “No one.” “Who annoyed you?” “Everyone.” “That’s baseline.” You keep walking.
She steps in front of you near the elevators, forcing you to stop. “June.” You sigh. “Yolanda.” “You’re quiet.”
“I can be quiet.” “You once talked for fifteen minutes about why orthopedic screws should not be allowed to strip at three in the morning.”
“They shouldn’t.” “You called one a little bitch.” “It was.” She studies you, face gentler now. “Is it Dennis?” “No,” you say immediately.
Too immediate. Her eyebrows lift.
“No,” you repeat, softer. “Dennis is good. He’s…he’s Dennis.” “Okay.” You cross your arms, then uncross them because the test in your pocket presses against your hip. “I’m just having a day.”
“Do you want me to ask again later?” “No.” “Will I ask again later?”
“Yes.” “Good. We understand each other.”
By noon, Trinity knows something is wrong. Of course she does, because the ED is a gossip ecosystem with vital signs. You come downstairs for a consult on a shoulder dislocation that reduced itself during x-ray, and Trinity appears beside you at the workstation.
“Are you mad at Dennis?” You look up. “Hello to you too.” “I don’t do small talk when Huckleberry is spiraling.” Your stomach sinks. “He’s spiraling?”
“He asked me if he’s been too clingy.” You close your eyes. “Oh no.” “Then he asked if you secretly hate that he’s basically moved into your apartment.”
“Oh, Dennis.” “Then he reorganized the supply drawer.” You blink. “In the ED?” “Yes.” “That’s not his job.” “He was stress organizing.” You glance across the department.
Dennis is with Robby near Trauma Two, listening, but his eyes flick to you before you can look away. You give him a small smile. He smiles back.
It does not reach his eyes. Your chest aches. Trinity watches the entire exchange. “So,” she says slowly. “Not mad at him.” “No.” “Good, because he is one minor inconvenience away from asking if he should move his toothbrush back to our apartment.”
Something about that makes your throat close. “No,” you say, too sharp. “No. He shouldn’t.” Trinity’s expression softens. She leans a hip against the desk.
“June.” “I’m fine.” “God, you and Dennis both do that. It’s like watching two raccoons pretend not to be in a trash can.”
You almost laugh.
Almost.
Trinity lowers her voice. “Whatever it is, you should tell him before he convinces himself he broke something.” You look down at the chart. “I know.”
You do know.
That is the problem.
Frank notices during rounds. You are checking on the infected hip hemi when he steps into the room behind you, pretending to look for a patient sticker.
You glance over. “Can I help you?” “No.” “Then leave.” “No.” The patient, an eighty-three-year-old woman named Marlene who already told Park he has “angry eyebrows,” looks between you and Frank with open delight.
“Sibling fight?” she asks. Frank points at you. “She started it in 1999.” “I was a baby.” “You were a menace.” Marlene smiles. “My sister once hit me with a canned ham.”
You pause. “I’m sorry, a what?” Frank looks at you. “Don’t get ideas.” You finish checking Marlene’s dressing, distal pulses, motor and sensation, then step into the hall.
Frank follows. You stop. “What?” He looks at you, not teasing now.
“What’s going on?” “Nothing.” “June.” “Frank.”
He exhales through his nose. “You’ve been quiet all day.” “Maybe I’ve matured.” “You told Park his personality needed a revision arthroplasty yesterday.”
“He did.” “You didn’t steal my coffee this morning after one sip.”
“It was disgusting.” “My coffee is always disgusting. That has never stopped you.”
You look away. Frank’s face changes. “Are you sick?” “No.” “Are you sure?” You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Frank steps closer. “Bug.”
Your eyes burn.
Not here.
Not with Frank, because Frank will know too much too fast. Frank will go full older brother, and then Abby will know, and then your dad will somehow know despite living nowhere near the hospital, and then Penny will draw a picture of you with a baby in your stomach before Dennis even gets a chance to process being a father.
“I’m just tired,” you say.
Frank does not believe you. But unlike Dennis, Frank pushes.
“That’s not what I asked.” You look at him sharply. “I said I’m fine.” He leans back like you slapped him. Immediately, guilt twists through your stomach.
“Frank,” you say softer. He studies your face, then nods once. “Okay.”
That is worse.
You almost tell him. The words climb up your throat.
I’m pregnant.
But you swallow them down. Not yet.
You need one thing today that still belongs only to you. Even if that one thing is terrifying.
At 1430, Dana catches you near the med room after you nearly gag when someone opens a container of leftover garlic pasta at the nurses’ station.
She does not say anything at first. Dana never wastes words when a look can do the work. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and avoid her eyes. “Don’t.”
Dana crosses her arms. You look at the ceiling. “Please do not look at me like that.” “Did you take one?” Your throat tightens.
The hallway is too loud.
Too bright.
Too full.
You glance around.
Dana’s face changes immediately. “Come here.” She pulls you into the small staff room near the charge desk and shuts the door.
For a second, neither of you speaks. Then Dana says, much gentler than usual, “Positive?”
Your eyes fill so fast you barely have time to look away. “Yeah.” Dana exhales softly. “Oh, honey.”
That does it. A tear slips down your cheek. You wipe it away angrily. “I’m not sad.”
“I know.” “I’m not.” “I believe you.” “I just…” You press both hands to your face. “I don’t know what I am.”
Dana waits.
You drop your hands.
“I love him,” you whisper. Her eyes soften. “I know.” “And things are good. They’re so good, Dana. Like disgustingly healthy. He practically lives with me now. He makes breakfast and he remembers how I like my coffee and he folds towels wrong but in a way that’s somehow charming. He looks at me like I’m not hard to love.”
Dana’s expression gentles further.
You shake your head. “I don’t want to mess it up.”
“A baby doesn’t mess up love,” Dana says quietly. “It changes the shape of things. That’s different.” Your lips tremble. “He’d stay.” “Dennis?” You laugh once, wet and shaky. “Obviously. He’s too loyal not to. He’d stay even if he was terrified. Even if he didn’t want this. Even if he resented me later.”
Dana’s face turns firm. “Now you’re borrowing trouble.” “I’m being realistic.”
“No, you’re being scared.” You look away. Dana steps closer. “June, that boy looks at you like you hung the moon.”
Despite yourself, you smile.
Dana smiles faintly. “Is he going to be scared? Probably. He’s a first-year resident dating an orthopedic surgical resident who can emotionally eviscerate people before lunch. He’s not stupid.” “Rude.”
“But Dennis loves you,” she says. “And he deserves to know before your fear turns this into something it doesn’t have to be.” You press a hand over your scrub pocket. The test is still there.
Dana sees.
Her voice softens again.
“You don’t have to tell the whole department. You don’t have to decide everything today. But don’t carry it alone just because you know how.” Your eyes burn.
“I wanted to be happy first,” you whisper. Dana tilts her head. “I saw the test and I was happy,” you admit. “For like one second. And then I ruined it by thinking.” “That sounds like you.”
You laugh again, quieter this time. Dana squeezes your shoulder. “Take the happiness seriously too,” she says.
The rest of the shift becomes impossible. Not because the work is hard. The work is fine.
Rounds. Post-op checks. A septic knee that turns out to be gout. One consult for a metacarpal fracture that absolutely could have not involve you but did because the ED believes ortho exists in a closet and can be summoned by vibes, even for fractures they know we won’t fix.
Dennis passes you twice.
The first time, near CT, he opens his mouth like he wants to ask if you are okay. You get paged before he can. The second time, at the physician station, he hands you a cup of ice water without a word.
You take it. Your fingers brush. The contact almost breaks you. He looks exhausted by worry. You hate that you are doing this to him. But you still cannot say it.
Not there. Not in the ED. Not with Dana and Frank and Trinity and Yolanda all watching like emotionally invested hawks. Not with Park walking around the department as if he can smell secrets.
Which, apparently, he can.
You are reviewing post-reduction films on a teenager with a distal radius fracture when Park appears behind you. He says nothing for long enough that you finally snap, “Can you stop lurking?” “No.”
You sigh and zoom in on the image. “Alignment looks acceptable.” “Your read is acceptable. Your personality is not.” “Wow, fun twist.”
Park crosses his arms. You wait. He waits.
You turn slowly. “What?” “Where has my resident gone?” Your stomach drops.
“I am literally standing here.” “No.” His eyes move over your face. “The loud one. The annoying one. The one who tells me when my plans are old man medicine.”
You try to smile. It fails.
Park’s gaze sharpens. “Ah.” You look away. “Don’t.” He lowers his voice, which from Park is the equivalent of a blanket.
“On-call room. Now.” “I’m not having a breakdown.” “I didn’t ask.”
“You are so bossy.” “I’m your attending.” “Barely.” “Room.”
You go, because arguing with Park when he has decided to care about you is pointless and irritatingly comforting. The on-call room is empty. Park shuts the door behind you and leans against it like a man guarding an exit, which is ironic considering he is the one who made you come in here.
You sit on the edge of the bed. Then stand. Then sit again.
Park watches. “You’re making me dizzy,” he says. “You’re making me homicidal.” “There she is.” You glare. He folds his arms. “What happened?”
You swallow.
For some reason, saying it to Park feels both impossible and easy.
Maybe because Park is not soft in a way that demands softness back. Maybe because he loves you like a grumpy sea creature with a favorite fish. Maybe because he has never once asked you to perform your feelings in a way that makes them prettier.
You reach into your scrub pocket.
The test is wrapped in a paper towel now because you are not completely feral.
You hold it out. Park looks at it. Then at you. Then back at it. His eyebrows lift slightly.
“Oh.” You bark out a laugh. “Everyone keeps saying that.”
He takes the paper towel-wrapped test with the clinical detachment of a man who has held stranger things in hospitals and unwraps it enough to see the lines.
Then he wraps it back up and hands it to you. “Well,” he says.
“Well?” “You’re pregnant.”
“I am aware.” “Good. We’ve established diagnosis.” You stare at him. “Park.”
He looks at you. For once, he does not look annoyed.
Not really. Just steady.
Your face crumples before you can stop it.
“I’m scared.” Park nods once.
Not surprised.
Not dismissive.
Just accepting the information.
“That’s reasonable.” You press the heel of your hand to one eye. “That’s it?” “What do you want me to say?” “I don’t know. Something wise.” “I’m an orthopedic surgeon.” “Fair.”
He sighs and sits in the chair across from you, which is how you know this is serious because Park does not sit unless he is charting, eating, or emotionally preparing to be inconvenienced.
“You want it?” You look up quickly.
There is no judgment in his voice. None. Just the question.
Your hand moves to your abdomen before you realize it. “I think so,” you whisper.
Park watches the movement.Your eyes fill.
“I mean, yes. I think yes. I just…” You breathe shakily. “I don’t know what Dennis wants.” “Ask him.” You laugh wetly. “Wow, revolutionary.” “You’re spiraling around a conversation you haven’t had.” “I’m trying to prepare.” “No. You’re trying to control the damage before knowing if there is any.”
You look down.
Park leans forward, elbows on his knees. It is so unlike him that you look up again.
“Whitaker loves you,” he says. Your throat tightens. “He’s scared of disappointing you on a normal Tuesday,” Park continues. “You think he doesn’t already know you’ve been off all day? You think he isn’t down there rearranging his entire life because you wouldn’t drink coffee?”
Your lips part.
“He asked Trinity if he should move his toothbrush.” Park’s face goes flat. “Idiot.” You laugh. Then cry a little.
Park lets you. Which, from him, is practically a lullaby.
After a moment, he says, “Tell the ER resident before it eats them both alive.” You wipe your face. “Them?” “You and him.”
“Oh.” “He thinks he did something wrong. You think he’ll stay for the wrong reasons. Both of you are exhausting.” You sniffle.
Park stands.
“And for the record,” he says, hand on the doorknob, “I do not think Whitaker has enough imagination to fake wanting a life with you.” You blink.
“That was almost sweet and rude at the same time.”
“Tell anyone and I’ll deny it.” “You secretly love me.” “I tolerate you because Garcia would be difficult if you died.” “That’s love.” “That’s paperwork avoidance.”
He opens the door. Then pauses.
“Also,” he says without looking back, “start prenatal vitamins if you haven’t. Confirm with OB. Watch your caffeine. And stop smelling surgical prep like it’s a personal challenge.” “You are such a dad.” Park points at you. “Do not.”
You salute weakly.
At the end of the shift, you are so tired your bones feel full of sand. Dennis waits by the lockers. He is trying to look normal, but he is failing horribly.
His hair is a mess from running his hands through it. His scrub top is wrinkled. His eyes follow you the second you appear.
“Hey,” he says. “Hey.”
A pause.
A bad one. He swallows. “Do you want me to come over tonight?” Your heart squeezes. “Yes,” you say too quickly. “Yes. I just…I have to run some errands first.”
His face flickers. “Errands?”
“Yeah.” “Okay.”
You can see him trying not to ask. Trying not to cling. Trying to be good for you even though you have spent all day making him wonder where the floor went. You step closer and take his hand. His fingers close around yours immediately.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you say. Dennis looks at you. “I promise.” He nods, but his eyes are still uncertain. “I’ll come over after?” he asks. “Give me like an hour.” “Okay.”
You kiss him quickly, because if you kiss him longer, you will tell him beside the lockers with Trinity pretending not to listen from three feet away.
Actually, Trinity is not pretending. She is staring.
“Goodnight, Trin,” you say. She narrows her eyes. “I don’t know what’s happening, but I don’t like it.”
Dennis closes his eyes. “Trinity.” “What? It’s weird. You’re both being weird. The vibes are rancid.” You point at her. “Stop reading vibes.” “No.”
You leave before she can ask anything else. Your errands take forty-seven minutes.
Not that you count.
You go to Target. Because apparently that is where life-changing emotional preparation happens. You stand in the baby aisle for ten full minutes staring at onesies so small they make your lungs stop working.
They are ridiculous.
Tiny.
Unreasonable.
You touch one with little yellow ducks on it and almost cry in public. “Nope,” you whisper to yourself. “We are not doing this under fluorescent lighting.” You buy the duck onesie anyway. And a pair of impossibly small white baby socks. And a little woven basket from the home section because you need something to put it all in, because handing Dennis a used pregnancy test wrapped in a paper towel feels psychologically aggressive.
You also buy two more pregnancy tests because one test feels too fragile to build a life on, even though you know how tests work.
At home, you take both.
Positive.
Positive.
You sit on the bathroom floor for a long time staring at all three tests lined up on the counter. There is no arguing with three. You shower. Brush your teeth. Put on leggings and Dennis’s sweatshirt because you need armor and apparently your armor is cotton drenched in Husker red.
Then you sit on your bed with the basket in front of you. The duck onesie folded carefully. The baby socks tucked beside it. The three positive tests lined along the bottom like evidence in a trial.
You almost take one out. Then put it back. Then almost hide the whole basket in the closet. Then your phone buzzes.
Dennis 💕: Heading up. Is that okay?
You stare at the message.Your hand moves to your stomach again.
Still flat, still yours, but yet not only yours.
You breathe in and then out.
You: yeah
You: door’s unlocked
The next three minutes are the longest of your life. You hear his key anyway, because Dennis hates unlocked doors even when you tell him you are literally home.
The front door opens. “June?” His voice is cautious. You close your eyes. “In the bedroom.” His footsteps pause and then slowly move closer, like he’s afraid he will step on a bomb.
You can picture him walking through your apartment. Taking in the lights. The dishes in the sink from breakfast. Your work bag was abandoned by the chair. His sweatshirt is missing from the couch because you are wearing it.
He appears in the doorway. He stops.
His eyes go to you first, like they always do. Then they slowly drift to the basket and back to you.
“Hey,” he says slowly. “Hey.” He steps into the room, still careful, like you are something easily startled. “What’s going on?”
You look at the basket. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out
Dennis’s eyes drop again. He moves closer.
Close enough to see, the duck onesie.The socks. The tests.
You watch his face change. Confusion first, that turns to recognition of what's in the basket, to finally shock.
His entire body stills. His mouth parts slightly.
He looks at the basket like he is trying to make sense of it and already has and cannot quite trust the answer. Then he looks at you.
“June,” he whispers. The sound breaks you.
“I’m sorry,” you say immediately. His eyes widened.
“I’m sorry. I know this is a lot. I know we didn’t plan this. I know eight months isn’t that long, and you’re still in residency, and I’m still in fellowship, and we’re both always working, and you don’t even technically live here but you kind of do, and I don’t want you to feel trapped or like you have to be okay with it because you love me, and I know you’d stay even if you didn’t want to because you’re you and you’re good and loyal and—”
Dennis crosses the room in three strides. He drops to his knees in front of you. You stop talking. His hands come up to your face. “Breathe,” he says. You inhale shakily. “Again.” You do.
His thumbs brush your cheeks. You did not realize you were crying until he wipes the tears away. “I’m pregnant,” you whisper. Dennis’s eyes fill. You can see it.
The exact second the words hit him. Not the basket. Not the tests. The words.
I’m pregnant.
His breath catches. You start crying harder.
“I didn’t tell you this morning because I panicked,” you say. “I found out before work, and you were making breakfast, and I just looked at it and I couldn’t make my brain stop being awful. And then you asked if I was ready, and I just shoved it in my pocket because I had to work, which is objectively insane, and Dana knew, of course Dana knew, and Park knew because apparently he knows when I’m off, and I wanted to tell you, I did, but I was scared.”
Dennis’s expression crumples with tenderness.
“June.” “I don’t think you’d leave,” you say quickly. “That’s not what this is. I know you wouldn’t leave. That’s the problem. You’d stay even if you didn’t want this.” Something flashes across his face.
Hurt. Not at you. For you. For the fact that your fear knows exactly how to make love look dangerous. He lowers his hands from your face and wraps his arms around you. Not carefully this time. Completely.
He scoops you off the edge of the bed and into him, crushing you against his chest as he kneels there on your bedroom floor. You make a broken sound and cling to him. Dennis holds you like he has been waiting all day to finally be allowed.
“I’m here,” he whispers into your hair. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” “I’m sorry.” “Stop apologizing.” “I’m trying.” “I know.” His voice is thick. “But you don’t have to apologize for this.”
You pull back enough to see him. His eyes are wet. He’s crying. Your heart twists. “Are you upset?” you ask. Dennis lets out a breath that is almost a laugh, almost a sob.
“I’m overwhelmed,” he says honestly. “I’m scared. I’m definitely going to have several medically embarrassing questions for Dana, even though I’m a doctor.” A laugh breaks out of you.
He smiles through the shine in his eyes. “But upset?” He shakes his head. “No.” You search his face like you are looking for the catch.
Dennis sees that too. He always does. “If this is what you want,” he says carefully, “then I’m excited.” Your breath catches. “And if you needed something different, I would be here for that too. But if you’re asking me if I want this with you…” His hand moves down, hesitant, stopping just shy of your abdomen until you nod.
You nod. His palm settles gently against your stomach.
There is nothing to feel. Not yet. But both of you look down anyway.
Dennis’s face does something you will remember for the rest of your life.
Soft awe.
Terrified joy.
Wonder so naked it makes your chest ache.
“I want this with you,” he whispers. Your face crumples again. He looks up quickly. “I do,” he says. “June, I do. I love you.”
“I love you too.” “I love you,” he repeats, like he needs the words to build a floor under you. “And I’m not staying because I’m loyal. I mean, I am loyal. Obviously. But that’s not why.”
You sniffle. “Then why?” He looks at you like the answer is obvious. “Because it’s you.”
The sob that comes out of you is embarrassing. Dennis pulls you back in. You cry into his shoulder, and he holds you through it, one hand in your hair, the other still spread over your lower back.
Eventually, you both end up on the bed.
Shoes off.
Basket between you.
The duck onesie unfolded across Dennis’s lap. He holds it with both hands like it is something sacred and mildly dangerous.
“This is so small,” he says. “I know.” “Babies are small.” “That is generally how they start.” He looks genuinely alarmed. “How small?”
You laugh, wiping your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You work in an ED.” “Not the same.” “You’ve seen babies.” “Other people’s babies.”
You look at him. His eyes lift to yours. The room goes quiet.
Other people’s babies.
This one is not that.
This one is yours.
His.
Both.
Dennis swallows. “We’re having a baby,” he says, like he is testing the words. Your stomach flips. This time, not from nausea.
“I think so.” “You think so?” “I took three tests.” His eyes flick to the basket. “That seems statistically persuasive.”
You smile weakly.
“We’ll confirm,” you say. “I’ll make an OB appointment. Figure out timing. My last period was…” You trail off, doing the math in your head, then immediately regret doing math. “Oh God.” Dennis’s face changes. “What?”
“I might be like six weeks. Maybe seven? I don’t know. My cycles are weird sometimes with stress.” “Okay.”
“Okay?” “Yeah.” He nods, looking terrified but determined. “We’ll find out.”
We.
You press your lips together.
Dennis catches it. “What?” “You said we.” His expression softens. “Yeah.” You look down at the onesie in his lap. “I’m scared,” you admit. “Me too.” “You are?”
“June, I am an R1 who still asks Robby if I’m doing life correctly at least twice a shift. Yes, I’m scared.” A laugh bursts out of you. Dennis smiles. “But I’m also…” He looks down at the little socks in the basket and touches one with the tip of his finger. “I’m happy.”
You stare at him. “Really?” He nods, slow and certain. “Really.”
You fold into his side. He wraps an arm around you and kisses the top of your head.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
The apartment is quiet around you. The same apartment it was this morning. Same bed. Same dresser. Same laundry basket in the corner with Dennis’s scrubs mixed in with yours.
But everything feels different now.
Bigger.
Tender in a way that aches.
Eventually Dennis says, “Do we tell people?” “Not yet,” you say quickly. “Okay.” “I mean, soon. Eventually. I just…” You lift your head. “I want it to be ours for a little bit.”
Dennis’s hand moves slowly along your arm. “Then it’s ours.” “Frank is going to lose his mind.” “Yes.” “Abby will cry.” “Probably.”
“Dana already knows.” Dennis blinks. “Dana knows?” “She guessed.” “Of course she did.” “Park knows too.” Dennis sits up slightly. “Park knows before me?” You wince. “Technically, yes.”
Dennis stares at you. “I was having a small spiral.” “A spiral?”
“He cornered me in an on-call room.” Dennis exhales. “That sounds right.” “He told me to tell the ER resident before it ate us both alive.”
Dennis looks down, smiling faintly. “What?” “He called me the ER resident?” “Yes.” “That’s basically affection from him.” “He also said you don’t have enough imagination to fake wanting a life with me.”
Dennis is quiet for a second.
Then he says, “He’s not wrong.” You lean your head against his shoulder. “No,” you whisper. “I don’t either.”
Dennis turns his face and kisses your forehead, then your temple, a then your cheek. Soft, slow, reverent kisses that make your eyes close.
“I’m sorry I scared you today,” you say. “You were scared too.” “I still should’ve texted more than ‘long morning.’” He laughs lightly. “It was a very you spiraling response.” “You thought you did something wrong.” “Briefly.” “Dennis.”
“Moderately.” “Dennis.” He sighs. “Yes.” You sit up enough to face him. “You didn’t.” “I know that now.” “I love you,” you say. “I was scared because I love you. Because this matters. Because you matter.”
His eyes soften. “I know.” “And because I’m insane.” “That too.” You gasp. “Wow.” He smiles. “Sorry. Emotionally honest moment.”
“I am vulnerable and pregnant. Be nicer.” The second the word leaves your mouth, both of you freeze. You said it like it is real. Dennis’s smile changes. You look at each other. Then you laugh.
Both of you.
Soft at first, then harder, until you are leaning into him and he is pressing his face into your hair, laughing like the fear has finally cracked open enough to let the joy breathe.
When the laughter settles, Dennis shifts down the bed and lies on his side facing you. You mirror him. The basket sits between your knees. He reaches over it and takes your hand.
“We should probably talk about practical things,” he says.
“We should.” “Money.” “Schedules.” “Childcare.” “My lease.” “Trinity.” He winces. “Trinity.” “She’s going to scream.” “She might make me move out on principle.” “She loves you too much.” “She loves having her own bathroom too.”
You smile.
Dennis’s thumb moves over your knuckles. “We don’t have to figure it all out tonight,” he says. You let out a slow breath. That is hard for you. Not figuring it all out. Not making a plan immediately.
Not building a spreadsheet in your head with due dates, appointments, rotations, call schedules, leave time, and which family member will be least likely to post an announcement on Facebook without permission.
Dennis sees the war on your face. “June.” “I’m trying not to make a list.”
“I know.” “I love lists.” “I know.” “They’re soothing.” “We can make one tomorrow.” You brighten. He laughs. “One.” “Three.” “One.” “Two and a half.” “How do you make half a list?” “Subcategories.” He looks at you with such affection that your chest hurts. “God, I love you.” You smile, smaller this time. “I love you too.”
He reaches across the basket and rests his hand lightly on your stomach again. “Hi,” he says quietly. Your breath catches. You stare at him. Dennis goes pink. “I know it’s early,” he says quickly. “I know there’s not really— I mean, there is, obviously, but not like— medically, I know—”
You place your hand over his. He stops. Your eyes fill again, but this time the tears are different. “Hi,” you whisper too. Dennis looks at you like you have given him the whole world and asked him to keep it safe.
He will. You know he will. Not because he is loyal enough to stay where he is unwanted. But because he wants this. Because he wants you. Because the life you were so afraid of messing up has already started changing shape around the two of you, and somehow, impossibly, it still feels like yours.
Later, you fall asleep curled against him, the basket on the nightstand, the duck onesie folded beside three positive tests. Dennis stays awake a little longer. His hand moves once, barely there, over your stomach.
Careful.
Wondering.
Terrified.
Happy.
When he whispers, “I’ve got you both,” he probably thinks you are asleep.
You do not tell him otherwise. You only move closer. And for the first time all day, the two pink lines do not feel like the end of normal. They feel like the beginning of something else.
Something terrifying.
Something tender.
Something loved.
It can’t be a June and Dennis story without something coming along to make June question everything… except her love for Dennis. Thank you all so much for waiting so long for this update. I’m sorry it took a minute, but I hope this one was worth the wait. June and Dennis are having a baby!!!
Sorry if this is too long! Trying to get all my thoughts out so the story feels like it has a proper ending. I always knew that I wasn't going to let June and Dennis have a normal conventional relationship. That would be boring and not allow their characters to grow together.
One more part to go! Can you believe it?
