one of my first fics, Glowing and Growing, was a request where reader is pregnant with her and Jamie's first child and insecure about her pregnancy weight gain/body. someone mentioned back then that there should be another part where she goes into labor. so…here’s that I guess, kind of lol. really no mention of body issues, just a sweet piece about a growing family. :')
***also!! I've never gone through labor myself, but I do know for a first time mom, it definitely doesn't usually go this quick! this fast as fuck early labor to birth pipeline is just for dramatic effect lol.
Warnings: pregnancy obviously, description of labor and delivery, a few swears.
-
Walking the red carpet for an award show at 9 months pregnant sounded a lot easier from the comfort of your own couch when the invitation came in. Jamie was nominated for best villain after being in Stranger Things, and you insisted that you both attend in person. Not only could it possibly be your last event as just a couple, rather than parents, you were also just so proud of him. You wanted to see him win that award in real time with him.
You both stood in front of the step-and-repeat, bulbs flashing in your face, people calling your names. Jamie had his arm around you, draped around your waist. Your right hand rested gently on your belly.
“You doing alright, love?” Jamie asked, looking to you.
You nodded. “So far so good…I really need to pee though.” You both laughed.
Carrying on down the carpet, you happily stood next to Jamie as he did quick interviews for various outlets. They asked about if he think he’ll win, what he has coming up for roles, his music. And of course, mention was made of you and the baby, asking how excited you both were.
The ceremony went on smoothly. Billie Eilish performed, which you were looking forward to. About halfway through the show, you started to feel slightly uncomfortable. Nothing hurt, but you just kept needing to shift in your seat, stretching your back a little. Jamie was quick to pick up on your discomfort, leaning over to you while the host started speaking on stage again.
“Everything okay, love?” He spoke quietly in your ear.
“Yeah, yeah…I think I’m fine. My back just hurts a little is all.” You stretched your stomach forward, arching your back and placing your hands behind you in an attempt to relieve some pressure.
“Do you want to leave? Should we head home?” He asked, placing a hand on your knee.
You shook your head no quickly, putting your hand on his. “No, no I promise I’m fine! This night is all about you, baby.” You smiled.
He smiled back. “Okay…just, if you want to go back home at any point, please tell me. We can leave if you need to.”
You nodded before you both turned your heads back to the stage up front. Towards the end of the ceremony, Jamie’s category came up. They ran through the nominees and their respective roles, pulling a camera up on him as they said his name.
“And the winner is…” the presenter unfolded the envelope in his hands. “Jamie Campbell Bower!”
The crowd erupted in applause. You turned to Jamie, your jaw agape, your hormones making the happy tears come much easier than they maybe would have before. You both stood up, and he immediately wrapped his arms around you in a tight hug. Your hand rested on the back of his head as you whispered repeatedly that you loved him and were so proud of him. With a quick kiss, he turned to head down to the stage.
“Uh, wow. Okay. You know…this award isn’t just for me. I really think this was a colossal effort between the whole cast and crew- Matt and Ross Duffer, Barry Gower, Duncan Jarman, the special effects team, and the whole cast. I mean, they really created Vecna. I just showed up.” Laughs peppered the crowd. “But really, thank you so, so much to all the fans who watched the show and welcomed me to this community. I am so grateful for each and every one of you. I can’t be up here or do what I do without you and your support, so thank you. All of you. Thank you.” He held up his arm in a wave as the crowd cheered as he left the stage with the presenters.
After some time, Jamie made his way back to his seat next to you. You hugged and kissed again before he sat down, gushing about how proud you were of him.
When the night finally came to a close, he helped you out of your chair, and you walked arm and arm toward the exit. He held the door for you as you got into your hired car to take you home. Throughout the ride, you found yourself growing more uncomfortable, now a pressure enveloping your lower abdomen. Each bump during the ride caused an involuntary wince from you.
“Is your back still hurting, love?” Jamie asked, caressing your thigh.
“It’s getting worse, I think. It feels like there's just pressure wrapping around from my back to my stomach.” You adjusted yourself in your seat.
“Oh, darling…do you think we should maybe call the doctor?” He asked, putting his hand on your belly, rubbing it softly.
“No, no. I wouldn’t want to bother him if it’s nothing. I think when we get home, I want to just get in the bath for a bit and then go to bed.”
After arriving home, Jamie helped you out of your shoes and gown, going to draw a bath for you as you took your makeup off in your bedroom. You waddled into the bathroom as Jamie turned off the water and dunked a hand in to test the temperature. You removed your bra and panties, Jamie helping you step into the tub before you sank down into the water.
“This is already helping, thank you baby.” You smiled; your eyes closed as the rested against the porcelain.
Jamie sat with you as you relaxed in the bath. He held your hand, lovingly caressing it with his thumb. You didn’t necessarily want the bath to clean yourself, as you had showered before the awards. It was just the only think you could think of that may help your discomfort. You stayed in the bath for maybe 45 minutes until the water started to get too cold. Jamie helped you up and out of the tub, wrapping your robe around you for you to head into the bedroom to get in some comfy pajamas. You both got into bed, with it now being well past midnight. You were exhausted, and while you still weren’t feeling 100%, you were able to fall asleep relatively quickly.
-
A sharp, tight pain that engulfed your lower abdomen pulled you out of your slumber. You curled up on your side as your body tensed, breathing deeply, trying to focus on anything but the pain. After a moment, it began to subside. You quickly sat up and turned over to Jamie, still asleep, shaking his shoulder to wake him up.
“Jamie…Jamie, baby, wake up.”
He slowly opened his eyes, confusion briefly taking over his sleep filled eyes before seeing your face.
“Jamie…I...think I’m in labor.” You couldn’t help but let a small laugh out involuntarily, in shock the time had finally come.
“W-what? You…Okay, okay…shit. Okay.” He shot up, now fully alert, looking all around trying to make sense of this to himself.
“Honey.” You placed a hand on his chest. “We have time. He’s not coming right this second. But I just had a full-on contraction. I think we need to get ready. Is the bag packed?” You asked glancing over to a small diaper bag on the corner chair.
-
“Hmmm....mmmph….hmmm…” You hummed softly to yourself in monotone, rocking back and forth on your yoga ball, with your legs wide and head down and eyes closed; your hands planted firmly on your knees, pushing your shoulders up to your ears.
Jamie kneeled behind you, his hands lightly on your hips helping you rock, quietly shh-ing as you focused on getting through this one. His heart ached; he hated seeing you in pain. He knew this would all end with your son coming into the world, but he just wished he could take the pain from you. It had now been a couple hours of worsening on and off contractions, waiting until they were close enough to head to the hospital.
“You’re doing great, my love. You should be almost out of this one.” He glanced at his phone, checking the contraction timing app he had downloaded.
You exhaled harshly through a rounded mouth as you finally felt the relief of the contraction ending. You fell back slightly into Jamie’s body, rolling your head back on his shoulder.
“How many minutes apart are we at?” You asked, getting your breathing back to normal.
“Six minutes now.” Jamie kissed your temple. “You’re doing so well baby, you’re amazing.”
“Oooh, I hate this.” You chuckle, bringing your hand up to hang around his bicep. “This boy is already grounded forever for putting me through this.”
Jamie laughed with you. “Well, we’ll see how you feel when you’re holding him soon.” He kissed your cheek.
You went to stand up, just wanting to stretch your legs and walk for a minute. As you took a step toward the kitchen, a splashing sound came from the wooden floor under you. Looking down, a small pool of fluid gathered at your feet, running down your legs. Your biker shorts were soaked. You knew your water had just broke. Stunned, you whipped around to Jamie, equally as stunned, staring down at the puddle.
“Oh fuck.” You gasped, looking back down.
“Was that…” Jamie started to say.
“Yep, yes it was.” You replied, knowing he was about to ask if that was your water breaking too.
“Shit, okay. Okay. Uh…” He stood up, frazzled once again. “I uh…keys…fuck, fuck-” He looked around frantically, a hand running through his hair in an attempt to self-soothe.
“Babe. Babe. Look at me.” You approached him, taking his face in your hands. “I need you to be cool, okay? I need you here for me. I can’t do this without you. You’ve been so good so far. Take a breath with me.” You and him both inhaled deeply before exhaling together. “We got this.” You smiled as he nodded.
“Why don’t I go put the baby bag in the car, and text your mum to see if she can come meet us at the hospital. I’ll take care of the clean up, too.” He gestured his head toward your puddle on the floor.
“Thank you, baby. I’m just going to throw on some new pants.” You chuckled, carefully waddling towards the bedroom.
Once you had changed into some dry sweatpants, you headed back out to the living room. Walking down the hall, the most intense contraction yet came on strong and suddenly. You exclaimed in pain as you stopped and fell into the wall, your legs giving out in shock. Jamie came running when he heard you cry out. Sliding his arm around you, he led you over to the yoga ball again, helping you lower yourself, as you leaned back into him. You squeezed both his hands that rested on your thighs. His chin was perched on your shoulder, as he cooed and breathed with you through your contraction.
“Mmmph...hmmmph...Jamie, it... mmmph, it huuuurts...” You whimpered, tears stinging your eyes. You moaned in pain, squeezing his hands tighter, squirming and rocking your hips in a futile attempt to just feel some sort of relief.
“I know, my love, I know. You’re okay, breathe, darling.” He whispered, his gut wrenching at the sight of you in so much pain.
Once the contraction began to taper off, you breathed heavily against Jamie as he gently peppered kissed on your neck, whispering encouraging words.
“Hospital." You panted
Jamie helped you stand up and assisted you out the door with his arm around you. In the car on the way to the hospital, contractions were coming rapidly. You asked to roll the window down out of fear that you may be sick from the pain. Jamie tried his best to speed without causing an accident, luckily it was still in the wee hours and there wasn't much company on the road. His free hand never released yours, not even noticing how brutal your grip was on his with each new wave.
-
The nurses got you into a gown and into a bed, hooking you up to the necessary machines and an IV. Jamie came rushing in from parking the car, panting, with a bead of sweat on his forehead from running as fast as he could to be there for you. The doctor came in to check you, surprised to see that you were already dilated ten centimeters and 100% effaced. The good news, baby would be here soon! The bad news…there likely wasn’t enough time for an epidural to take effect before he came. Your birth plan had started with the idea to do it without medication, but with the option that if the pain got to be too much, you wouldn’t deny yourself the relief, that's what it was there for after all. But now you had no choice.
“Nonononono, I-I-I don’t think I can do this. Jamie- ah!“ You began to say, being cut through by another contraction. You thrashed to one side, facing Jamie, sounds you didn’t even think you were capable of making escaping your mouth as it sank into the pillow.
Jamie stroked your dampened hair, caressing the back of your tense hand with his thumb as you fought through it. “You can do this, love. I’m here with you, shhh.”
After a few more brutal contractions, you began to feel the overwhelming urge to push. You alerted your nurses and doctors of this feeling, and the doctor came to check you.
“Okay, my dear, I think it’s show time. Let’s have ourselves a baby!” Your doctor smiled up at you and Jamie.
You were so exhausted and weak, you heard the words but they didn’t register with you. All you could think about was the burning pressure in your pelvis, and doing whatever they told you to bring it to an end. As the nurses swelled around the room, the doctor instructed you to push downward, hard, from your core as soon as you felt the next contraction come. You nodded, taking deep breaths. Jamie placed an anxious kiss to the top of your head.
You felt the tightening, all consuming ache coming on, whimpering as you dreaded the next part. The doctor instructed you to push with encouragement. You took a deep breath in, squeezing your eyes tight and gritting your teeth as you pushed down with all your might as the doctor counted down from 10. The burning and pressure were brutal, you grunted and yelled as you pushed. You sat forward slightly, bearing down into the bed. Jamie held your hand and cradled his other arm around your upper back, helping you sit forward. As the doctor reached the number one, you released the breath you were holding with force, falling back against the upright hospital bed, gasping and whimpering.
“Another push, sweetheart. Stay in it. Push push push push.” The doctor called out.
You took a few preparation breaths before repeating the same action. Jamie was so attentive. He was in absolute awe of you, of your strength.
“You’re doing so good, darling. I love you so much. I’m so proud of you.” He kissed your clammy temple.
After a few more contractions worth of pushing, the doctor said he thought this next one would be the last, you were so close. You lay against the pillow, whimpering, sweaty, exhausted. You looked to Jamie, he was near tears himself, absolutely terrified but so in love with you. He held up a cup of water with a straw for you to take a sip from.
“One more, darling. One more push and he’s here.” He smiled, pulling the straw away, placing the cup on the table next to him. “You can do this.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, as another one came on. Everyone around you chanted for you to push and cheered you on. Jamie squeezed your hand back as you gripped his. In a wave of energy, you let out a wail as you pushed your hardest. Suddenly, the burning stopped, and time stood still for just a moment. It felt like everything went silent until you heard the beautiful, angelic cry of your son. The world slowly filled in around you as the doctor lifted your baby up, placing him on your bare chest. Your arms instinctively flew up to cradle him against you, as you started crying into his soft, damp skin.
“Oh my god, oh my god…” You repeated, not believing you had just done that. "H-hi little one. Hello baby." You cried softly.
Jamie immediately bent over you, taking his now bigger family in his arms. He kissed you repeatedly, you feeling the tears falling off his face. The three of you cried together.
“I love you so much, darling. I love you.” Jamie said, muffled against your neck.
-
After the doctor walked Jamie through cutting the umbilical cord, the nurses whisked your son off to get cleaned up and his vitals taken. Jamie stood over watching them, enamored with his child. You looked over, your heart so full.
Once everyone was all cleaned up and you were now recovering, you found yourself desperately in need to sleep. You made Jamie promise to wake you up in an hour, but he was going to let you get as much rest as you could after that. When you finally woke a few hours later, it was dark, and the room was empty aside from you, Jamie, and the baby. You opened your eyes to see Jamie sitting in the chair across from you, staring lovingly at your child swaddled in his arms. He heard you stir as you sat up and looked over to you.
“Hey.” He whispered with a smile.
“Hi.” You whispered back, beaming at the sight of Jamie holding your son.
“I’m a dad.” He chuckled, shaking his head slightly in disbelief.
You snorted. “You are. And I have a feeling you’re going to be an amazing one.” You smiled.
SYNOPSIS. days stretched like a lifetime in henry’s world. as a result, you have almost forgotten how affections were meant to be felt and given. on the other hand, henry has completely lost its very meaning. it may just be the perfect time to start learning. (3.3k words.)
WARNINGS. unproofread. no beta readers.
CATEGORY. angst. angst. angst. fluff. romance.
REQUESTED BY. anonymous. you can find the specifications of their request here.
THERE YOU WERE.
Stuck in the same old routine. The same monotonous house with piercing pastels and a neverending sunshine that poured through the glass windows.
The silverware in your hands scratched against the ceramic plate, emitting an annoying screech that made you quirk your head slightly to the side. Although, one could argue that the eerie silence in the room was louder and constant that it made its impact on you at a more significant rate.
Breakfast with Henry didn’t feel like this before.
Before felt like forever. You remember the smile on your face, the look in your eyes, and the warmth of his gaze as he watched you explore the options on the table. You swore you could have seen the light shining down on him, making his presence feel like the most divine thing you could have ever felt.
But the saturation of every pastel in the four walls slightly dimmed. The sunshine still shone, but now you couldn’t even look at him.
Perhaps it was anger? It couldn’t be.
You chose to stay, and you knew your decision was clear. You felt happy here.
Felt.
It was funny.
Now you couldn’t even feel a thing. Just that something was missing.
You knew it was wrong. You didn’t want to be ungrateful, but there’s something about a house that’s warm. A house that actually housed a family, not just standing on a plot of land.
Henry noticed your absence on the table. It alarmed him.
He bid his time. Processing. Concluding. Deciding.
Speaking.
“Would you like something different for breakfast today?”
Your actions suddenly halted and your eyes found him. For a second, you were almost ready to apologize.
“No,” you answered. “This is fine.”
Your response was too plain. Too safe.
Henry looked at you and quietly accepted the challenge of striking up a difficult conversation.
“You know,” he looked at his plate as his smile vanished, “You do this thing with your jaw when you’re annoyed at something that won’t fight back.”
You couldn’t answer. It was bait. If you said something wrong, you’d be admitting it. If you kept denying, he’d push it.
He spared you a response.
“All possibilities I’m thinking of only manifest in one thing, and it’s breakfast.”
You shook your head. “No. Breakfast is great.”
A breath escaped your lips as you turned back to your plate and continued eating.
For the first time, Henry didn’t know what to do.
He was a careful man. He watched, noticed, and planned. He was meticulous. He was sure you were slowly pulling away from his grasp. What could be wrong? Has he done something? Did you see something you shouldn’t have?
Have you realized it yet? Did you think he was too irredeemable?
For the first time, the smart and cunning man was clueless. He had too many questions. And the thought of possible answers costing you made him the most anxious.
It dug a pit deep in his stomach as days passed and you were completely absent. You were there by flesh and bones, but your mind was always elsewhere.
Your actions began to seem performative. Like you were only doing things just to show him you were preoccupied.
You talked to him like you always did but without the same depth as before. Statements would come, but the conversations would go as soon as they started.
Empty.
Too empty.
What was wrong?
Henry found himself thinking one night. The false moon that hung over the clouds observed the house quietly. The man frowned at the wall as he stood next to the fireplace in his office, leaning against it with a hand on his back, holding the glasses he often wore to imply his intelligence. His usually done hair was in a tousled mess, vest undone, and sleeves rolled up.
He thought about an occurrence today. You were sat in the living room staring at nothing. When he tried to speak to you, you merely shrugged. You wouldn’t look at him no matter how much he tried to make you. His topics weren’t as engaging anymore. The questions were perhaps too stale.
What was wrong with him?
No.
What was wrong with you?
Was it this house? Was it this world? Was it because you couldn’t go out that much to see anything at all?
Who was he kidding? There were so many factors.
He argued. You knew those things when you found out about the truth—or half-truth if he was being honest. You wanted to stay. You wanted to feel happier. This was happier. You made peace with the fact you would never see your family again.
This house had everything.
What did it lack?
What does a house require more to have in order to make one feel happier?
He needed to do something.
Anything just to make you stay.
You can’t leave. Especially not now.
He had to admit it.
Henry was scared. He was already losing you despite being within his reach.
* * *
Meanwhile in your room, your body laid flat on the soft sheets, eyes trained on the cover of the paperback you’ve been binging on the nightstand as you ran your fingers through your hair softly. You pretended it was someone else’s.
The woman on the cover of the book had it better. How come?
You just recently discovered what was wrong.
You haven’t had a touch of affection. Not like Henry’s simple gazes or services like cooking for you. You sought something else. Something you could actually feel.
You doubted Henry.
His feelings. His sentiments. His services. His gazes.
There was a time when he pulled you back, carefully whispered to you that if he were to decide, he would want you to stay. You urged him to tell you why. You wanted him to give you a reason to grant his selfish wish.
It took him a while.
Yet he spilled his confession eventually; admitting the ache you inflict in him. He liked you. Loved you. He made you feel like the only special person in the world. Perhaps you were. In his. You took comfort in those words, assured yourself that you have found the one you truly wanted. It was a lovely memory to look back on, but it was the only reason you now clung to this world. The hanging thread that tied you to him.
Like all high, it plummeted at a disastrous speed.
Henry failed in his actions.
And it slowly affected the way he was with words as well.
You missed being loved.
Perhaps not just by him.
You missed your family. Your friends were probably wondering where you were. But it hurt more to think that maybe they have already forgotten about you. Which was possibly truer than Henry’s claims of desire for you.
If Henry loved you, why didn’t he show it?
He would have told you more than what he said one time.
He would have reminded you everyday.
He would have already touched you by now.
So why? What was wrong? Was he lying? Was he truly that lonely to lie to someone just so they would stay? Did he just use you?
You closed your eyes shut to make the thoughts disappear, but you were surprised tears escaped from doing so.
It hurt.
It hurt too much.
It was weighing on you, squeezing your chest.
You were so lonely.
So lonely in a massive house with so many bedrooms looking like it was designed for a family. The kitchen had everything but people to share the food with. It was so cold. So empty.
It was making you insane, consuming you and taking your humanity that you swore you could be descending to madness. This loneliness was making you think unpleasant things. Who even remembers you? Were they still even searching for you?
The decision to stay here was wrong. It was all wrong.
Who were you kidding? Henry didn’t like you. Much more love you.
Do you actually even matter?
You understood why he would lie. The loneliness must have felt too much, he had become desperate and unreasonable. So you became the person he locked in his house just so it wouldn’t feel too empty. Like he just picked out a partner that would warm the sheets so he wouldn’t question his life.
He used you.
You shook your head.
Your thoughts kept villainizing him. It was unreasonable of you.
Your fingers brushed against your eyes, wiping the few tears that showed. You inhaled, ignoring the runny sound in your sinus from the crying you just did. You were sure to do it quietly so he wouldn’t hear.
It was too tiring to explain to Henry.
So you never tried and chose to suffer in silence.
You were alone anyway. What was the point?
You got out of your bed and stood next to the desk across your room. You wished you had a family picture to look at while you were drowning in your sadness.
But that would have been pathetic.
Books stacked up your shelf next to the desk. They were the ones Henry patiently brought to you when he would leave before. They were more about romance than they were about anything.
He fed you with delusions about love when he handed these to you.
But that may have been your own fault for thinking too much about them.
Henry Creel couldn’t care less about you.
That thought made you sit down on the floor in front of the lit hearth. It was only just an assumption. It made sense though.
Knock. Knock.
You didn’t want to open the door. It wasn’t because you didn’t want him to come in, but you were tired. You were just. so. tired. from absolutely nothing and that nothing had beat you up too bad; it won.
The door creaked and a footstep was heard. You looked down at the carpet shamefully so he wouldn’t see the wetness of your lashes. Your head refused to turn his way.
You heard him say your name in that ridiculously low and raspy voice like he lacked sleep and was too tired. You hated yourself for secretly liking it. You disliked how it planted a swarm of butterflies in your stomach like a crushing schoolgirl.
“There’s something you’re not telling me.”
You got defensive.
That statement had its effects on your back tensing up, your breath hitching, and your head feeling like it was squeezing your brain.
“Whatever it is that’s making you think that way, you’re reading too much into it,” you argued.
“It doesn’t negate my concern.” Henry noticed your posture as you sat. He could tell he hit a nerve, and it was a tell-tale sign that his theories were correct. There was something wrong.
He was worried about so many things and they were all tied to you. He had to tread carefully now.
“Have you always been like this?”
He was surprised at the question.
“Alone?” he asked. He didn’t need an answer from you to know. “Not since you stayed with me.”
You didn’t reply after that. Henry tried again, “You’re thinking too hard.”
“Is it that obvious?” you asked.
Finally.
“What’s wrong?” Henry asked it too quickly. He wanted to address it as soon as he could. He did not want to remain idle on the brink of losing you. He simply couldn’t.
“The noise,” you started plainly.
What about the noise? The house was peaceful. It was just the two of you. Before Henry could speak, you completed your thoughts. “I miss the noise.”
“Noise,” he repeated like it was a full statement.
“Family, friends, my sister yelling at me to stop using her stuff. Just—stupid things.” You almost cracked, but you couldn’t. That was too weak to show, and vulnerability with Henry didn’t seem like your strongest suit. You felt your emotions, but you’ve always programmed yourself to do it alone.
“You regret staying here,” he said as a revelation.
You shook your head, “No. Not like that. I just hate how quiet it could get, and I miss feeling. This house, Henry—it’s too empty. It’s just you and me in here, and at certain times, you would leave. I couldn’t even go with you.”
“It’s for your own safety. This house provides comfort and everything you need.”
“Yes, but a house is not always exactly a home, is it?” You fired back. “Not without laughter or chatter or even silly bickering. There’s no cat to pet, no friend to talk to, and absolutely no one to share thoughts with.”
“But I’m here,” he said.
“No, you’re only here when you feel like you need to.”
You were irritating him. Do you not see that he was trying his best? Did you not see that he stopped tearing the world apart just so he could keep you in this place? Away from bad people and the destruction resulted from human nature?
“What do you want? Truly?” Henry asked calmly.
You let out a sardonic chuckle. “You’re not exactly the hug-first-ask-later type.”
“I don’t touch things that don’t want to be touched,” he mumbled.
Your heart quickened. You were so close to saying it. If you could just set your pride aside and just blurt it out—“I want to be. Sometimes.”
Now, he understood. “Is that what’s wrong?”
Henry knew he could be lacking in those areas. His upbringing didn’t really allow him to develop a certain attachment to actions that showed affections. He avoided it. He didn’t even know how to step out of his principles to get himself to do it.
Vulnerability was the most pathetic thing every human was capable of, and it was disgusting to think about. Intimacy was an act of weakness fools seem to welcome. It was embarrassing.
The world likes to think that it ruled over all because of humans depending on each other and being slaves to feelings, a simple touch could make them reckless. He wanted to prove it wrong. So he refused.
Deep down, he was tempted to try. He was a smart man; he knew embraces, touches, kisses, and the likes, and he also knew how far things could go if you so choose. But with you, he acknowledged restraint and honor.
And also because he was too . . . prideful to ask.
Too disdainful towards the idea that it made him want to split himself into two.
You challenged his principles and threatened his philosophies.
“Don’t make it sound like that,” you complained. “I’m not that needy. I just wish you’d initiate something.”
“I wait to be asked.” He said.
You frustratedly looked up at him. “Yeah, I don’t want to keep asking.”
“You never did.”
The final straw.
“Henry, please.” You sighed defeatedly and stood from where you sat, finally facing him with the vulnerability you carried. “I know it was a long time ago when you said you loved me, but could you at least be consistent with it? I’m so lonely in this goddamn house, and I don’t know what to do with myself—I’m actually starting to think I’m going to go insane! I lost so much. I miss so many. I’m tired! I’m bored! I can’t feel anything but the emptiness in the kitchen and the lack of warmth in every room! I’m miserable, can’t you see?!”
You cracked.
This was it.
Henry’s senses were in an overdrive. He could feel something snapping in his head like a nerve just twitched out of its place. The heat in his body rose with every word from you, making him tense. He didn’t know what to say or do. He had ideas, but they were too much, he couldn’t grab one thought and put it in action.
He had to make a move or else you’d think of leaving and actually do it. Now felt like a chase. He had fallen prey to time.
Something he was supposed to control.
With that, Henry took long and swift aggressive strides towards you and pulled you by your arms to get you close to him like it was the only response his body knew what to do. He thought perhaps the closeness would suffice.
It was almost like an instinct to do it. He had no idea why or how, but he just—did it.
He was warmer than you assumed he was. Firm in areas you admit you imagined before. His chest was beating swiftly likely from his frustration with you. In his arms, your thoughts vanished like thin air. The anger didn’t even seem to exist.
“What you want is not something I grew up knowing. All I’m familiar with is isolation, and I know it well enough that it had become my norm. I cannot change, Y/N, and I apologize for lacking in areas you wanted me to excel in,” he said firmly like he was still stopping himself from being gentle.
He failed at it.
But you were more surprised by the fact that he apologized. For the first time.
“I can still learn,” he mumbled. Henry mentally winced. This was all wrong and out of place for someone like him. He wanted to break free from himself, but he couldn’t deny that it also felt refreshing somehow.
His pride was badly bruised. He felt pathetic. He had fallen. It was a good thing it was only you and him in this world. No one else could ever have the possibility of knowing.
Even if you told anyone, he would make sure they wouldn’t believe you.
You didn’t return his gesture. You just tried to feel his embrace. It wasn’t too much, but it was enough for you to see a glimpse of his thoughts he would never admit.
“Why are you holding me like you’re scared I’ll disappear?” you asked as you looked up at the eyes that looked down at your lips.
He was holding himself back again. It was difficult to do so. God, you break every single bone in his body from all the effort it takes to keep himself on the pedestal.
“I don’t like things leaving without my permission,” he admitted through gritted teeth as if he was still in denial with it.
“As if I can even go anywhere,” you commented. “I wasn’t planning to run. I guess I just wanted to feel something. Anything.”
“You sought to be wanted.”
Well, that was embarrassing to admit.
“I don’t know how to show you what you want like how you expect it from me,” he said your name like an affirmation. Although, you understood what he was saying. You have the full picture. It was enough clarity to pull you back to the ground.
“I don’t need perfection or doing it right by the book. I just want you to show me how you feel. Sometimes I need your hands to say what you won’t.”
His jaw tightened. He cursed at the stars. He let out a short breath through his nose.
“You think I don’t feel it,” he said. “I do. I just don’t let it run me.”
“I’m not asking you to lose control,” you said. “I’m asking you to choose me sometimes like you choose everything else.”
“Choice is a lie people tell themselves when they’re already trapped.”
You shifted in his arms, not pulling away. “And yet you’re still holding me.”
His fingers flexed like he hadn’t realized they were there. “I don’t hold people,” he said. “People cling. People weaken.”
“And you?”
“I observe.”
“That’s not what you’re doing right now.”
He looked down at you, eyes sharp, searching like he was trying to catch you lying. “Touch changes things. It makes people foolish.”
“Then be foolish for a second,” you said. “Just with me.”
Silence.
Then his hand moved again. Slower this time. Intentional. Resting at your back like he was testing the waters. “This is not weakness,” he said, sounding like he was reminding you but it also sounded more like a whisper to himself.
“Then what is it?”
“Control,” he said. You took the liberty to lean into his chest.
“And how does it feel losing a little of it?”
He closed his eyes for half a second.
“Uncomfortable,” he said.
You smiled faintly. “Good. Means you’re human.”
He opened his eyes to look down at you. “Don’t insult me.”
You shrugged. “Don’t pretend you’re above it.”
His arms tightened slightly.
“Stay,” he said suddenly. Not loud. Not soft. Certain.
“I am,” you said. “But don’t make me stay alone.”
“You’re not alone,” he said. “You’re just with someone who refuses to show it the way you want.”
“Then show it the way you can.” He hesitated. Then his forehead touched yours like he had been rehearsing it in his head a few seconds ago and now he made it real although brief and restrained.
“This,” he said. “Is all I have.”
‘For now,’ you thought. Then, you smiled. “I’ll take it.”
Apparently, everyone on the eastern seaboard had heard about your brief excursion out of orbit, and you spent half the morning wearing a mortified smile while people ribbed you like it was a team sport.
Then you saw Robby.
And everything you’d managed to pack away the night before came loose in your chest, hot and heavy, like someone had kicked a door open.
No sweetheart. Not in the way you want me to.
You inhaled, held it, and buried your face in the computer like the screen could swallow you whole.
“Hey.”
Your name, in his voice, quiet and careful.
You looked up with a smile you hoped passed for real.
“Good morning, Doctor Robby,” you said brightly. “Having a good morning so far?”
He blinked, like he hadn’t expected the formality. Then his mouth twitched.
“No one’s died yet,” he deadpanned. “So I’d call it a win.”
Your lips lifted a little higher despite yourself.
God, he was funny when he wanted to be.
Robby’s eyes stayed on you for a second too long.
“How’re you feeling?”
“Oh.” You waved it off, light and easy. “Fine. Excellent, even. Minor fear of college bake sales now, but I’ll survive.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “We may need to put you in therapy for the bake sales.”
“Probably,” you agreed, already turning back to the screen like you hadn’t just felt your heart flinch.
He didn’t move. You could feel it, him standing there, the weight of whatever he was deciding to say.
His knuckles tapped the desk once.
Then, softer, he said, “What we talked about yesterday. In seventeen.”
Your fingers paused over the keyboard.
You forced your eyes up again. “In…seventeen?”
His throat worked. “I just—” He cleared it, like that helped. “I wanted to apologize if I hurt your feelings. It was never my intention.”
For a second you just stared at him.
“My feelings?” you echoed, like you genuinely didn’t understand, and watched him blink, uncertain, thrown off, like his script just got snatched out of his hands.
“Yeah,” he said, slower now. “What we—”
You shook your head once, earnest. Confused. Harmless.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Doctor Robby.” You gave a little laugh. “I don’t remember much, to be honest.”
His eyebrows went up. “You don’t?”
“No, sir.” You kept your voice steady. “I remember eating the cookie and then…y’know.” You made a vague gesture that could’ve meant drugs or Jesus take the wheel. “And then it’s fuzzy.”
Your eyes widened with sudden “horror.”
“I didn’t say anything embarrassing, did I?”
Robby’s head snapped in an immediate shake. “No. Nope.”
You studied him like he was the suspicious one. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah,” he said, too fast. Then he tried to salvage it with humor. “You blabbed about charts. And…scrapbooking.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “Scrapbooking?”
He nodded solemnly. “Threatened to make me a glitter page. I was scared.”
You scoffed. “Don’t knock scrapbooking until you try it. It’s a legitimate hobby.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” he said, but he didn’t look amused anymore.
He watched you like he was trying to find the crack in your story.
“You’re sure you don’t remember anything,” he asked quietly, “from that conversation?”
You shrugged, all breezy and easy. “Not a thing. I remember the board looked like jellybeans, though. All the colors. Reminded me of the time my friends and I played drunk bamboozled.”
His mouth pressed into a line. He nodded once, like he didn’t believe you, but he didn’t know how to prove it.
“Okay,” he said.
Another tap of his knuckles on the desk—like he needed something to do with his hands.
“Well,” he murmured, voice going professional again, “I guess we should get back to it.”
“Of course, sir,” you said with that same bright smile. “Have a good day.”
“You too.”
He walked off, but you caught the glance he threw back at you, curious and unsettled.
The second he was out of earshot, Dana slid in beside you, eyebrow cocked.
“You just lied to that man.”
You didn’t look at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Dana made a sound in her throat. Disbelief, amusement, both. “You don’t remember a thing?”
You swallowed and kept your eyes on the monitor.
“I remember enough,” you said softly, “to not make it his problem.”
Dana’s expression changed, less charge nurse, more mom who knows you’re hurting.
“He’s already got enough regrets on his shoulders,” you added, quieter. “I’m not adding mine.”
Dana studied you like she wanted to shake you and hug you in the same breath.
“You’re really in love with him,” she said.
Your throat tightened.
“Doesn’t matter,” you managed. “He doesn’t feel the same.”
Dana scoffed. “That’s because he’s an idiot.”
“Dana.”
“What?” she said, utterly unbothered. “Man’s blind if he can’t see what’s in front of him. You’re smart, talented, kind, sexy.”
You exhaled, rubbing a hand down your face. “Never thought I’d hear my charge nurse call me sexy.”
“I’m Catholic,” Dana deadpanned. “Not blind.”
You choked a laugh.
She nudged your shoulder. “Give him time. He’ll come around. Once he realizes how much you mean to him.”
You finally looked at her, and the sting hit hard because she wasn’t looking at you like staff. She was looking at you like family.
“I’m such an idiot,” you whispered.
Dana’s hands were on your face immediately, cool palms, thumbs under your eyes like she could physically keep you from breaking.
“Hey. No.” Her voice left no room for argument. “You are not an idiot. You are a wonderful girl with the biggest heart I’ve ever seen.” Her thumbs swept gently again. “Do not let this break that.”
Your lashes fluttered. Your throat worked.
“Yes, ma’am,” you whispered.
“Friday,” Dana said, already deciding for you. “We’re going out. Drinks. Appetizers. Complaining. All of it. We’ll stay until they kick us out.”
You laughed wetly. “Okay.”
“Good.” Dana let you go with one last wipe of your cheek. “Now wash your face and get ready. God knows this place is gonna get busy.”
“Don’t jinx us, Dana,” you begged, heading for the bathroom.
Dana watched you go. Then she caught movement in her peripheral and looked up.
Robby stood half-hidden by an exam room door, gaze fixed on your retreating back, jaw tight like he was holding something in.
Dana shook her head, muttering under her breath:
“What. An. Idiot.”
***
The week came and went.
You stayed bright. You stayed kind. You smiled at patients like sunlight cracking through clouds. You brought brownies. You cracked jokes. You charted like your life depended on it.
And you kept taking care of Robby in all the ways that didn’t require you to bleed in front of him.
Fresh coffee on the days he looked particularly murderous with sleep deprivation.
A protein bar slid onto his desk when he got snappy.
You were still the first RN he called when he needed hands in a room.
But you stopped lingering.
You stopped leaning your hip against the counter to ask about his weekend.
You stopped hovering in his orbit like you belonged there.
You gave him things instead of pressing them into his hand.
You smiled, but it never quite reached your eyes when it was him.
And he noticed, because of course he did.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was inches.
Death by inches.
***
Friday hit like it always did, people doing stupid things for the weekend and expecting you all to fix them.
By the time you handed off and clocked out, you were dead on your feet.
You stood by the time clock watching the seconds crawl toward freedom.
Then you felt him behind you.
You looked up.
Robby stood there with his hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, face drawn, hair a little worse for wear, eyes tired in that way that made him look younger and older at the same time.
“Hey,” he murmured.
You gave him a tired smile. “Hey, Doctor Robby.”
He watched you for a beat.
“You okay?”
You nodded. “Long shift. Tired. Ready to get out of here.”
“Only to come back tomorrow,” he said, dry.
You groaned, a real laugh escaping. “God, don’t remind me.”
The clock hit. You swiped your badge, shoved it in your bag, and headed for the doors.
He followed without thinking, falling in step beside you.
Outside, the cold slapped your cheeks. Traffic moved past in an indifferent stream. An ambulance wailed in the distance.
You looked up at him, and for a moment your smile was soft enough to hurt.
“Goodnight, Doctor Robby. Have a good evening.”
Then you turned toward the bus stop.
Robby just…stood there.
Because he’d gotten used to it, the asking, the little hopeful pauses, the way you’d look at him like maybe today.
He’d gotten so used to saying no, he didn’t realize he’d started expecting you to keep offering him your warmth anyway.
And now you hadn’t.
It felt wrong. Like a toothache. Like a splinter he couldn’t get out.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he was moving.
You glanced back. “Doctor Robby?”
He stopped in front of you, breath fogging in the air.
“I wanted to know if you…wanted to get a drink,” he said, and the fact that it came out stiff made him hate himself. “You and me.”
Something lit in your eyes so fast it kicked him right in the ribs.
Bright.
Hopeful.
The “Yes, yes I do.”
Then you locked it down behind polite professionalism like you’d been practicing.
“Thank you, Doctor Robby,” you said gently, “but I have plans tonight.”
His throat bobbed. “Yeah?”
You nodded. “Dana invited me out. Cheap cocktails, good food. You know. Girl’s thing.”
He forced a nod like it didn’t matter. Like it didn’t punch a hole straight through him.
“Yeah,” he managed. “That’s…that’s good.”
His hands stayed in his pockets because he didn’t know what to do with them.
“Maybe next Friday?” he offered, too quickly, like he could patch the moment before it bled out.
You hesitated. Not long. Just long enough to make him feel it.
“Maybe,” you said. “I’ll have to see if I’m busy.”
Busy.
The word landed and stayed there.
You stepped back, giving yourself space.
He felt the absence like you were a warmth he’d taken for granted until the air turned cold.
“I should catch my bus,” you said softly. “Goodnight, Doctor Robby.”
You lifted a small wave as you climbed on.
You sat on the far side of the bus where he couldn’t see you.
He stayed anyway, watching until it pulled away, taillights washing over him and then leaving him in the dark.
Robby stood there staring until the bus disappeared.
So this is what you felt.
Every Friday.
Four months.
The hope.
The disappointment.
The way loneliness settles when someone you care about makes you feel like an afterthought.
He swallowed hard, staring at the empty stretch of road where your bus had vanished, the hospital glow at his back and your maybe rattling in his ears.
For the first time in a long time, Michael Robinavitch understood exactly where the emergency was.
And it wasn’t out there in The Pitt.
It was sitting squarely in his own damn chest.
***
He notices it in inches, not miles.
The small changes in your behavior that show a woman locking pieces of her heart back inside a cage when it used to be freely given. The looks, the soft voice, the brief touches, everything that was given to him when he never gave in return, and now taken away.
And it drives him insane.
It’s not dramatic, not enough for anyone else to really catch. To Dana, you’re still her golden girl. To the residents, you’re still the nurse who always has a pen, a snack, and an answer.
To Robby, it’s a different kind of noise.
You stop offering Friday drinks.
You stop asking if he wants to grab food on break.
You stop asking for anything, really.
You are relentlessly professional, perfectly kind, devastatingly polite. There’s no more soft shoulder bumps in the hallway, no more conspiratorial grins over the tops of charts, no more teasing questions about his love life. You answer when spoken to, you do your job, you stay just out of reach.
Like he burned you and you’re making damn sure he doesn’t get close enough to do it again.
By the third week of this, he’s frayed like a cheap cable.
It’s the end of a rough shift when he finally snaps.
You’re in the med room, stocking the cart because pharmacy’s late again and if you don’t do it, no one will. The hum of the air vent and the click of vials and boxes is almost soothing. You’ve just managed to get a row of saline flushes lined up when the door swings shut behind someone.
You don’t have to turn to know who it is.
You feel him. That same worn-in awareness under your skin, the one you’ve been trying to scrub out of yourself for weeks.
“Hey, Doctor Robby,” you say, not looking up. “If you’re looking for Zofran tabs, Dana hid them in the top drawer so the residents stop stealing them.”
“You remember the conversation in seventeen, don’t you?”
His voice is rougher than usual, no preamble, no joke to soften it. Just straight to the point, the way he is with the worst cases.
Your hand stills on the box in front of you.
You keep your eyes on the cart. “We’re really not supposed to hoard meds in here. You should yell at Dana about it, not me.”
“Stop.” The word comes out sharper. You hear him take a step closer. “You remember, don’t you?”
The air feels thinner suddenly. The med room is too small, the walls too close, his presence too loud.
You swallow, force yourself to keep your tone light. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, sir. We’ve had a lot of conversations in a lot of rooms.”
“Don’t do that,” he says quietly.
There’s something in his voice that makes you finally look up.
He’s leaning back against the closed door like he needs it to hold him up, hoodie pushed up at the sleeves, hands shoved in the pockets. His eyes, though, are awake. Sharp. Tired and intent and a little desperate.
“Don’t what?” you ask.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
You force a little shrug, turn back to the drawer. “I was high as a kite, Doc. Whole day’s kind of a blur.”
“Bullshit.”
The word lands between you like a dropped tray.
You freeze.
Robby exhales, long and frayed, dragging a hand down his face before letting it fall uselessly at his side.
“You remember,” he says again, softer this time. “I can see it every time you look at me and then decide not to.”
Your throat burns.
“Doctor Robby, I really don’t think—”
“In seventeen,” he cuts in, stepping closer. “You told me you had feelings for me. And then you asked if I liked you.” His jaw tightens. “And I told you no. Not in the way you want me to.”
The words hit you like a physical thing, even though you’ve replayed them a hundred times alone.
You stare down at your hands so he won’t see your eyes shine.
“You think I don’t remember saying that?” he asks, voice rough. “You think I forgot watching your face when I did?”
“Please,” you whisper, throat tight. “Can we not do this in the med room?”
“Where do you want to do it?” he asks, frustrated. “Because I’ve spent three weeks trying to catch you anywhere. Hallway, nurse’s station, hell, the damn cafeteria. You keep slipping away from me like I’m contagious.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “You said it yourself, Doc. You don’t feel the same.” You push a box a little too hard into the drawer. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“Stop saying that,” he snaps, then immediately winces at his own tone. He takes a breath, tries again. “You lied to my face. About not remembering. Why?”
You finally look at him.
His expression guts you. It’s not cold. It’s not cruel. It’s bewildered. Hurt, even. Like he’s standing in the debris of something and just now realizing he was the one who had the matches and lit the fuse.
“Because,” you say, voice trembling despite your best effort, “I didn’t want you to feel guilty for telling me the truth.”
He flinches.
You swallow and keep going, because if you stop you won’t start again.
“You were honest with me,” you say. “You drew a line. ‘No, sweetheart, not in the way you want me to.’ That’s…that’s fair. I’m the idiot who caught feelings for her attending. That’s on me, not you.”
“Don’t call yourself an idiot,” he mutters automatically.
You give him a brittle little smile. “Someone’s gotta be.”
Silence stretches between you, thick and uncomfortable.
“You think this is easy for me?” he asks quietly.
“I think,” you say slowly, choosing each word like it might cut you if you’re not careful, “that you’ve made it very clear where you stand. And I’m trying really hard not to make my feelings your problem.”
His brow pulls together. “You’ve never been a problem.”
“Then why did you say it like one?” you fire back, the dam finally cracking. “Why did you say it like I was some…some inconvenience to manage? Some crush you had to talk me down from?”
He opens his mouth, closes it again.
“Do you know what it’s like,” you ask, voice shaking, “to stand in a room with someone you care about, and hear them calmly explain that they don’t, can’t, won’t feel that way about you? And then have to come to work the next day and pretend you’re fine because he’s your boss and your friend and you don’t want to make things weird?”
His face crumples, just for a second.
“I was trying to protect you,” he says hoarsely. “You were high, and I’m your attending, and I’m—”
“Older, sadder, more broken than me,” you supply, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “Yeah, I got the memo.”
He stares at you.
“And I get it,” you continue, wiping at your cheek with the back of your hand when you feel the wetness there. “You have regrets. You have history. You have a life outside this place that I’m not a part of. You don’t owe me romance or a fairy tale, Robby. You don’t owe me anything.”
You swallow hard around the thickness in your throat.
“But I also don’t owe you my heart on a platter while you decide whether you’re bored enough to be lonely with me.”
He flinches like you slapped him.
“That’s not what I—”
“You only asked me out,” you say softly, “after I stopped asking you.”
The truth of it lands between you with awful clarity.
You let out a humorless little huff. “It’s funny, isn’t it? The second I stopped orbiting you, you noticed I was gone.”
His hands curl into fists at his sides. “That’s not—I didn’t—”
“I know you didn’t mean to hurt me,” you say, and the worst part is that you do know. That’s why it stings so much. “You were trying to be kind. Trying to spare me. But kindness would’ve been saying it once and letting me walk away with some dignity.”
You shake your head, fighting fresh tears.
“Instead, you kept taking the coffee. The snacks. The help. The Friday invitations. And you kept saying no like it didn’t cost me anything to ask.”
He looks wrecked.
“Sweetheart—”
“Don’t.” Your voice cracks around the word. “Please don’t call me that unless you mean it. I can’t…I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t hurt.”
The room feels too small now. You step sideways, giving yourself room to breathe, one hand braced on the counter.
“I’m not mad at you,” you add, quieter. “I’m just…trying to stop bleeding all over your shoes.”
He stands there, chest rising and falling, eyes suspiciously bright.
“So, yeah,” you finish. “I remember the conversation in seventeen. Every word. I remember how it felt to hear you say it, and I remember lying to your face so you wouldn’t have to carry it like another regret.”
You draw a shaky breath and straighten, squaring your shoulders in that way Dana always praises.
“And now I’m just trying to survive my shifts without falling apart every time you walk into a room. That’s all.”
You reach past him, fingers brushing the door handle. He doesn’t move, but he doesn’t stop you either.
“Please let me go stock the rest of these meds,” you say, not quite meeting his eyes. “We’re getting slammed, and I need to be able to do my job.”
He swallows hard.
“Is that it?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. “We just…go back to normal?”
You let out a small, sad laugh.
“This is my new normal, Robby,” you say. “Loving you quietly and from far enough away that it doesn’t kill me.”
That finally makes his face crack, grief and guilt twisting his features.
You can’t look at it.
You pull the door open, stepping past him. For a fraction of a second, your shoulder grazes his chest. Once upon a time that would’ve been enough to make your heart stutter with stupid hope.
Now it just hurts.
“Have a good shift, Doctor Robby,” you manage, steady and polite and professional.
You don’t turn around as you walk down the hall.
You don’t see him sink back against the door frame, hand pressed to his sternum like he’s trying to stop something from tearing itself loose inside his chest.
You only hear the faint, broken whisper he lets out when he thinks you’re out of earshot.
“I’m the emergency,” he mutters to himself. “Christ. I’m the goddamn emergency.”
Apparently, everyone on the eastern seaboard had heard about your brief excursion out of orbit, and you spent half the morning wearing a mortified smile while people ribbed you like it was a team sport.
Then you saw Robby.
And everything you’d managed to pack away the night before came loose in your chest, hot and heavy, like someone had kicked a door open.
No sweetheart. Not in the way you want me to.
You inhaled, held it, and buried your face in the computer like the screen could swallow you whole.
“Hey.”
Your name, in his voice, quiet and careful.
You looked up with a smile you hoped passed for real.
“Good morning, Doctor Robby,” you said brightly. “Having a good morning so far?”
He blinked, like he hadn’t expected the formality. Then his mouth twitched.
“No one’s died yet,” he deadpanned. “So I’d call it a win.”
Your lips lifted a little higher despite yourself.
God, he was funny when he wanted to be.
Robby’s eyes stayed on you for a second too long.
“How’re you feeling?”
“Oh.” You waved it off, light and easy. “Fine. Excellent, even. Minor fear of college bake sales now, but I’ll survive.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “We may need to put you in therapy for the bake sales.”
“Probably,” you agreed, already turning back to the screen like you hadn’t just felt your heart flinch.
He didn’t move. You could feel it, him standing there, the weight of whatever he was deciding to say.
His knuckles tapped the desk once.
Then, softer, he said, “What we talked about yesterday. In seventeen.”
Your fingers paused over the keyboard.
You forced your eyes up again. “In…seventeen?”
His throat worked. “I just—” He cleared it, like that helped. “I wanted to apologize if I hurt your feelings. It was never my intention.”
For a second you just stared at him.
“My feelings?” you echoed, like you genuinely didn’t understand, and watched him blink, uncertain, thrown off, like his script just got snatched out of his hands.
“Yeah,” he said, slower now. “What we—”
You shook your head once, earnest. Confused. Harmless.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Doctor Robby.” You gave a little laugh. “I don’t remember much, to be honest.”
His eyebrows went up. “You don’t?”
“No, sir.” You kept your voice steady. “I remember eating the cookie and then…y’know.” You made a vague gesture that could’ve meant drugs or Jesus take the wheel. “And then it’s fuzzy.”
Your eyes widened with sudden “horror.”
“I didn’t say anything embarrassing, did I?”
Robby’s head snapped in an immediate shake. “No. Nope.”
You studied him like he was the suspicious one. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah,” he said, too fast. Then he tried to salvage it with humor. “You blabbed about charts. And…scrapbooking.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “Scrapbooking?”
He nodded solemnly. “Threatened to make me a glitter page. I was scared.”
You scoffed. “Don’t knock scrapbooking until you try it. It’s a legitimate hobby.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” he said, but he didn’t look amused anymore.
He watched you like he was trying to find the crack in your story.
“You’re sure you don’t remember anything,” he asked quietly, “from that conversation?”
You shrugged, all breezy and easy. “Not a thing. I remember the board looked like jellybeans, though. All the colors. Reminded me of the time my friends and I played drunk bamboozled.”
His mouth pressed into a line. He nodded once, like he didn’t believe you, but he didn’t know how to prove it.
“Okay,” he said.
Another tap of his knuckles on the desk—like he needed something to do with his hands.
“Well,” he murmured, voice going professional again, “I guess we should get back to it.”
“Of course, sir,” you said with that same bright smile. “Have a good day.”
“You too.”
He walked off, but you caught the glance he threw back at you, curious and unsettled.
The second he was out of earshot, Dana slid in beside you, eyebrow cocked.
“You just lied to that man.”
You didn’t look at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Dana made a sound in her throat. Disbelief, amusement, both. “You don’t remember a thing?”
You swallowed and kept your eyes on the monitor.
“I remember enough,” you said softly, “to not make it his problem.”
Dana’s expression changed, less charge nurse, more mom who knows you’re hurting.
“He’s already got enough regrets on his shoulders,” you added, quieter. “I’m not adding mine.”
Dana studied you like she wanted to shake you and hug you in the same breath.
“You’re really in love with him,” she said.
Your throat tightened.
“Doesn’t matter,” you managed. “He doesn’t feel the same.”
Dana scoffed. “That’s because he’s an idiot.”
“Dana.”
“What?” she said, utterly unbothered. “Man’s blind if he can’t see what’s in front of him. You’re smart, talented, kind, sexy.”
You exhaled, rubbing a hand down your face. “Never thought I’d hear my charge nurse call me sexy.”
“I’m Catholic,” Dana deadpanned. “Not blind.”
You choked a laugh.
She nudged your shoulder. “Give him time. He’ll come around. Once he realizes how much you mean to him.”
You finally looked at her, and the sting hit hard because she wasn’t looking at you like staff. She was looking at you like family.
“I’m such an idiot,” you whispered.
Dana’s hands were on your face immediately, cool palms, thumbs under your eyes like she could physically keep you from breaking.
“Hey. No.” Her voice left no room for argument. “You are not an idiot. You are a wonderful girl with the biggest heart I’ve ever seen.” Her thumbs swept gently again. “Do not let this break that.”
Your lashes fluttered. Your throat worked.
“Yes, ma’am,” you whispered.
“Friday,” Dana said, already deciding for you. “We’re going out. Drinks. Appetizers. Complaining. All of it. We’ll stay until they kick us out.”
You laughed wetly. “Okay.”
“Good.” Dana let you go with one last wipe of your cheek. “Now wash your face and get ready. God knows this place is gonna get busy.”
“Don’t jinx us, Dana,” you begged, heading for the bathroom.
Dana watched you go. Then she caught movement in her peripheral and looked up.
Robby stood half-hidden by an exam room door, gaze fixed on your retreating back, jaw tight like he was holding something in.
Dana shook her head, muttering under her breath:
“What. An. Idiot.”
***
The week came and went.
You stayed bright. You stayed kind. You smiled at patients like sunlight cracking through clouds. You brought brownies. You cracked jokes. You charted like your life depended on it.
And you kept taking care of Robby in all the ways that didn’t require you to bleed in front of him.
Fresh coffee on the days he looked particularly murderous with sleep deprivation.
A protein bar slid onto his desk when he got snappy.
You were still the first RN he called when he needed hands in a room.
But you stopped lingering.
You stopped leaning your hip against the counter to ask about his weekend.
You stopped hovering in his orbit like you belonged there.
You gave him things instead of pressing them into his hand.
You smiled, but it never quite reached your eyes when it was him.
And he noticed, because of course he did.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was inches.
Death by inches.
***
Friday hit like it always did, people doing stupid things for the weekend and expecting you all to fix them.
By the time you handed off and clocked out, you were dead on your feet.
You stood by the time clock watching the seconds crawl toward freedom.
Then you felt him behind you.
You looked up.
Robby stood there with his hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, face drawn, hair a little worse for wear, eyes tired in that way that made him look younger and older at the same time.
“Hey,” he murmured.
You gave him a tired smile. “Hey, Doctor Robby.”
He watched you for a beat.
“You okay?”
You nodded. “Long shift. Tired. Ready to get out of here.”
“Only to come back tomorrow,” he said, dry.
You groaned, a real laugh escaping. “God, don’t remind me.”
The clock hit. You swiped your badge, shoved it in your bag, and headed for the doors.
He followed without thinking, falling in step beside you.
Outside, the cold slapped your cheeks. Traffic moved past in an indifferent stream. An ambulance wailed in the distance.
You looked up at him, and for a moment your smile was soft enough to hurt.
“Goodnight, Doctor Robby. Have a good evening.”
Then you turned toward the bus stop.
Robby just…stood there.
Because he’d gotten used to it, the asking, the little hopeful pauses, the way you’d look at him like maybe today.
He’d gotten so used to saying no, he didn’t realize he’d started expecting you to keep offering him your warmth anyway.
And now you hadn’t.
It felt wrong. Like a toothache. Like a splinter he couldn’t get out.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he was moving.
You glanced back. “Doctor Robby?”
He stopped in front of you, breath fogging in the air.
“I wanted to know if you…wanted to get a drink,” he said, and the fact that it came out stiff made him hate himself. “You and me.”
Something lit in your eyes so fast it kicked him right in the ribs.
Bright.
Hopeful.
The “Yes, yes I do.”
Then you locked it down behind polite professionalism like you’d been practicing.
“Thank you, Doctor Robby,” you said gently, “but I have plans tonight.”
His throat bobbed. “Yeah?”
You nodded. “Dana invited me out. Cheap cocktails, good food. You know. Girl’s thing.”
He forced a nod like it didn’t matter. Like it didn’t punch a hole straight through him.
“Yeah,” he managed. “That’s…that’s good.”
His hands stayed in his pockets because he didn’t know what to do with them.
“Maybe next Friday?” he offered, too quickly, like he could patch the moment before it bled out.
You hesitated. Not long. Just long enough to make him feel it.
“Maybe,” you said. “I’ll have to see if I’m busy.”
Busy.
The word landed and stayed there.
You stepped back, giving yourself space.
He felt the absence like you were a warmth he’d taken for granted until the air turned cold.
“I should catch my bus,” you said softly. “Goodnight, Doctor Robby.”
You lifted a small wave as you climbed on.
You sat on the far side of the bus where he couldn’t see you.
He stayed anyway, watching until it pulled away, taillights washing over him and then leaving him in the dark.
Robby stood there staring until the bus disappeared.
So this is what you felt.
Every Friday.
Four months.
The hope.
The disappointment.
The way loneliness settles when someone you care about makes you feel like an afterthought.
He swallowed hard, staring at the empty stretch of road where your bus had vanished, the hospital glow at his back and your maybe rattling in his ears.
For the first time in a long time, Michael Robinavitch understood exactly where the emergency was.
And it wasn’t out there in The Pitt.
It was sitting squarely in his own damn chest.
***
He notices it in inches, not miles.
The small changes in your behavior that show a woman locking pieces of her heart back inside a cage when it used to be freely given. The looks, the soft voice, the brief touches, everything that was given to him when he never gave in return, and now taken away.
And it drives him insane.
It’s not dramatic, not enough for anyone else to really catch. To Dana, you’re still her golden girl. To the residents, you’re still the nurse who always has a pen, a snack, and an answer.
To Robby, it’s a different kind of noise.
You stop offering Friday drinks.
You stop asking if he wants to grab food on break.
You stop asking for anything, really.
You are relentlessly professional, perfectly kind, devastatingly polite. There’s no more soft shoulder bumps in the hallway, no more conspiratorial grins over the tops of charts, no more teasing questions about his love life. You answer when spoken to, you do your job, you stay just out of reach.
Like he burned you and you’re making damn sure he doesn’t get close enough to do it again.
By the third week of this, he’s frayed like a cheap cable.
It’s the end of a rough shift when he finally snaps.
You’re in the med room, stocking the cart because pharmacy’s late again and if you don’t do it, no one will. The hum of the air vent and the click of vials and boxes is almost soothing. You’ve just managed to get a row of saline flushes lined up when the door swings shut behind someone.
You don’t have to turn to know who it is.
You feel him. That same worn-in awareness under your skin, the one you’ve been trying to scrub out of yourself for weeks.
“Hey, Doctor Robby,” you say, not looking up. “If you’re looking for Zofran tabs, Dana hid them in the top drawer so the residents stop stealing them.”
“You remember the conversation in seventeen, don’t you?”
His voice is rougher than usual, no preamble, no joke to soften it. Just straight to the point, the way he is with the worst cases.
Your hand stills on the box in front of you.
You keep your eyes on the cart. “We’re really not supposed to hoard meds in here. You should yell at Dana about it, not me.”
“Stop.” The word comes out sharper. You hear him take a step closer. “You remember, don’t you?”
The air feels thinner suddenly. The med room is too small, the walls too close, his presence too loud.
You swallow, force yourself to keep your tone light. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, sir. We’ve had a lot of conversations in a lot of rooms.”
“Don’t do that,” he says quietly.
There’s something in his voice that makes you finally look up.
He’s leaning back against the closed door like he needs it to hold him up, hoodie pushed up at the sleeves, hands shoved in the pockets. His eyes, though, are awake. Sharp. Tired and intent and a little desperate.
“Don’t what?” you ask.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
You force a little shrug, turn back to the drawer. “I was high as a kite, Doc. Whole day’s kind of a blur.”
“Bullshit.”
The word lands between you like a dropped tray.
You freeze.
Robby exhales, long and frayed, dragging a hand down his face before letting it fall uselessly at his side.
“You remember,” he says again, softer this time. “I can see it every time you look at me and then decide not to.”
Your throat burns.
“Doctor Robby, I really don’t think—”
“In seventeen,” he cuts in, stepping closer. “You told me you had feelings for me. And then you asked if I liked you.” His jaw tightens. “And I told you no. Not in the way you want me to.”
The words hit you like a physical thing, even though you’ve replayed them a hundred times alone.
You stare down at your hands so he won’t see your eyes shine.
“You think I don’t remember saying that?” he asks, voice rough. “You think I forgot watching your face when I did?”
“Please,” you whisper, throat tight. “Can we not do this in the med room?”
“Where do you want to do it?” he asks, frustrated. “Because I’ve spent three weeks trying to catch you anywhere. Hallway, nurse’s station, hell, the damn cafeteria. You keep slipping away from me like I’m contagious.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “You said it yourself, Doc. You don’t feel the same.” You push a box a little too hard into the drawer. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“Stop saying that,” he snaps, then immediately winces at his own tone. He takes a breath, tries again. “You lied to my face. About not remembering. Why?”
You finally look at him.
His expression guts you. It’s not cold. It’s not cruel. It’s bewildered. Hurt, even. Like he’s standing in the debris of something and just now realizing he was the one who had the matches and lit the fuse.
“Because,” you say, voice trembling despite your best effort, “I didn’t want you to feel guilty for telling me the truth.”
He flinches.
You swallow and keep going, because if you stop you won’t start again.
“You were honest with me,” you say. “You drew a line. ‘No, sweetheart, not in the way you want me to.’ That’s…that’s fair. I’m the idiot who caught feelings for her attending. That’s on me, not you.”
“Don’t call yourself an idiot,” he mutters automatically.
You give him a brittle little smile. “Someone’s gotta be.”
Silence stretches between you, thick and uncomfortable.
“You think this is easy for me?” he asks quietly.
“I think,” you say slowly, choosing each word like it might cut you if you’re not careful, “that you’ve made it very clear where you stand. And I’m trying really hard not to make my feelings your problem.”
His brow pulls together. “You’ve never been a problem.”
“Then why did you say it like one?” you fire back, the dam finally cracking. “Why did you say it like I was some…some inconvenience to manage? Some crush you had to talk me down from?”
He opens his mouth, closes it again.
“Do you know what it’s like,” you ask, voice shaking, “to stand in a room with someone you care about, and hear them calmly explain that they don’t, can’t, won’t feel that way about you? And then have to come to work the next day and pretend you’re fine because he’s your boss and your friend and you don’t want to make things weird?”
His face crumples, just for a second.
“I was trying to protect you,” he says hoarsely. “You were high, and I’m your attending, and I’m—”
“Older, sadder, more broken than me,” you supply, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “Yeah, I got the memo.”
He stares at you.
“And I get it,” you continue, wiping at your cheek with the back of your hand when you feel the wetness there. “You have regrets. You have history. You have a life outside this place that I’m not a part of. You don’t owe me romance or a fairy tale, Robby. You don’t owe me anything.”
You swallow hard around the thickness in your throat.
“But I also don’t owe you my heart on a platter while you decide whether you’re bored enough to be lonely with me.”
He flinches like you slapped him.
“That’s not what I—”
“You only asked me out,” you say softly, “after I stopped asking you.”
The truth of it lands between you with awful clarity.
You let out a humorless little huff. “It’s funny, isn’t it? The second I stopped orbiting you, you noticed I was gone.”
His hands curl into fists at his sides. “That’s not—I didn’t—”
“I know you didn’t mean to hurt me,” you say, and the worst part is that you do know. That’s why it stings so much. “You were trying to be kind. Trying to spare me. But kindness would’ve been saying it once and letting me walk away with some dignity.”
You shake your head, fighting fresh tears.
“Instead, you kept taking the coffee. The snacks. The help. The Friday invitations. And you kept saying no like it didn’t cost me anything to ask.”
He looks wrecked.
“Sweetheart—”
“Don’t.” Your voice cracks around the word. “Please don’t call me that unless you mean it. I can’t…I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t hurt.”
The room feels too small now. You step sideways, giving yourself room to breathe, one hand braced on the counter.
“I’m not mad at you,” you add, quieter. “I’m just…trying to stop bleeding all over your shoes.”
He stands there, chest rising and falling, eyes suspiciously bright.
“So, yeah,” you finish. “I remember the conversation in seventeen. Every word. I remember how it felt to hear you say it, and I remember lying to your face so you wouldn’t have to carry it like another regret.”
You draw a shaky breath and straighten, squaring your shoulders in that way Dana always praises.
“And now I’m just trying to survive my shifts without falling apart every time you walk into a room. That’s all.”
You reach past him, fingers brushing the door handle. He doesn’t move, but he doesn’t stop you either.
“Please let me go stock the rest of these meds,” you say, not quite meeting his eyes. “We’re getting slammed, and I need to be able to do my job.”
He swallows hard.
“Is that it?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. “We just…go back to normal?”
You let out a small, sad laugh.
“This is my new normal, Robby,” you say. “Loving you quietly and from far enough away that it doesn’t kill me.”
That finally makes his face crack, grief and guilt twisting his features.
You can’t look at it.
You pull the door open, stepping past him. For a fraction of a second, your shoulder grazes his chest. Once upon a time that would’ve been enough to make your heart stutter with stupid hope.
Now it just hurts.
“Have a good shift, Doctor Robby,” you manage, steady and polite and professional.
You don’t turn around as you walk down the hall.
You don’t see him sink back against the door frame, hand pressed to his sternum like he’s trying to stop something from tearing itself loose inside his chest.
You only hear the faint, broken whisper he lets out when he thinks you’re out of earshot.
“I’m the emergency,” he mutters to himself. “Christ. I’m the goddamn emergency.”
Retired!Robby who always wanted kids but never settled down. You who wants kids, but can't find a man who’s willing to support your career by supporting the family.
I mean… it’s a no-brainer, right?
Sure, you’re a lot younger than Robby and having kids with a man you’re not married to isn't ideal, but you just don’t want to put off starting a family until it’s too late. Plus, you know Robby, having been his resident for four years and his attending for another two before his early retirement. He’s proven himself time and time again that he’s a good and honest man.
You come to an agreement at a barbeque he was hosting. With only minimal alcohol in your respective systems, you shake on it: co-parenting. The next morning you meet at a café to talk more logistically.
Public or private school? Robby insists on private.
Living together or separately? Together, of course. It wouldn’t be fair to either of you or the baby to separate the family. Plus, Robby already owns a spacious (and gorgeous) home.
College funds? Set it up early and make sure it’s plentiful.
iPads? Fuck no.
Artificial insemination or the old-fashioned way? Robby respectfully left this question up to you, to which you said in your best impression of an I-don’t-find-you-fucking-me-raw-hot voice, “We might as well…”
When your next ovulation rolls around, you schedule time off of work to have what you coined baby making time, much to Robby’s chagrin.
During those five days, Robby goes through more little blue pills than he’d like to admit, and you get bent over in more positions than you thought possible.
Robby is endearingly methodical. He checks your temperature every morning and evening. He ensures you're well fed and hydrated. And after he fills you with his cum, Robby props your hips up with a pillow, even when you remind him that it won’t make it stick.
Robby is also incredibly intimate. Between rounds, when you’re wrapped up in his arms, he's hand-feeding you some fancy granola bars from Whole Foods. The pillow talk is sparse, but meaningful. At almost every step, Robby is thanking you, reminding you how big of a step it is that you're taking. Yet, somehow, you're not worried.
Your heart aches when the final day of baby making time rolls around. Robby has you with your face pressed in the crook of his neck. He rubs a once-calloused hand up and down the length of your bare back. Every now and then he whispers to you praises and gratitudes, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
It nearly tears you apart on your walk to work the next morning when Robby texts you: Keep me updated. Don’t be a stranger.
Stranger you are not, texting him almost anything you think would warrant a response. He gets up to date on workplace gossip, your patients, to even pictures of your lunches. It goes like this for the better part of a month. One Sunday, Robby wakes to two words from you on his phone.
I’m late.
He shows up to your house with three different pregnancy tests, a bouquet of flowers, and a box of chocolates to give you to calm your nerves while the tests develop. He holds you during those 15 minutes, reassuring you that things would be okay no matter what the test says.
If you kiss him when all three tests turn up positive, that's nobody business but your own.
When Robby leaves you that night, he already has a plan to get you moved into his home by the end of the month. Very quickly do you realize how involved Robby's idea of co-parenting is.
During your first trimester, Robby is stocking up. Almost every day you come home to a new stuffed animal or onesie waiting in the nursery he's building. You're allowed to help with easy things, folding clothes or painting, while Robby builds the furniture, everything, from the crib to the matching pair of rocking chairs.
He comes to every appointment from day one. Even insists on picking you up for them. Except, his idea of “picking you up” is showing up to the Pitt and taking the elevator with you up to the obstetrics wing. It’s nice to have him there. Plus, Robby always makes sure to bring you Thai food as a treat.
In the mornings before you leave for work, he has breakfast waiting for you. Pancakes. Bacon. A bagel if you so desire. Or, if you spent the morning with your head in the toilet (with Robby holding back your hair, thank you very much), just a ginger tea to settle your stomach.
Sometime around the six-month mark, Robby convinces you to go down to city hall and get married. It’ll be easier for you three to be under one medical insurance plan, he said. Plus, the all three of you can share a last name. That’s all. You don't even let him talk you into a ceremony. And even if you wear his ring, you insist on sleeping in different beds most nights.
So it isn’t all that big of a deal when your libido spikes in your third trimester. Robby’s already your husband, and it’s not like you haven’t fucked before. If you could help it, neither of you would be doing this, but you’re just so damn needy it makes you cry.
In the weeks leading up to your due date, Robby insists on sleeping in the same bed as you. God forbid something happened in the middle of the night, say you going into labor, he wanted to be there.
When you do go into labor, he's there. You need to hold his hand? Which one. You're feeling gross and sweaty? He has a towel to your forehead and is telling you how beautiful you are. Angry? Curse at him, he is the one who got you into this mess. Sad? He's crying with you. Anxious? He's whispering reassurances with every breath.
When the baby does come, the splitting image of her father, Robby cries. As your daughter latches to your breast for the first time, Robby kisses you and says I love you.
When within a year you and Robby end up with another kid to complete your set of brown-eyed Irish twins, well... maybe then do you let Robby talk you into a more formal wedding ceremony.
Rating: 18+ because it may get a little graphic plus there is medical talk and suggestive themes
Warnings: age gap (Michael in his late 40s, reader is in 20s). talks of pregnancy, death, vomiting, COVID pandemic, trauma, mentions of miscarriage and ectopic pregnancy. If I forgot anything, please let me know.
A/N: Wrapping this series up, however, I want to write some Dad!Michael so please be on the lookout for that. I've left some holes but I promise, I will fill them in soon.
Part one here, part two here, part three here, part four here, part five here, part six here, and part seven here
11:00 PM
Michael was over the moon. He finally was able to see his baby, your all’s child. Even if it was small, he could still see small features of its development. Sometimes, he was so consumed with loss that it was hard for him to remember that good things still existed. All you both could do was smile and laugh, remaining on the brink of tears. They were happy tears.
“Do you want some pictures from the ultrasound?”, the tech asked, bringing you both back to reality.
Michael looked at her, his thumb rubbing over your forehead. “We’d love that.”
She smiled, nodding before pressing the transducer on your flat abdomen. It was slightly uncomfortable, but it would be worth it. You could hear the small sound as she measured and snapped a few pictures. Michael smiled at you, tears lingering in his brown eyes. This was one of the most vulnerable times for both of you. He wasn’t acting like the strong doctor; he was trying to be your husband.
After printing them out, she handed them to you before mentioning that Dr. Myers would be in shortly. She went to clean the gel off your belly, but Michael offered to do it for her. Your blood was still transfusing, Michael eyeing the bag and how much volume was left.
“Do you think they’ll keep me?”, you asked him as he climbed back in bed beside you, pulling you close to him again.
All he wanted to do was be near you. He needed you like he needed air to breathe.
“Depends on whether Dr. Myers wants to keep you and recheck labs in the morning. You’re not bleeding vaginally, so that’s good.”
Your focus and attention were on the ultrasound pictures in front of you. Michael noticed your hands trembling as he took them in his.
“Would you keep me if I were your patient?”
He chuckled lightly as you smiled back at him. “I would probably admit you in an OBS bed.”
“So, probably not going home tonight.”, you pouted.
“Probably not.”
“You need to go home and get some rest, honey. I’ll be fine here.”, you looked up at him, still sniffling lightly from all the crying.
Michael’s face crinkled. “No way. I’m staying here with you. I’m not leaving you or our baby.”, he rubbed your belly lightly.
“You’ve worked over sixteen hours.”
“So?”
You rolled your eyes lightly at him before smiling. “God, you’re stubborn.”
Michael’s lips curved into a smirk, his laugh lines visibly showing. “I’ve been told that.”
“God, our baby probably will be too.”
Michael chuckled again before you both shared a deep kiss. The weight of today had been heavy, and both of you finally came down. A knock came to the door, catching your attention. It was Dr. Myers, giving you a smile as she made her way over to your hospital bed.
“Good news is I don’t think you’re miscarrying. Baby looks good for its gestational age. However, I do want you to come back in a couple of weeks for another ultrasound to keep an eye on the baby.”
Michael nodded, agreeing with her recommendation.
“With that being said, since your hemoglobin and blood pressure were low, I would like to keep you overnight for observation. With the MCI, Med/Surg beds are hard to come by since most patients were sent upstairs, and there may be stable patients who are admitted.”
You turned to Michael, automatically giving him a pouty face.
“I’ll order a re-draw on your labs, and we will keep an eye on your vital signs overnight. If all is well in the morning, I will release you, Mrs. Robinavitch.”
Michael eyed you, silently telling you that this was the best course of treatment. Even if you wanted to go home. This was what you needed to do right now.
“Okay.”, you sighed in agreement.
‘
“Great, I’ll see you in the morning, Mrs. Robinavitch. Try and get some rest.”
You both thanked her as she exited the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
12:00 AM
Michael made a few calls down to the emergency room to check in and see how things were going. The last few victims had come in; no more arriving. The nurse was kind enough to bring Michael a clean set of scrubs from the OR. Green wasn’t his color, or at least that’s what he said as he changed out of his black Carhartt scrub top and his Carhartt cargo pants. (Not hospital policy approved by the way).
“I look so dumb.”, he sighed, looking in the mirror after changing.
“You do not.”, you looked over at him, taking a peek at your cell phone.
Service was still overloaded from the MCI. Everyone was still using the cell phone towers in an attempt to connect with loved ones.
“There’s a reason I didn’t go into surgery.”
You giggled, rolling your eyes at him. Your room phone rang, and both you and Michael exchanged a confused look. Who would have your room number?
You leaned over, cautious of your IV. Hitting the button, you held it up to your ear.
“Hello?”
“How is everything?”
It was Dana. You could breathe a sigh of relief. Michael eyed you, mouthing the question of who it was. You silently mouthed back that it was Dana. It caused him to laugh and mutter that, of course, it was her. She had looked you up on the census, something she could access as a charge nurse.
“I’m okay.”
“How is Baby Robinavitch?”
You could hear the hesitation in her voice; she was almost afraid to ask the question.
“Come up and see for yourself.”
“Can I?”
“Of course.”, you smiled.
Dana was more of a mother figure to you, always looking out for you and your best interests. She was one of the only reasons you didn’t move to night shift. You didn’t want to leave her.
“I’ll be up in a few minutes. Janey and Jake were asking about you both. Can they come up?”
Michael could hear the question, and you could tell it caused a visceral reaction. He hadn’t faced Jake since Leah had died. And neither of you was sure this was a great time to tell him. You hadn’t interacted with Janey a lot. Just exchanging a few words here and there, especially before Jake started driving and she dropped him off at your all’s house.
“Yeah, it’s fine.”
“Okay, we’ll be up soon. Jake’s gonna be in a wheelchair.”
“Okay, see you soon.”
You clicked the phone off, laying it back down on the bedside table. Michael grabbed your hand, sitting down on the edge of your bed.
“Janey wants to come up?”
“Apparently.”
Michael nodded. You knew you didn’t have anything to worry about with them, but it wasn’t always easy seeing her. She was his ex-girlfriend after all. But Janey had been nothing but nice to you since you and Michael began dating.
“Fuck, I’m gonna have to tell Jake.”
Nausea entered the pit of your stomach. You bit your lip, nodding lightly. This wasn’t going to be an easy conversation. Michael hated breaking bad news to patients’ families. But this was worse; this had been the closest thing he had to a son. Jake meant a lot to him; Michael was sort of his father figure. How was he going to tell Jake that he tried everything, but his efforts were futile?
Michael rubbed his face, moving to the back of his neck. He was visibly frustrated, a change from his emotion earlier. He let out a loud, audible sigh before cursing under his breath again.
“Just tell him the truth, Michael. I can be here if you want me to.”
He looked at you, his face tired. He was tired from the day. Maybe tired wasn’t the word—more like exhausted.
“Yeah, I need that.”
You nodded, taking his hand.
That was part of the vows you both had decided to take together. To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad, for richer or poorer, for as long as you both shall live. And you both meant every word you said. He gave you a sad smile, both of you bracing for what was to come. The room was silent, allowing you to hear the babies crying down the hallway.
It didn’t seem like much time had passed when a knock came to the door. You both eyed each other, mentally preparing. Dana announced her arrival, coming in by herself first. She slowly shut the door behind her before making her way over to your bed.
“Hey.”, she smiled.
“Hey.”, you returned as she leaned down to hug you, squeezing you slightly.
Enough to make you smile.
“Hey, Robby.”
“Hey.”, he breathed quietly before she stood up to hug him, rubbing her hand up and down his back lightly.
Dana sat down on the edge of your bed, taking your hand.
“How’s the ER?”
"Calming down. Night shift is handling most of it. Jack’s working hard. But I want to know how Baby Robinavitch is.”
You smiled, grabbing the ultrasound pictures from the bedside table. “See for yourself.”
Dana laughed lightly as she took them from you, sliding her glasses on so she could see them better. “Oh my God. Look at it, so tiny.”
Her voice shook, tears swelling up in her eyes. She rarely ever cried. Matter of fact, you weren’t sure you’d ever seen her cry. You looked up at Michael, who was standing with his arms crossed, giving you a soft smile back.
“Yeah, it’s our little baby.”
“So no miscarriage or ectopic?”, Dana looked at you over her glasses.
“No, Dr. Myers feels good about everything, just concerned about my hemoglobin and blood pressure, so she’s keeping me tonight. She wants to see me back in a couple of weeks for another ultrasound.”
Dana smiled, taking her time to carefully look over each image. “God, I’m so happy for you both.”
Michael smiled, leaning down to kiss your head before holding his hand, resting it on the back of your head. His fingers were almost entangled in your hair. It caused you to look up at him, tears evident in the corner of your eyes.
“Jake and Janey are up here. I wanted to come in before they did. Is it okay if they come in when I leave?”
You and Michael shared a glance, silently sharing thoughts. It was time to tell Jake about Leah.
“What’s that look for?”, Dana paused, feeling her stomach knot.
She knew that look between you and Michael, and it usually wasn’t good news.
Michael sighed, making eye contact with Dana. “I have to tell Jake about Leah.”
“You lost her?”
Michael nodded silently, pursing his lips. It was a fresh, raw wound that he wasn’t quite ready to open up yet, but he knew he had to. He had to tell Jake the truth, and it would be best coming from him. Even though it was going to be one of the hardest things he had ever had to do.
“Oh shit.”, Dana gasped. “What happened?”
You looked at Michael, monitoring him lightly for any sign he might lapse. But he didn’t.
“Bullet tore through her heart. I tried three units of blood, a unit of FFP, and 600 milliliters of her own blood from the cell saver. I couldn’t stay ahead of her blood loss.”
Dana could tell this was hard for Michael. “Do you want me to talk to him?”
Michael shook his head. “No, it would be best to come from me.”
Dana nodded, placing a hand on your leg before handing the pictures back to you. “Do you want me to send them in now?”
Both you and Michael exchanged glances, both finally nodding in agreement. Dana nodded before leaning over and hugging you. She told you she loved you and would check on you in the morning. She rose up from the bed, squeezing Michael’s shoulder, silently telling him this was the right thing to do. But that wasn’t going to make it any easier. He returned the sad smile as he watched her to the door, Dana slowly closing it behind her.
Michael sighed loudly, pinching his nose while closing his eyes tightly. You knew he was stressed beyond the max. After just a minute, another knock came to your door. It was Janey announcing her and Jake’s arrival. You both told them to come in, Jake entering first in a wheelchair being pushed by his mom.
“Hey.”, Janey greeted lightly.
“Hi.”, Michael responded.
“How’s Leah?”
Michael looked at you before looking back at Janey and Jake.
“Jake.”, Janey sighed. “We’re here to check on Robby and Y/N.”
“No, Janey. It’s okay. I need to talk to Jake.”
An expression of fear washed over Jake’s face, the color automatically draining. It’s like deep in his heart, he already knew what Michael was going to tell him.
Michael sat down on the edge of your bed, Jake wheeling himself over to face him. Both you and Janey exchanged looks, anticipating what would come next. Michael grabbed your hand lightly, the bit of encouragement he needed to continue.
“What is it?”, Jake asked. “Where’s Leah? They won’t let me see her, Robby.”
Janey sat down beside Jake in a free chair. She grabbed his hand. Here it was, the calm before the storm.
“What’s wrong?”
Michael sighed, looking straight at Jake, visibly beginning to get upset. He inhaled sharply before giving Jake a sympathetic smile. “Leah’s injuries were really serious. She stopped breathing. We put a tube down her throat to deliver oxygen.”
Your heart was breaking for both Michael and Jake, knowing this was going to change things. You thumbed over Michael’s hand to let him know he wasn’t alone.
“We were able to drain the blood that was collapsing her lungs. We gave her as much blood as we could. We even transfused some of her own blood that was in her chest. But we were unable to—.”, Michael’s voice cracked, hanging his head down before gaining the courage to continue. “To get ahead of the massive blood loss. Her heart stopped.”
Jake continued to eye Michael, trying to make sense of what he was telling him.
Michael’s voice became a whisper. “You saw me doing CPR. We did everything that we could.”
Tears were swelling in the corners of Jake’s eyes. “She’s dead?”, his voice cracked.
Michael’s lips pursed, nodding as he held back his own tears.
“No, no—I was talking to her after she got shot—and she was talking.”
Jake was now in denial, the first stage of grief.
“Her heart was damaged beyond repair. There was nothing that we could do to save her.”
“I want—I want to see her.”, Jake’s voice was shaky.
Michael began shaking his head, voice cracking. You rubbed your face, finding this one of the most difficult things you had listened to. And you and Michael had been in a lot of codes together, lost a lot of people together, and told a lot of families their loved one was gone despite your greatest efforts. This all felt like a bad dream, hoping you’d wake up.
“I’m really sorry, man, but you can’t.”
“Why not?”
Janey rubbed Jake’s arm, trying to calm him down. “Why not?”
“Because this is an active police and FBI investigation.”
Jake quickly turned from sadness to anger, beginning to protest. “She’s—she’s dead.”
Michael nodded, trying to be as patient as possible. “I know, I know. They’re going to release her to her parents in a couple of days.”
For these words to even leave his mouth, Michael felt like he was taking a bullet to the heart. Guilt was beginning to creep back in. If he hadn’t given his ticket to her, maybe she would still be alive. On the other hand, he had to be thankful that he didn’t go. He needed to be there for you and his unborn child. He was finally going to be a father, and he wanted to enjoy every moment of it. He was one decision away from a completely different life.
Michael hated this. For a moment, he imagined what it would be like to be told his child was dead. Hell, he almost went through this earlier. Even if his baby was just six weeks into their development, it was still his child, his baby. The one he had longed for during most of his life. The loss of a child was one of the worst aspects of his career, and he hated delivering news to the parents.
“No, please, you have to let me see her.”
Stage three—bargaining.
“Jake.”, Janey spoke softly.
“Please, please, please, Robby.”, his voice broke.
“I can’t, Jake. I’m so sorry.”
You sighed, closing your eyes. This didn’t feel real.
Jake began crying. “Did you call her parents?”
Michael shook his head, looking down at the floor. “They’ll give the number to our social worker, who’ll contact them very soon.”
“I got their daughter killed.”, he sniffled. “Fuck, I got their daughter killed.”
Michael had gained some composure. “This is not your fault, Jake.”
Jake continued to sniffle, audibly crying. “Why—why couldn’t you save her?”
Michael closed his eyes, instantly feeling defeated.
“I mean this—this is what you do, Robby.”
“Jake.”, Janey called him down. “You know, Robby did everything he could. Sometimes, it doesn’t work.”
You could see Michael physically going numb, knowing he was about to flashback. There it was again. The vision came back again as he remembered turning off the vent that was keeping his mentor alive, helping him breathe. Michael could feel himself in the peds room, gowned up in his PPE, and breathing through his PAPR. The air was stale, his own breath fogging up the window of the PAPR. He could see Dr. Adamson lying there in the bed, a shell of the person he once was.
Michael remembered the feeling of grabbing his hand and holding it, wishing the outcome could be different. He remembered getting down on his knee, bed level, to see his mentor and remember his face. He would remember it long after he was gone. He remembered the feeling of cold tears running down his warm cheeks.
“I tried.”, Michael’s eyes were closed as he breathed, nodding.
He was trying to reassure himself. He was trying to use grounding techniques, something the therapist had taught him to do.
“I really tried. We all did. If this had been any other day, man—”
“Had this been any other day?”, Jake repeated the sentence, becoming visibly defensive. “What the fuck does that mean? “Any other day”? What, you would’ve saved her life?”
Again, Michael’s eyes closed as he replayed the vision of him cutting off the ventilator, keeping Dr. Adamson alive. He could see his blue gloves, touching the screen. Tears were forming in his eyes, the PAPR becoming clouded as he struggled to hold back his own tears.
“Yes. No. I don’t know. I don’t—I don’t know.”
Michael was breaking down, reminding you of a scared child. It was breaking your heart into pieces.
“Jake, that’s enough.”, his mom touched his arm, and he slung it off angrily. “Robby and Y/N have done so much for you, and you’re not going to do this to them.”
“We’re getting slammed up there. You’ve seen it.”, Michael was trying to redirect the conversation and keep it calm. “The fact that we’ve saved as many people as we have is a fucking miracle.”
Jake wasn’t making eye contact with him, instead looking at the ground. “But you didn’t save Leah.”
There it was.
“No, no—I didn’t.”, Michael’s voice was cracking; he was breaking down. “And I don’t know how many people I’ve helped today, but I can tell you every other person who has died. Look, man—fuck, I almost lost my baby today.”
Michael rubbed his face, breaking all the way down. Tears entered your eyes as you shut them, forcing one to slide down your cheek. Janey looked visibly surprised, but also saddened to hear how horrible the day had really been.
He remembered taking a last look at his mentor, beginning to break down. The feeling was just as raw as the day it happened.
“There was an eighteen-year-old who was t-boned by an eighteen-wheeler. And—and a family—a mother, father, daughter involved in a house fire and a little boy who drowned trying to save his little sister.”, Michael was full on sobbing. “And I’m gonna remember Leah long after you’ve forgotten her. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck—I’m sorry.”
Michael jumped up from the edge of the bed, immediately pulling his hand away from yours. He went over to the window, beginning to look out at the town of Pittsburgh.
“Jake, let’s go. We need to go.”, his mom breathed, voice at a whisper.
She quietly apologized to you, you nodded lightly. This day had been a lot.
“You know, you’re not my friend—and you’re not my dad. So fuck off!”
Both you and Janey gasped. Jake wheeled himself out of the room, glaring at Michael. You turned back to see if he was looking at Jake. He was. Tears brimmed in his brown eyes before he turned back around. He didn’t say anything. Janey gave you an apologetic look before she followed Jake out of the room, closing the door lightly.
The room was quiet, you pursed your lips and waited for Michael to break. But he didn’t. He came back over and sat down on the edge of your bed. He looked at you sadly before grabbing your hand.
7:00 AM
Morning came. The sun was beginning to rise on the horizon of Pittsburgh. Michael had rested on and off through the night, waking up every time the nurse came in to assess you and check your vitals. He had been up thinking a lot about Jake and Leah. You slept well through the night, barely arousing when they came in. Michael was glad of it; you needed the rest. He was used to running on minimal sleep. He was always up before you were.
Even on a normal day, you both had to work. He tried to sleep in on some of the weekends. The nurse had already brought Michael a cup of coffee, and he sat there in the dark room with the only light coming from the window, watching you sleep. It was a sight he never grew tired of. For once, it was calm and quiet, minus the babies crying here and there. But he might as well get used to that.
The thought alone made him smile to himself. He wanted nothing more. The nurses changed shifts, and the oncoming day shift nurse came in and introduced herself. The phlebotomist had already been in to draw your blood. You woke up at that point, still clearly groggy and exhausted from the day before. But it all made more sense now, especially knowing you were pregnant.
“Still tired?”, Michael asked as he leaned down and kissed you good morning, something he always did.
“Mhmmm.”, you sighed, yawning lightly. “When is Dr. Myers coming around?”
“Should be making her rounds soon.”
“I want to go home.”, you lay your head back on your pillow.
Michael chuckled lightly to himself. “I know, baby.”
Dietary brought you a breakfast tray consisting of eggs, toast, and bacon. Once you removed the cover, you turned your nose up. Michael noticed the obvious food aversion.
“Bacon?”, you questioned. “Ugh, the smell alone makes me nauseous.”
Michael smirked. “Our baby makes you hate bacon. Noted.”
You looked up at him, clearly not as amused as he was. Upon noticing this, he cleared his throat and wiped the smirk from his face. “I’m sorry, baby.”
You waved him off easily. “It’s fine. You want this?”
“You need to eat, baby. You’re eating for two.”
You glared at him easily as he picked up a piece of bacon, you picking up a piece of toast. “Yes, thank you, Dr. Robinavitch.”
He nodded, smiling. “I deserved that.”
About an hour later, Dr. Myers came in and announced that she was going to release you since your blood pressure had been stable and your hemoglobin had improved according to the morning labs. This was good news; the only thing you had to wait on was discharge papers. Michael helped you get dressed back in your scrubs, preparing to go home. He hadn’t had a chance to run home to get any more clothes.
Yours looked better than his anyway. He decided he’d just wear the green OR scrubs home, putting his infamous hoodie back on to make him feel semi-normal. You had just signed your discharge papers when a knock came to the door. It caught both of your all’s attention.
The door opened to reveal Jack. You heard Michael sharply inhale, crossing his arms. Something he only did when he was frustrated or annoyed.
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah, come on, Jack.”, you smiled.
You had clearly missed the confrontation Jack and your husband had earlier. Jack looked at Michael hesitantly, but Michael said nothing to object. He slipped into the room, closing the door behind him.
“I hear you get to break out of here and go home.”, Jack came over and leaned down, giving you a hug. “You scared the fucking shit out of us down there.”
You smiled easily, looking into his eyes. “I’m sorry, Jack. I had no idea that was going to happen.”
“I’m just glad you’re okay. I heard the baby’s fine too.”
You nodded. “Yeah, wanna see the pictures?”
He shared another look with Michael. Michael huffed lightly, still clearly upset about something. You handed Jack the ultrasound pictures, and he looked over them, a soft smile creeping up on his lips.
“This is great.”
“Thanks for helping take care of me, Jack. I really appreciate it.”, you smiled up at him, grabbing his hand,
He nodded, smiling. “It was a no-brainer, really.”
Michael had just about had enough. “Hm, only problem is you didn’t tell her husband what the fuck was going on.”
You looked back at him, shocked by his outburst. “Michael.”
“He just let me work like nothing was wrong and you were up here, going through all of that alone.”
“Michael, don’t blame Jack. I didn’t want Dana or Jack to tell you right away. And you know why—you were in the middle of working on Leah. I didn’t want it to sway your judgment.”
“No, I should have told him sooner. He’s right.”, Jack looked at him. “Robby, I’m sorry.”
“Save it, Jack. Please.”, Michael held up his hand. “I just want to take my wife and go home. It’s been a hell of a shift.”
Jack nodded, realizing he shouldn’t push Michael any further. He turned to you. “Call me if you all need anything.”
Without another word, Jack slipped out of the room and closed the door behind him.
“Was that really necessary, Michael?”
“He didn’t tell me what was going on with you.”, Michael reiterated. “He should’ve told me.”
You sighed, closing your eyes and rubbing your forehead. “You know protocol.”
“Fuck protocol. You’re my wife—you’re everything to me—the only thing that matters to me in this world—and you are pregnant with my baby, and I was worried to fucking death about you and the baby. And to think of you going through the pain of an ectopic pregnancy or miscarriage alone killed me, okay? I felt like a piece of shit husband.”
You sighed, opening your eyes. “Michael, you’re not a piece of shit. You’re so far from a piece of shit. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me besides this baby. I just thought we were doing what was best for you and the situation we were all in. You needed to be a doctor. Today wasn’t exactly a normal day.”
Michael nodded as you grabbed his hand. “Yeah, you’re right—I’m just—fuck.”
You nodded. “I know, baby. Can we just go home? I want a shower, and I just want to get in our bed; it’s a hell of a lot more comfortable than this hospital bed. Patients always complained, and now, I really get it.”, Unhooking your own IV, you stood up and steadied yourself.
Michael smiled softly. “Yeah, let’s go home, baby.”
Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!doctor!wife!reader
The Before | Hour Two.
[ Series Masterlist ]
Summary: Hour One: Avoidance, pain, and a harrowing feeling that it all might be falling apart.
Note: thank you for the likes, comments and reblogs on the first part🥹I appreciate you guys
Word Count: 3.1k+
Warnings: age gap, ANGST, established relationship (marriage), rough patch in a marriage, divorce mentioned, hospital setting, medical inaccuracies, canon typical gore, foul language, bottled up emotions/poor communication, being a bit mean to each other as a result
not beta read !
HOUR ONE.
You arrived at the Pitt far more exhausted than usual. You blamed it on the extra hours to avoid being at home, or the nagging, aching thoughts that kept you up at night. Nights when his side of the bed had long grown cold, or on the better nights, just when he would slip in, you would slip out.
You began to fear maybe you burned too brightly too quickly and it was your time to burn out.
Your friends had told you it was due to your gap in age, the busy schedules that prevented any real conversations for days on end or that it had all happened too fast, and you had begun to think they were right.
Michael’s worst fear coming true: you beginning to regret him.
But were you?
The coffee, left on the counter as a small token that perhaps your marriage wasn’t completely over, was just a bit off — a smidge too bitter for how you usually took it. You clung to the cup anyways. Perhaps from the exhaustion, perhaps from the tiniest sliver of hope, perhaps just the heat.
He had slipped out of the house before you got out of the shower, and his avoidance was beginning to grow just as painful as your own. Despite always entering the Pitt separately, even though most of your colleagues knew you were married, you had usually always driven in together.
“Morning, sunshine,” Langdon said, opening his locker to put in his backpack.
“Awful chipper this morning,” you replied, “good morning.”
Langdon side-eyed you, “Good to see you back from nights.”
You pursed your lips, humming, “Yes. Good.”
The nightshifts had not exactly helped anything at home, but it surely had not started it. Being back on days, hard fought between, “Does it even really matter, Michael?” and “Of course it matters! We’re never even home at the same time!”, should have been a saving grace.
It truly was just a hail mary.
“You decide to take one for the team?” Langdon asked, turning to lean against the lockers, watching you.
You stuffed the remainder of your things into your locker, ‘that was the plan’, but you bit your tongue. “No, he’s here, too.”
After a month off dayshift, you figured none of your colleagues would be able to see the cracks between you and Michael forming. You had always been perfectly professional in the workplace, HR would not have it any other way considering the circumstances, but the tension lingered like a bad odor.
You just hoped that today of all days it didn’t implode.
Langdon raised his eyebrows, “Well, that’s…good?”
“He might be more…prickly than usual.” You said, closing your locker and sipping your bitter coffee.
“Yeah, Adamson. Four years, right?”
You stepped into pace with him, “Yeah, might be a hard day for a few of us.”
You hadn’t known Adamson long before he died, but COVID had hit everyone like a truck. The anniversary of his death might just be a blessing in disguise, you thought, despite how horrible that was—
“Right. Explains your…chipper attitude.”
You gave him a dry look, but figured Langdon had just done you a favor. Dana was like a hawk with how keenly she could spot a shift — any shift, in demeanor or otherwise. If Langdon had sensed something off, she would sure as hell figure it out. You let out a long sigh and tried to school your features.
Jack, night shift’s chief attending, was typing away on the computer when you approached the central hub. The charge desk felt more daunting than it ever had. Dana looked over at you, and raised a careful eyebrow — you forced a smile before glancing up at the board.
Collins leaned against the desk, her lips pulling downward. “Who left this mess?”
“Oh, we’ve seen worse.” Langdon replied from beside her.
Out of some habit, your eyes sought out your husband. He was leaning against the desk in front of Jack, either avoiding your eyes or he simply had not noticed you yet. Jack gave you a long look before his eyes flickered back to Robby. You steeled your expression and looked back up at the board.
A woman with dark blonde hair pulled back into a braid and glasses, had an eager smile as she approached the two senior attendings, bouncing on her heels. She had scrubs on and a badge, but you did not recognize her face.
Dana turned to you, “Med students today.”
You hummed, “That’s good.”
You could easily hide away from any conflict with Robby while feigning it just being because you were busy showing some students the ropes. A bitter part of you hated the fact you were already prepping to avoid him, but the whole ED did not need to be caught in the middle of you two.
And with the way he had been behaving? It was easy to guess you both would be staying out of each other’s way.
“You okay, kid? You seem a little—”
“Just tired.” You told her with a tight smile. You hated skirting around the truth with her, but it was so unfair to put her in the middle, and there was a terrible anxiety of her choosing a side. “Sleep schedule’s a bit wacky coming off nights.”
She pursed her lips and nodded, “Glad you’re back in the land of the living.”
You tried not to laugh, “Don’t let Jack hear you say that.”
She smiled coyly and turned back to her computer.
Before rounds, Robby beckoned the staff around the new faces. You clenched your teeth and kept your distance. You stuck around long enough to learn their names — second year resident Dr. Melissa King, intern Dr. Trinity Santos, MS3 Victoria Javadi and MS4 Dennis Whitaker — before taking the first case on the board.
A 38-year-old woman complaining of a severe headache and nausea was not the most exciting of the bunch, but it got you out of the central pit where you felt like everyone was watching you. You busied yourself with running the exam, checking for additional symptoms and medical history. You ordered a few tests and told her you would be right back.
You walked right into the trauma.
“Dropped down on the T tracks. Couldn’t tube him.”
“Suicide attempt?”
“Rescue. Took a spill helping an elderly woman who fell off the tracks.”
You got new gloves and focused on the woman incoming, who after seeing her degloved foot, was understandably crying in agony.
“Good vitals and no head injuries.”
“Trauma two. Let’s go!”
You followed after Robby, avoiding his eyes and focusing down on the patient. You tried to no avail to get a name, and the language she spoke was not one you recognized.
When Robby moved to assist with the male trauma, you followed the woman into trauma bay two, head down and focused. You could get through the day, and anything afterwards you would deal with as it came up.
Easier said than done.
“Fifty of fent didn’t touch her.”
“Did she faint or did she trip off the platform?”
“Nobody knows.”
Not uncommon in the Pitt — you frequently had to work with what you had, and figure it out as you went along.
Just when you thought you had it, working around Langdon and Collins, Robby walked in asking questions for the med students. You turned your back and assessed the woman’s breathing.
“Head CT. EKG and troponin.”
Garcia — a surgical resident you did not entirely like — stepped into the room. Both senior residents and Robby were now in the room, and you quickly moved to trauma one. Not to flee, no, but to ensure the man had had everything he needed.
“What we got?” You asked as you entered the room, looking over to Mohan, who brightened when she saw you.
Mohan fired off the facts quickly, while you got new gloves.
“Santos, right?” You asked, looking over at the intern in the room. “Need to intubate, that work for you?”
She nodded eagerly, and you began walking her through it.
“The cords are very anterior.”
“Yeah, that’s because we can’t flex the neck. Keep the hockey stick straight up.”
“I’m in!”
“Good job,” you told her, checking his vital signs.
You were able to work through the rest of it with relative ease, even when Garcia came into the room to assess the needs. You brought her up to speed and it was decided quickly to bring him up to CT.
Spotting Gloria out of the corner of your eye, hovering by the doors of trauma two, and you knew it was not likely to be good. It was moments like these that you knew it was good that you did not have the admin responsibilities that Robby did. The less you were around Gloria — who pushed numbers and metrics, doing nothing about the staffing shortage — the better.
“Vitals are stable. You got this, Mohan?”
She smiled at you.
“Good, let me know when he goes to CT. Page me if you need me.”
Your migraine patient was doing much better with the ketorolac you had prescribed, as well as the IV fluids. You charted a few things quickly, while asking a few clarifying questions, and making sure she was not having any symptoms of a stroke or brain bleed.
Satisfied it was just a migraine, you started her discharge with instructions to follow up with her PCP about managing possible future migraine attacks.
Eager to move on to your next patient, you were quickly interrupted by a code blue from triage. You listened to McKay carefully as she rattled off his information while rolling him into a room.
Robby seemed to be everywhere you were today, and it was still only the first half hour of your shift.
“What’s in the differential, Dr. Collins?” Robby asked, getting on gloves.
You peeked over at Collins, easy to see the pinched look of annoyance on her face. You checked his pupils while McKay checked his breathing beside you.
“Drug overdose, electrolytes, long QT—”
Otis — the patient — began to stir.
“Hey, Otis,” you greeted, moving the light from his eyes. “How’re you doing?”
“Okay?” He replied, “What happ—”
The machine beeped a flatline, and you looked over your shoulder at it. Looking back down at Otis, your mind began racing a mile a minute to determine what was likely the cause. Potassium overload? Drugs?
“V-tach again.”
“200 joules!”
You moved your hands away from the patient, glancing at Robby, curious to see what he was thinking. If this kept happening, there was no real time to wait for labs to come back.
“Charged, and clear!”
The return of a steady beat on the monitor was a welcomed sound.
“Back in sinus.” You said.
McKay stepped closer to the patient, “Otis?”
He only groaned in response, which satisfied you.
Collins echoed your sentiment, “Groaning’s good. 5 of nasal O2, CBC, CMP, troponin, and D-dimer.” She glanced at you, calling your name, “Anything else?”
You were curious why she was asking you, instead of Robby, who was now over by the cart. It stole your attention, and instead of answering her, you stepped over by your husband.
“What are you doing?” You asked.
“One gram calcium gluconate, IV push.”
“We don’t have his labs back—”
“Look at the monitor. Widened QRS and PT waves. Hyperkalemia.” He said, “Tell me you weren’t thinking it.”
You frowned, glancing at the monitor while Robby began the IV push. It was brilliant, really, risky, but brilliant. It only seemed to frustrate you more.
He was so good at medicine and so shit at marriage.
“Intense exercise caused the muscle breakdown.” You said, arriving at his conclusion.
There was a hint of a smile, “Rhabdomyolysis knocked out his kidneys. Now he’s not clearing potassium. I bet it’s over 7.5.”
Collins was next to you two then, “Wait just two minutes for the i-STAT.”
She looked over at you like you would intervene, but there was a high forming in your chest. It felt great to be good at something together again — even if it was medicine and not marriage.
“Collins, he could arrest again at any moment—” you tried.
“If it’s hypercalcemia, you could kill him.” She whispered to Robby, not sparing you another glance.
“It’s my ass, not yours.”
You moved away from them both, ignoring the way McKay was side-eyeing you. Otis was groaning again, coming to, and relief flushed through your system.
Robby was looking at you again, watching the way you moved, and you had the guilty thought of ‘why did we ever move this out of the hospital? Move it from business to pleasure? Maybe we would have been better off.’
You were quick to retreat, “QRS has narrowed. Much better.”
“Potasium is 7.7. Creatinine, 5.6.” Perlah said.
“High potassium and renal failure. Just what you thought.”
“It must be my lucky day.” Robby said, and you did not miss the way his eyes lingered on you before looking away quickly.
The tension was palpable. The high retreated just as quickly as it came, crashlanding to reality.
Collins pulled you aside just beyond the curtain.
“I don't know what's going on between you two already today, but you can’t let your marriage cloud your judgment with patients.”
Your eyebrows raised. It really was the other way around. “Collins, that’s definitely not what happened. My judgment is the same as it was when I was on days with you a month ago. You never thought to question it then.
She frowned, but relented quickly.
You gave Collins a tight smile as you moved into the hallway, curious as to what had turned her mood sour. Her and Robby’s fling was no secret to you, but it had ended before you had entered the Pitt as a third year resident. You felt zero threat when it came to Collins, not because she wasn’t beautiful or wickedly smart and undeniably kind, but because it was clearly in the past.
You moved further down the hallway when Robby stopped you.
“You okay?”
You raised an eyebrow at the loaded question.
He sighed, placing his hands on his hips, “Look, I know we haven’t worked together in a month, but let’s not make it difficult.”
You clicked your tongue as frustration swelled, “I didn’t realize it was me making things difficult.”
“That’s not what I—” His eyes scanned you before inhaling deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you weren’t okay.”
“I’m good. Peachy, really. Are you okay?”
“Can you just—“ he let out a puff of air, “Gloria’s on my ass today, so please, let’s not do this now.”
Informing HR about your relationship had been anxiety wrapped up in stress. Convincing the board that there was no conflict of interest, even with Robby being your boss, had been an uphill battle. Gloria fished for any reason to move you, or demote Robby, and your perfectly curated professionalism had ensured she never had any reason to do either of those things.
Today was just a ticking timebomb and all you did was throw a blanket over it.
“Of course. We should shelf this conversation, for what, next month? Or is that too soon?” You replied.
Robby’s expression grew hard, lips in a line of thinly veiled frustration, and frown lines like cracks in his otherwise calm ‘I’ve got this’ demeanor. His lips upticked like a challenge, “Why don’t you go help McKay in triage? You can be useful there.”
Your smile was sharp, but as breakable as glass. “You got it, Dr. Robinavitch.”
He let out an exhale like a balloon deflating, but he did not call out for you as you turned heel and headed to triage.
They say the first year of marriage is the hardest.
You just never thought it would be this hard.
Why did you have to make everything so difficult? Moving you back to days was supposed to fix everything, in that magical ‘not actually doing any work’ sort of way. The unrealistic, easy way.
It was a way to see more of each other, be able to be home at the same time, be more present in each other’s lives.
Of course it just had to fall on this particular anniversary. Just his luck, right? He wasn’t even supposed to work today, but thought, what the hell? and decided to anyways.
You only seemed to resent him for it. Perhaps this was all just a crash landing out of the honeymoon phase, and you were waking up to the reality of being with him.
It stung somewhere in his chest that his worst fears were beginning to materialize in front of him, and every time he moved to fix it, it just broke further.
So Robby did what he did best: buried himself in the work.
The Living Dead arrival, as Dana so gracefully put it, was a perfect teaching opportunity, thinly veiled over his avoidance. His only focus now was to teach good lessons and get through the twelve hours.
It was going to have to be a marathon, not a sprint.
Though his chest ached all the same, remembering the way you had scoffed and walked away from him only minutes before. He had noticed the missing silver chain that usually adorned your neck during work hours, that held your wedding ring, a way to wear it while still adhering to protocol.
Maybe you had just forgotten it. You could be forgetful when you rushed.
But maybe…just maybe it was a sign that you were throwing in the towel. Ready to commit to giving up.
It sat heavy in his heart.
So heavy that even keeping his hands busy did not seem to distract his mind in the slightest. It felt like a damn cruelty that he was unable to give all of himself to the work, or to you, and splitting it down the middle had already spelled disaster.
He felt like Sisyphus.
Everything was crashing and the wreckage was mounting. You being avoidant and rigid, gifting him a shred of hope while diagnosing a patient just to take it away, Collins challenging him at every turn, one med student taking a header, and another injuring his finger all while Gloria was riding his ass about Press Ganey scores.
The panic attack was sudden, but made a frustrating amount of sense.
Adamson. You, your marriage. The heavy weight of those he had lost. Collins. The med students. David. The chaos of the waiting room.
And all he could think about was the one person who definitely did not want to be around him right now.
It was going to be a long shift.
[ Hour Two. ]
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A/N: Back at it again! Thanks for your patience! Please come chat with me if you're so inclined. I'd love to talk about suffering.
Word count: 3797
Rated: Mature
Tags: Angst, Mutual Trauma, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Tension, Sex, Mutual Pining, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Comfort/Hurt, Where the comfort also hurts, a lot of baseball talk tbh
new to this fic? start here
“It doesn’t sound like you’re dying. It sounds like you caught a stomach bug from one of the children running around with unclean hands.”
Rose squeezed her eyes shut as she leaned against the break room counter beside the coffee pot. Holding in a sigh, she nodded along to her younger brother’s undeterred complaints over the phone. She had twenty minutes before her day started, and this wasn’t how she wanted to spend them.
As she poured coffee from the fresh pot into the travel mug she started bringing in after the almond milk debacle, the door to the breakroom opened. Robby walked in with his own tumbler, shoving a pair of wired headphones into his pocket.
They exchanged small, friendly smiles as Rose pressed the phone to her shoulder and moved over to the fridge. She released an annoyed breath while pouring half and half into her coffee.
“No, I’m sure it isn’t appendicitis…“ she paused as he asked indignantly how she could know that. “Because you had your appendix out when I was in seventh grade, and they don’t grow back.”
Robby exhaled through his nose, just barely keeping himself from laughing.
“I have lives to save, Luke... Don’t come here, I am so serious. Forty-three people have died while you’ve held me verbally hostage. Fuck off, goodbye.”
Rose hung up and slid her phone into the pocket of her scrubs, glancing at Robby who had a small grin on his face as he mixed sugar into his coffee.
“Forty-three people and you haven’t even clocked in yet?” he asked, sounding tired but amused. His voice was scratchy. Rose suspected she was likely the first person he had spoken to since waking up this morning.
“Only up from here.” Rose smiled brightly, making him chuckle.
“One of your brothers?” Robby asked, taking the offered half and half.
“Baby of the family - Luke. He likes to catastrophize when my nephews give him whatever pestilence they got at school. He mostly wants to annoy me.” She shrugged, taking a long sip of too hot coffee.
“Funny to be a hypochondriac and not remember having your appendix out,” he commented, returning the quart to the fridge.
“There’s a lot the man can’t remember.” Rose shook her head, something bruised coloring her tone. “I try to catch him in the morning if I have to talk to him.”
Robby’s brow furrowed at that, and he started to ask for clarification when Rose’s pager went off.
“Off to the races.” She slipped past him out the door.
It was finally time for work to occupy her mind and push her personal thoughts back into their corner. Luke was fishing for information. Rose was meant to be coming home for their father’s birthday, and she had been punting on telling them she didn’t request the time off. Not showing up and giving them all something to kibitz about was in itself a birthday gift to her father.
Robby stopped himself from watching her go, biting his cheek. His day was off to a frustrating start and chatting with Rose for even a moment had been a welcome reprieve.
On his way out the door, he knocked his coffee out of his hands and stepped on one of his AirPods. Stupid, tiny things. The first thing Dana said when he got through the door was that he had to return calls to two insurance companies this morning. Lovely.
Further down the list of frustrations was how poorly he had been sleeping. Even on his days off, even if he made himself busy, exhausted himself - sleep only came in 90 minute bursts with far too much time in between.
Robby didn’t want to admit how much he missed sleeping in Rose’s bed. They had not successfully coordinated time together since she came back from her days off.
He texted her the week before when the Pirates officially became a losing baseball team, asking if she wanted to watch them try to rebalance the scales the next day, but she was covering a surgical resident’s shift for the OR hours. Robby had no reason to suspect that wasn’t true, and he forced himself not to check the scheduling system. It wasn’t his business. He was admittedly a little reluctant to try again after that, hoping she might seek him out. If only for his guilt’s sake.
Robby pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes hard, until it ached a little in his sinuses. He needed to focus. Calling and fighting with someone at an insurance company would at least get his blood going.
Halfway through the morning, Robby consulted on one of Rose’s patients, a woman in her mid-30s. The patient was having episodes of extreme nasal bleeding and her blood pressure was through the roof. The nosebleed did not stop after basic cauterizing, only slowing and stopping once her blood pressure returned to baseline with fluids. Rose identified correctly that the bloodwork showed potential hypothyroidism, high TSH and low T4. Based on the info, Robby advised Rose to discharge with the recommendation for specialist follow up to address the long term treatment of hypothyroidism.
“It’s weird that the cauterization wouldn’t work though. That’s concerning, no?” Rose asked as they left her room and she followed Robby back toward the Hub.
“There’s always some anatomical variation,” he said after considering it for a moment. “The bleeding stopped when her blood pressure came down. That’s the most we can do for her today.”
He was pulled away to an incoming trauma, e-bike vs. pedestrian, and Rose frowned to herself before sitting to do some research.
Two hours later, Dr. Walsh came down to collect Rose’s patient for surgery and Robby came over from where he was charting his last procedure, looking confused. “Did I miss something, Dr. Walsh? Who called for a surgical consult on North 5?”
“Dr. Reilly sent over imaging showing the patient has a vascular abnormality causing her nasal bleeding. Great catch, we can do an angiogram and intervene to make sure she doesn’t bleed out in her sleep one night,” Walsh said, giving him a tight smile as she pushed the gurney past him into the elevator. “Send Reilly to scrub in, if you can spare her.”
When Rose passed him a few minutes later on her way to the break room, Robby pulled her aside into the stairwell.
“Hey. North 5. You completely ignored me without even bothering to advocate for a different approach.”
There was barely concealed frustration in his tone.
“We were wrong to stop where we did,” Rose explained levelly. “She would have suffered continuously and needlessly until someone else figured it out. She could have died.”
“That is something you could have come to me to discuss instead of sidestepping,” he said firmly. “It isn’t about the outcome. Procedures exist for a reason. The patients you treat are my liability. I feel like we’ve had this conversation before – call me crazy.”
“I made a call, and it was the right one.” She crossed her arms. “I ordered scans; I didn’t cut into her myself.”
“That is not at all how the chain of command works here, and you know that, Dr. Reilly,” Robby’s voice was low, tinged with warning. “She’s being prepped for surgery right now, but you haven’t presented this case to me in hours. See the problem?”
Rose was going to get herself into trouble that wasn’t worth it. She inhaled slowly and nodded.
“I’m sorry, you’re right. Next time I’ll raise my concerns with you directly unless it’s urgent, Dr. Robinavitch.” Her words were careful, her tone clipped.
“Did you need to add the caveat?” he sighed heavily, rubbing both hands over his face. “Just, go. Walsh asked you to scrub in. Come back down when you’re done.”
The direction surprised her, her expression pinching. Rose wasn’t expecting to be rewarded given how annoyed he was. If anything, she expected she would be doing triage on pukers and panickers out in chairs, not scrubbing in on a somewhat rare procedure.
Her surprise must have been evident because Robby sighed, his own expression easing into weariness instead of irritation. “It was the right call, you saved her life. I trust you to make correct calls. Just… come on. You know better. It’s not about being right. Keep me in the loop, please.”
Robby left her standing in the stairwell with the weight of his confidence settling on her, both stifling and bolstering.
---------
People were drinking too much, Rose thought as she babysat the tall tequila soda she ordered when she arrived late to the going away party for one of the nightshift nurses.
Glancing around at the group, there was a moment she wondered who was driving the proverbial bus, particularly as she noted both Robby and Abbot at a booth in the corner, but there were other fully capable adults minding The Pitt tonight.
Abbot stood from where he sat with Dana and his dayshift counterpart, collecting the empty beer bottles from the table and heading for the bar where Rose sat. “Hey, I didn’t see you come in. Just get here?”
“Not long ago, I finished up on time but couldn’t bring myself to show up without going home and showering first.” Rose made a face. She both physically needed it and also needed to stare out the window of her bathroom for a while before she could socialize.
Jack nodded in understanding. “Beer at the park is one thing, an establishment is another.”
“Here, here.” Rose lifted her drink.
After ordering three more beers from the bartender, Jack returned his attention to her, sitting on the stool beside her.
“Hangin’ in there? Eventful summer.” His tone was kind but not light, maybe even a touch of genuine concern at its root.
The tequila in her stomach hardened and rooted her to the barstool. Not mad, just disappointed. That’s what Robby had said. But that was his attitude toward his friend.
“Are they ever not eventful? It’s summer in Pittsburgh. We have more festivals than we know what to do with,” Rose said, smiling by pressing her lips together.
Abbot shook his head with an amused sigh. “Fair enough. Smooth evasion. I’ll narrow the inquiry - doing alright after your personal trip through The Pitt? Did you leave me a good review? I had to do your chart, ya know.”
“You also dialed my emergency contact without me asking, disclosed medical info to someone other than family, and then lied about calling a car.” The last words were accompanied by air quotes, and she tipped her head down to give him a look.
“Now I know that asshole didn’t show up on horseback or to walk you home.” Jack raised an eyebrow.
His eyes found hers with an intensity that made her feel at once considered and exposed. Rose wasn’t about to incriminate herself though, projecting a practiced calmness in spite of her thrumming pulse.
“Should I send an Edible Arrangement and a singing clown?”
“Can’t stand clowns, but I’m a sucker for carved fruit.”
“I’ll even email Gloria and tell her what a great time I had personally correcting an intern on which fluids to give while in active anaphylaxis because both attendings walked away.” Rose leaned her elbow on the bar, her cheek against her palm.
“I mean… you are their senior resident.” The smirk on his face made her want to kick over his barstool.
“This fucking place,” Rose laughed humorlessly and sighed, taking a long sip of her drink as Jack chuckled beside her.
Her eyebrows raised as she glanced around and caught sight of Dr. Ghent and a med student she didn’t recognize locking lips in a booth with an abandon generally reserved for spaces outside semi-professional gatherings.
Abbot continued his amused snickering as his eyeline followed hers. “Ah, to be young and have no discretion.”
“The youth these days and their lack of boundaries.” There was a sharpness to her tone that had Jack casting a glance at her. “Tape those personal boxes shut, kids.”
”Here, here,” he echoed mildly.
The bartender brought over the drinks for his table and the attending stood as he grabbed the necks of the bottles. “Anything you want to talk about before I go back to my table?”
She gave him a light smile and shook her head. “Nope, I’m good. I do appreciate the medical care you provided though, for the record.”
“I figured. What with you being alive still and all.” He turned to walk away but stopped. “I’m around,” He added before continuing without waiting for a reply.
It was a couched offer of support, but the sentiment behind it was nice – like he thought she might need to talk about whatever the fuck was going on between her and Robby. Too risky considering it wasn’t clear if she would be talking to Jack, Robby’s friend, or Dr. Abbot, an attending. Either way, Rose suspected he didn’t really want to know any details but felt professionally obligated to check in given the situation. She wondered if Robby provided him any kind of explanation. She realized she hadn’t asked.
What she would give to hear the words Robby used to describe their whole mess. He would no doubt be too considerate of her feelings to ever be completely honest with her but he would probably be more upfront with his friend. What would Abbot be more disappointed in Robby for? A series of casual hook ups with a subordinate or a full on a relationship with one? It didn’t matter much, they firmly had the former, Rose reminded herself. She didn’t need to hear Robby describe the situation to know that. There was plenty of empirical data.
It didn’t bother her that they weren’t dating. It just sucked that suddenly the casual part was less fun when she had to watch him feel guilty. Like she was something he kept letting himself have and then hating himself after.
The bartender brought her over a replacement drink as she finished hers. How many other people here were drinking on empty stomachs or protein bars? She couldn’t be the only one. Probably why people seemed so messy even though she was only an hour late.
Rose knew she couldn’t loiter at the bar forever, so she took her drink over to a table of nurses and settled in to hear the gossip exchange between shifts.
Another hour or so later, she noticed Robby wasn’t at his table. She hadn’t seen him leaving. Excusing herself to the bathroom, Rose returned her empty glass to the bar.
In the dim, narrow hallway to the bathroom a hand caught hers, making her turn quickly. Her expression relaxed immediately when she saw it was Robby.
“Jesus,” she exhaled. “Don’t sneak up on a girl like that, I could have activated and broken your nose.”
“Hi,” Robby whispered with a tense smile, not even acknowledging her threat of violence. “You look nice.”
“Hello, thank you,” she chuckled when he didn’t let go of her hand, his eyes looking her over in a way that made her swallow hard, feeling like she should make sure no one was watching.
It was Robby who looked around with intent before nudging the bathroom door open behind him and tugging her inside. His arm was around her waist and he pressed her against the door as he locked it, kissing her hard. He tasted like lager and lime and a cigarette he must have bummed from Dana.
“Okay?” he asked, gaze finding hers as he pulled away. There was a fiery look in his eyes, as though he might incinerate whether or not he continued touching her. Her head was buzzing, but the physical contact sent static electricity through her nerves.
Rose nodded, pushing her lips against his. That was all the permission he needed, gripping her ass to coax her leg up to his hip so he could crowd into her space. A breathless whine left her when his teeth scraped over her pulse point, dragging a low groan from him. His hips pressed closer while he slid a hand under her shirt, his intention apparent against her thigh.
Now was not the time to be thinking the ‘two nickels’ joke about fucking her attending in a bar bathroom, but nonetheless it was the neural pathway that pulled her back to the first time they had given in to this. They were across the city then, not in a bar full of their coworkers.
His breath was heavy against her skin as he mouthed at her neck. Rose’s heart was stuttering to keep up. Her eyes closed as she ran her fingers through his hair, tugging gently. He practically whimpered against her throat.
“Fuck, I’ve gotta stop letting you do this to me.”
Rose shivered at the scratch of his beard, and his whispered thought almost didn’t register. It took a moment for the words to sink in, already half out of her body.
Letting her do this to him.
Letting her do this to him?
Letting her do this to him?
It took Robby a moment to realize she had frozen in his embrace as his lips pressed to the crook of her neck. Her hands were still, one on the back of his head and the other resting on his chest below his collarbone. He pulled back with a furrowed brow and Rose could only blink blankly at him.
“Letting me do this to you?” It took all the oxygen in her lungs to say it, shaking her head as if to clear it. Her stomach turned with hurt and fury in equal measure. “I didn’t pull you in here.”
It was blistering and painful, his words echoing on a loop as though she had manifested this moment with her earlier musings on his remorse. He went without protest when she pushed him back, his hands leaving her slowly and reluctantly, no longer in her space.
Rose needed to get out before the walls closed in.
“Rose, I’m sorry…That’s not what I meant. You’re not some… fucking siren.” He shook his head, rubbing a hand over his eyes.
A frustrated, ragged sigh left him as he was once again set adrift in an ocean of guilt. Robby had the audacity to turn away from her, hands linked on the back of his head like he might be handcuffed by the karma police.
“I shouldn’t have pulled you in here.“
There was that practiced and perfected Dr. Robby tone.
“Ding, ding, ding!” Rose snarled sarcastically and slipped out of the bathroom, relieved there was no one to see her.
The new goal was getting out of the bar and getting home before she combusted. New objectives were saying a final goodbye to Irene who was moving to Salt Lake City and closing out her tab.
She could not get stuck in a lengthy conversation, and Rose knew the best way to make an escape from a bar was by providing shots on the way out. After doing a quick headcount of Irene’s table, she signed her check while the bartender chilled tequila.
Rose took her time filling out the receipt as she caught Robby in her peripheral vision, an unreadable look on his face as he slunk back to his table with his shoulders around his ears.
The tray of shots made the goodbye short and sweet, and Irene’s table was mercifully on the other side of the bar from where Dana sat with the attendings. The charge nurse caught her eye and offered a wave as she realized Rose was leaving. She pantomimed offering her a cigarette, and Rose hesitated a moment before shaking her head.
Jack looked at Dana curiously when she held up a finger for Rose to wait and nudged Robby out of her way so she could stand from their booth. Twisting tension filled Rose’s insides as she forced a smile and nodded toward the alley door.
The fresh, early-fall air was a welcome relief, and Rose got to take five deep breaths before the door opened behind her, letting out the sound of the bar.
“Ya taking off already? Even us old folks are still here.” Dana looked at her curiously, tilting her head to the side. “Let me buy you a beer and some fries. It’s good for you to socialize outside the smell of antiseptic.”
Rose wished she made the offer a half hour ago, now all she wanted to do was lay on the floor of her bedroom and stare at the ceiling fan.
“I had two drinks on a mostly empty stomach and I’ve gotta walk off the buzz, I’m workin’ tomorrow,” Rose said with an apologetic smile.
“All the more reason to eat something greasy before you go,” she pointed out, a hopeful lilt to the end of her sentence. “You deserve it. You did good today, like every day.”
It was too earnest, too kind. An itchy, uncomfortable feeling that inexplicably left Rose wanting to argue.
A frown creased Dana’s forehead as she studied Rose for a moment. “You okay, doll?”
“Yeah, I am.” Rose nodded in a way she hoped was convincing, adding a tired smile. “I don’t have any more oomph in me today though, so I’m going to head home and order some takeout, see if I can get to bed at a reasonable hour.”
Dana reached out to rub an affectionate hand over Rose’s upper arm. “Alright, I’ll let you off the hook. But you better look rested tomorrow,” she teased.
“I can’t make any promises, but I will do my best,” Rose laughed. “Have a good night.”
When the bar door closed behind Dana, the tension started to ease from Rose’s muscles, no longer being scrutinized. The walk home would clear her head.
“Are you trying to corrupt residents into taking smoke breaks with you?” Jack asked Dana as she returned to their table.
“Rose told me she's been enjoying secondhand smoke since the womb - I’ve corrupted nothing,” she deadpanned.
Robby huffed a laugh in spite of himself and caught the flick of Jack’s sideways glance like a blow to the chest.
“I just wanted to check on her and a cigarette is something to do with your hands,” Dana added as she sipped her beer.
Neither attending asked any follow-up questions, prompting her to raise an eyebrow. “Do I want to know?”
“You don’t,” Jack confirmed, prompting a scoff of displeasure and a glare from the man beside him. “What? Got something to say for yourself now?”
Robby’s jaw clenched, letting his head drop toward the table as he looked down at his beer. “Nope. I told you. Nobody’s business.”
“I told you I was in love with you.” Bottom lip quivering at the admission; shame seeped into every circulating molecule her body housed.
“Y/N…give me a—”
Fury lit up her features slipping into a venomous bite; “No, you’re not going to sweet talk your way outta this one, Robby. You made sure of that when you slid your dick into someone else. I mean WHO DOES THAT? Why’d you even let me embarrass myself into finally admitting my feelings for you just to throw it all away, hmm?”
“That’s not what happened.”
She avoided his gaze, knowing all too well of the consequences hidden beneath those enchanting auburn eyes. A power that still made her knees buckle.
“Oh please, save your crocodile tears for another pretty face. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble whatsoever. I bet you could call Heather up right now. In fact, let me call her!”
The glow of her phone emerged like a strike of lightning. Robby made quick work of snatching the device holding it above her head annoyingly out of reach.
Robby growled grinding his teeth; “Will you give me a damn second to explain?”
Silence. Another beat followed. Y/N crossed her arms protectively, frustration mounting in the milliseconds. Robby nervously scratched his beard searching for the right words, something-anything to turn this crappy situation around.
“Two weeks ago, Heather told me she had an abortion when we were ...together.”
Robby paused gauging Y/N’s reaction. She stayed muted, stuck in place near the rail’s edge.
“She was just looking for a friendly face to turn to, someone to soundboard off.”
“So happy you could step up to the plate, Michael.”
His shoulders tense at the use of his first name. That was strictly reserved during fighting or fucking. This was an entirely new beast of his own creation.
“I told her about us. How fucking happy you make me and possibly admitting therapy was proving beneficial. We walked to Stan’s after shift handoff… platonically. Whiskey was involved and before I knew it, we were kissing in her car and the world blurred.”
Her hand went up to stop him- “Enough. Spare me what position you fucked her in.”
Her voice trembled, she hated him for making her feel so small, so forgettable.
“Baby—”
“Don’t. You don’t get to call me that right now, if ever. There’s nothing you could possibly say that would make me feel okay right now. Let’s agree to quit while we’re ahead. Nothing good is gonna come from this conversation. You betrayed my trust, simple as that so let’s just …not.”
“Who told you?”
A stale laugh rumbled out of Y/N; “Does it matter?”
“I guess not.”
“Would’ve been ideal coming from you instead of the entire nursing staff but beggars can’t be choosers.”
“I was going to. I’ve been trying to find the right time. I chickened out, okay?! I couldn’t stomach you not looking at me like I hung the fucking moon anymore. Everything about you makes me feel alive.”
Defeat weaved into every fiber of her being unsure if she’d ever truly feel whole again. Robby’s exhale lingered in the space between them like a living breathing thing. He braved a glance seeing the silent tears slip down her rosy cheeks. The urge to wipe away the pain paralyzing him momentarily, he stepped closer without thinking but Y/N instinctively stepped back.
Her voice held a sad steadiness; “I love you, Micheal. I’m in love with you...have been for the last year of doing whatever this is, but– I can’t forgive right now. Every time I step foot into this ER I’ll think of how the man I wholeheartedly adore slept with his star resident. A brilliant, beautiful woman who has a part of his heart I can’t access. I’ve waited patiently for you to finally see me, appreciate me as someone more than your best friend. And when you finally did, I thought to myself this was it, you were finally mine. And I’m sorry- Jesus, you’ve now got me apologizing—I can’t imagine that was easy news to swallow…but you-- You, Michael Robinavitch have made your bed, so enjoy lying in it because I’m done. I deserve better than half ass affection and whispered promises. Grow the fuck up, old man.”
“Y/N, please don’t say that. I love you; I love you so fucking much. I messed up hugely, monumentally, otherworldly, but as shitty as it sounds my feelings for you haven’t changed. I made an idiotic mistake, I know but don’t give up on us yet.”
His pleas fell onto deaf ears. Wisps of hair slapped the side of her face staring into the rising hues greeting the morning sky. Time stilled as her shoulders deflated; “Look, I’m exhausted and just finished 12 on. I’m covering nights with Abbot for the next two weeks. I think it might be a good idea to stay on different schedules…at least for now.”
Bile coated his throat at the notion of Y/N so easily removing herself from his life. There was nothing left to do than agree. He nodded his approval subconsciously.
Chancing a glance, Y/N memorized the devilishly handsome physician filing every detail for when she felt like punishing herself. She would’ve kissed him all morning if she’d kno2n it was their last, hugged him tighter when he was making breakfast prolonging their demise.
“Fuck you, Michael. Seriously, fuck you for ruining us before we had the chance to be something magnificent.”
Summary : As your friendship with Titus deepened, the days began to feel almost normal again. You and Marcus still moved in silence, distant but orbiting the same space. In an effort to mend what could be mended, you even apologized to Lucilla. For a brief moment, it seemed like things might settle. But calm has a way of cracking.
Marcus Acacius x f!reader
Warnings : arranged marriage, age gap ?, secret relationship, angst, attempted sexual assault (not clear, more agression. Nothing to graphic just an allusion), no y/n
Words : 9,1K
A/N : Finally the chapter !!! Sorry for the wait, I've had a lot of problems in the meantime (what a story lmao), but here it is. I hope you like it, sorry for the length but there was a lot to write. It's a very important and heavy chapter, but I LOVED writing it :) And sorry if I don't answer to your comments/messages, I have a lot of notifications lol
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It had started with something small, a conversation half-remembered, a smile passed in the low light of a banquet hall, and yet, somehow, it had grown. Not quickly, not loudly, but with the kind of inevitable rhythm that only quiet companionship knows. The man—Titus Varro, the patrician son of a northern family whose name carried weight in the Forum but whose voice rarely rose above a thoughtful murmur—had entered your life like rain through cracked stone: gently, patiently, and all at once impossible to ignore.
He had written first, and it had surprised you. A letter tucked neatly into the hands of a trusted servant, asking for your thoughts on a political speech he was preparing, as if your opinion mattered for once. And you had answered, almost out of courtesy, expecting it to end there. But it had not. Not even close.
Titus wrote again. Then again. And his words were never hollow, never flattery dressed in gold. They were curious, observant, full of references to things you had said only once, long ago, in passing. He remembered the color of the cypress trees outside your family’s summer estate. He remembered the way your brow had furrowed at a certain senator’s speech. He remembered that you once confessed to loving the sound of rain before sleep, and later he had sent you a small scroll of poetry with verses about storms and silence, as if poetry itself could be a gift.
With him, you had felt yourself unfolding, in small, tentative increments. Not because you wanted to be seen, but because, somehow, you knew he already saw you.
And Marcus ? He had remained still.
He had seen the shift begin—oh yes, he had noticed—but had done nothing to stop it. He had watched from doorways and balconies, from corridors cloaked in half-shadow, his silence a strange and heavy thing that wrapped tighter each day around whatever remained of what you had once hoped for.
There had been that morning in the gardens, when Titus walked beside you, hands clasped behind his back, and the sun had caught in the golden threads of your hair, making you laugh as you shielded your eyes. Marcus had stood high above, watching. Unmoving, unreadable, though something in his stillness had vibrated with unspoken tension.
He could have called down. Could have stepped forward.
But he did not.
And so, the days went on. And Titus remained.
He visited the villa often now—not too often, never enough to raise questions—but each time, he brought something with him: a line of verse, a pressed flower, a piece of news from the Forum, a detail he thought might interest you. He was not trying to impress. He was simply… present, engaged. A man who listened when others waited only for their turn to speak. And with him, you found yourself laughing again, not to smooth over silences, but because he gave you space to feel joy, without permission or explanation.
At dinner, Marcus would sit across from you in cold silence, and you no longer offered anything freely. You had not forgiven him for that night. Whatever thread had tied you to Marcus had frayed so badly, now you were not sure whether it could hold the weight of anything real. The days passed in a rhythm both too slow and too loud. You did not fight anymore. You did not even cry again. That kind of hurt was long gone, burned out in the silence you both had chosen.
Conversation became a short transaction, a simple duty, a habit worn thin by repetition. You performed your role as you were meant to, voice soft, posture still, but there was a part of you that waited for his gaze, for his approval, for anything that might suggest he could possibly see you. Still, you no longer lingered in the places he might find you. You no longer wore the scent he once said he liked when you walked together at the market. You moved through the villa like a guest: polite, contained, untouched.
Marcus watched, and said nothing.
Yet, you often felt his gaze. There had been a moment—one quiet evening in the book room—when you and Titus had sat close over a scroll, translating Homer by candlelight. Your fingers had touched as you corrected a line. You had laughed softly at his imperfect cadence. There was no intent behind it. But the sound, clear and unguarded, had drifted down the corridor like incense. And Marcus, standing just out of view, had closed his hand around the nearest pillar until his knuckles burned.
Still, he did not enter.
He did not interrupt.
He simply disappeared again, into silence.
You wondered sometimes if he thought you were punishing him. With smiles offered elsewhere. With warmth he had once had the chance to claim and had not. But this was not punishment, this was what remained after hope. After too many nights spent staring at a closed door. After the realization that love could not survive in the shadows of someone else’s silence.
You had never meant to grow closer to Titus, had not meant for it to go that far. But where Marcus gave you absence, Titus offered presence. And absence, however noble it tries to seem, cannot hold a hand. It cannot look into your eyes and ask what you are afraid of. It cannot give you back your voice.
You told yourself it was just company. Just the quiet of rebellion that did not leave bruises. When you invited him to the domus—the man with the clever mouth and the eyes that watched you like he saw more than you let others see—you told yourself it was innocent.
You were not in love with him. You were not even sure you could like him one day. But in the weeks since Marcus had stopped looking, he looked at you, and that had been enough. You knew what you were doing even though you felt trapped inside a poem you did not quite understand. You knew Marcus would hear of it, actually, you wanted him to. Wanted him to feel something—anger, jealousy, anything but that cold civility that killed you slowly.
And Marcus had yet to ask for anything at all. He never said anything. Never confronted you about the fact that Titus had become a near-constant presence in the villa, arriving with scrolls and laughter. Marcus, for all his coldness, knew. It was also his house, nothing passed unnoticed here, and especially not another man who lingered too long by his wife’s side.
But he said nothing.
And strangely, that silence had begun to soothe more than it wounded.
Because it was the first time the General had let someone feel close to power—not control, no, you surely did not want that—but agency. The quiet dignity of not being questioned, not being called back. He did not ask where you went with Titus, did not ask what you two spoke of when your heads bent together over the old Homeric fragments, hands nearly touching, laughter shared in ways that felt too dangerous, even for him. Even for a General who lived through much more than the atrocities of war—those of life.
Marcus saw how he understood the shape of your words. Unlike him. Him, who had spent so long locked in his own sense of grief, honor and obligation, that he had forgotten how to look at you with anything but apology or restraint. And he knew you were tired of being handled like a fragile thing, something that might break with too much truth. Titus, for all his flaws, let you be messy. Let you be sharp, brilliant and angry.
And as the days stretched longer and the tension between you and Marcus thinned into something both unbearable and addicting, you found yourself grateful for the things Marcus did not say. Because his silence, for once, was not cowardice but an acknowledgment. He knew what he had broken, and he had not come to collect its pieces. Not yet.
Perhaps he thought it was too late. Perhaps it was.
But you felt that charged quiet at breakfast, when he sat beside you but did not reach. When his arm brushed the back of your chair but did not pull you closer. When you looked up and found him already watching, and neither of you looked away. You had not made peace, but you had stopped pretending. And somehow, that felt more honest than anything he had given you before.
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The garden was still that afternoon. The air was warm but gentle, scented with crushed thyme and blooming Nerium. A cicada buzzed somewhere near the far wall, steady and rhythmic like a pulse beneath the surface of the day. You sat on the low marble bench beside the fountain, its water whispering softly as it spilled in endless motion, like something that had long ago learned how to endure silence.
Titus sat opposite, a scroll unrolled loosely in his lap, though neither of you had read from it in some time. “I sometimes wonder,” he said, not looking at you, “if the Gods find us amusing.”
You raised a brow faintly. “Why ?”
He ran a hand through his dark hair, neatly combed, though always a little wind-touched by the time he reached the villa. “Because we pray for clarity,” he said with a quiet, almost wry smile, “but we are given patience. We ask for answers, and they give us time instead.”
You leaned back, the sun catching on the folds of your sleeve. “And you think time is crueler than silence ?”
“I think,” he said, finally looking at you, “that silence tells you nothing. But time…” He paused. “Time tells you everything. Eventually.”
It was not a question. And yet, you felt it settle between you like one. You did not answer, not at first. Your fingers moved along the carved edge of the bench, tracing ancient ivy patterns into stone—a thing that had existed here longer than either of you, perhaps longer than the house itself. And in that moment, you realized how easy it was to speak with Titus. How little you had to guard.
“I used to think I was the problem,” you said, voice low, almost absent. “That I wanted too much. Spoke too openly. That I expected things that were not mine to expect.”
Titus exhaled slowly, and you turned toward him. He did not touch you, but his gaze was like burning iron on your skin, and, as strange as it could be, it was something gentler than anything you had been offered in months—not desire, not pity, but recognition. As if he saw all the bruised edges you carried and did not flinch from them.
“I do not want to fill a space that belongs to someone else.” He said after a while. “But I also will not apologize for being here, when he is not.”
The words did not shock you, they did not even hurt. They just felt true. You opened your mouth to reply, and then stilled, your breath catching mid-motion.
Across the courtyard, just beyond the orange trees, a figure passed between the pillars of the atrium. Tall. Broad-shouldered. His toga draped in formal folds, his stride clipped and fast. He did not turn toward the gardens. Did not slow. Just moved, purpose-driven, as always—a man who had long ago made himself into motion rather than meaning.
Marcus.
Titus noticed him too, though he did not speak. His eyes followed the path Marcus took—the brief silhouette against marble and sun—and then returned to you.
Your hands were still. “Do you ever wonder,” you asked quietly, “if a part of someone you cared for is still in there… just buried under too many years, too many choices ?”
Titus did not answer right away. His gaze flicked toward the horizon, or perhaps just toward memory. “Maybe.” He said at last. “But in the end, people choose who they become. Hiding behind the past does not make a man any less responsible for the damage he does now.”
The fountain’s sound filled the silence that followed, water over stone, soft and ceaseless. Somewhere beyond the courtyard, a door closed. And like that, Marcus was gone again. And still, he had not looked back—or so you thought.
⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆
The days passed, slow and drowsy beneath Rome’s heavy light. Titus had become a familiar presence, he seemed to understand when you needed silence, and when you needed distraction. He made you laugh—properly laugh—in ways you had not in what felt like years. He noticed things, small things, like when your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your tunic or when your eyes drifted away mid-conversation. You liked him for that. Not just as a comfort, but as a friend who asked nothing of you, except your honesty.
You even mentioned him in a letter to your mother, describing him as a ‘thoughtful scholar from Alexandria, sharp-witted, endlessly curious.’ You had not meant anything by it, not really. But you noticed, when her reply came, that she did not ask why you were writing about another man. She said nothing of Marcus. Nothing at all. Which, in its own way, felt like an answer.
But even as your time with the young man grew easier, you could not stop thinking of him.
He was always there. Home. More than ever now. Walking the same halls, eating under the same painted ceiling, drifting like a shadow that did not want to be seen but hoped it might be. Sometimes, in the corners of rooms or in the half-light between dusk and candlelight, you felt his eyes on you. Watching. Searching. Like a man trying to rad a language he had long ago forgotten how to speak.
You did not know what he wanted, if he even knew what he wanted himself. But there were moments—brief, sharp, quickly hidden—when his gaze held something almost like longing. And that frightened you more than his silence. Because even now, after everything, a part of you still hoped he missed you. And that hope, that quiet, dangerous hope, was the one thing you had sworn to stop feeling.
But hope was a strange thing, tender in the quiet, cruel in the light. Just as you began to wonder again, to soften around the idea of Marcus—his glances, his lingering silences, the way he seemed always breath away from reaching out—the spell broke. Because the memory of Lucilla always brought it all back, the coldness, the betrayal, the quiet violence of a man who let another woman speak for him when you were already breaking. You remember her voice—worse, his silence.
As a soft breeze tugged at the hem of your cloak, and the morning sun angled low through the columns, turning the marble floor gold. You were just steps from leaving with a scroll tucked under your arm, the scent of myrrh still clinging faintly from the oil you used on your wrists. You had not planned to be gone long. Just long enough to breathe without seeing him in the hallway. Without hearing his voice behind a door you decided to no longer open.
And then you heard her footsteps.
Measured. Light. Familiar.
You turned just in time to see Lucilla round the corner from the atrium corridor, a soft drape of violet linen draped loosely over one shoulder, as though she had not quite decided whether this was a formal encounter or not. She must have come from the west corridor, the one that skirted the private baths. She crossed the atrium with the elegance of someone who had never had to earn it, her golden pins catching the sun like they had been placed by the Gods themselves.
She walked like the house belonged to her, as if she never left the center of its world. And just like that, the warmth you had started to feel, vanished. Once again. You did not miss him anymore. Not in that moment. Not at all. Whatever softness had begun to bloom inside you curled back into thorns.
She paused when she saw you. It was not dramatic or theatrical. Just… a breath held between two women who had not truly spoken since the last time everything went wrong. Lucilla looked as composed as ever: no smudge of ash or linen out of place. But her eyes, for once, faltered.
“I did not think I would catch you.” She said with a teasing smile. “You are leaving early.”
“I was not planning to be gone long.” You replied evenly, adjusting the scroll. The words were gentle, not defensive—simply facts. You took a small step closer, more out of courtesy than welcome, and studied her face in the dappled sunlight. Her smile looked polished, but there was a flicker beneath it, like wind troubling the surface of a fountain.
Lucilla gave a short breath, too soft to be a laugh. Her eyes flicked to the side, avoiding yours for a beat too long. The sun behind you cast her in a slight halo, almost too poetic for what the moment deserved. Her smile was polite, not warm or sincere. Just… acceptable.
Your gaze dropped for the briefest moment—not in submission, but something quieter. Hesitation, maybe. The weight in your chest had not lifted in days, but Lucilla had been honest. Brutally perhaps. She had been brutal in ways only a woman scorned could be. And maybe that honesty deserved something. “I owe you an apology.” You finally said after a moment of silence, your voice steady.
You could not keep carrying the bitterness around like armor. Not toward her at least. And so, swallowing your pride like something sour, you made up your mind. “For what I said that night. I was angry and truly confused.”
That hung between you. Still raw. Still echoing with the sharpness of old wounds. The words were not easy, but they were not difficult either. You were not offering her your heart, but just truth. She blinked, like your honesty caught her off guard. Then, her mouth curved—too soft, too smooth. “Thank you,” she said. “That means more than you know.”
You nodded, about to step aside, to leave it at that. But something stopped you. Her words did not cost much and the silence between you did not feel like peace. It felt like a pause in a performance. So you frowned, just a little.
She did not press for more. And in that, she knew how far your apology went, and where it stopped. Her hands were clasped in front of her now, unadorned. Her voice did not tremble—Lucilla never trembled—but it was low. Sincere, perhaps. Or close enough to it. She nodded, her mouth a small, tired line. And for a moment, she seemed like someone you might have understood, in another life maybe.
“Why are you here Lucilla ?” The question landed like a blade.
Her expression barely faltered, though something flickered behind her eyes. “Marcus asked for my insight on a matter the Senate is debating.” She said easily, her tone honeyed. As if it were the most natural thing in the world. Then, with a tilt of her head, she added, “You know… Old Roman knowledge. The kind not everyone is born with it.” Her brows lifted, delicate and pointed—a gesture as elegant as it was condescending.
A pause.
Then, as she glanced toward the gate behind you, something shifted in her expression. That too-smooth curiosity you remembered from your earliest days in the villa, when she was still testing your walls, wondering where the cracks were. She stepped closer, not enough to intrude, but enough that you could smell the faint trace her perfume.
“So,” she said lightly, “I have heard Titus has been visiting.”
You said nothing. But you saw it now. The subtle angle of her stance, half-blocking the path. The softness of her voice; rehearsed the sound of unrehearsed.
A chill moved low down your spine as she stood before you like a ghost of every cruel word unspoken in his silence. Whatever warmth you had felt in the days before—whatever ache of longing memory—it faded like smoke. Because whatever Marcus had failed to do, it allowed her to walk this path unchecked.
She tilted her head, all gracious civility. That familiar flick of social precision, the part of her always assessing the balance of the room. “I am sure it is innocent. Of course. He is… pleasant enough. But these things do tend to draw attention. Especially when a household is already—” she gestured vaguely with her hand, “so complicated.”
There it was.
Not accusation. Not even jealousy. Just… implication. Cloaked in silk, like everything she said.
You kept your tone steady, “If people are looking for something to gossip about, they will find it whether I breathe or not.”
Lucilla’s smile did not move. “True.”
You shifted your cloak back over your shoulder. “Was there anything else ?”
She paused. Then shook her head. “No. Just… I meant what I said. I suppose it helps to have someone like Titus to talk to,” she said lightly. “He seems very… attentive.”
Your jaw stiffened. Her tone was soft, too soft. But the implication shimmered just beneath it, like a knife beneath silk. “You have been watching.”
She shrugged one shoulder, “People talk, they gossip as you said. And Titus—well he is charming, I give him that. The kind of man who seems to say all the right things, especially to women who need comfort.”
You did not rise to it, not fully. But your voice was steel, “He is kind. Which is more than I can say for most of this house.”
“Well,” Lucilla smiled, not victorious but knowing. “Be careful where you place your kindness. It can be mistaken for permission.”
You held her gaze, “I do not mistake things Lucilla. And I do not ask your permission. If you will excuse me.”
The breeze caught the edge of your cloak then, and you turned from her without another word. You stepped past her, your sandals echoing softly against the stone. But as you passed beneath the columns and stepped into the light, you could feel her watching. And this time, you did not look back.
⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆
The villa was quiet.
Late enough that the house had exhaled into stillness, its corridors dark save for the soft burn of the soft candle by your bed. Outside, the breeze moved lazily through the cypress, brushing against the wooden shutters like the fingers of a dream. You lay awake in your bed, staring at the carved patterns on the ceiling, half-blind in the darkness but too restless to close your eyes. The sheets clung into your skin like damp silk. You had blown out the candles hours ago, but sleep refused to come, your mind would not stop turning.
After leaving Lucilla, you had gone straight to Titus—not because you were sure he would have answers, but because the sick feeling growing in your chest needed a place to land. You had found him where he always seemed to be lately: lounging beneath the fig tree in his inner garden, wine in hand, posture too casual to match the sharpness in his eyes.
You told him everything. Not just what Lucilla said—thought repeating her words made something twist inside you—but how she had looked at you. As if she was done playing a role, reciting lines written long ago—just like that night—waiting for your cue to play the fool.
The young man had listened, and when you asked the question that had haunted you since too much time now, he had only tilted his head and smiled that vague, almost pitying smile. You pressed further—tried to anyway—but he had brushed it off with a change of subject, reaching for his wine as of that was the end of it. As if you heart was not pounding. As if something old and awful was not slowly surfacing beneath everything you thought you understood.
Now, alone in your room, you replayed every word, every glance. You could still see Lucilla’s face, the way she accepted your apology. An apology you had offered in good faith, from some last place inside you that still wanted to believe in decency. But now you saw it more clearly.
And more you thought of it, the worse it felt. Because Marcus had not warned you. Titus had not said anything real. And Lucilla stood in front of you and let you lower your defenses, just enough to press a blade somewhere soft.
You turned over, pressing your face into the pillow, as if the pressure could drown the thoughts. But they kept coming anyway. The shame. The suspicion. The bitter taste of regret. You had apologized vulnerably to a woman who might have never deserved it. And worse still, you had meant it.
Suddenly, a knock came: soft. Three taps. No urgency. No hesitation.
You sat up.
No servants would knock like that. And anyone else would have waited until morning. You slipped from the sheets, heart suddenly awake, and padded barefoot to the door. When you opened it, he was already stepping inside.
“Titus—” you whispered, startled.
“I am sorry,” he said quickly, his voice low. “I know I should not be here. But I could not sleep.”
He smiled—that familiar smile, the one that had coaxed laughter from you under lemon trees and over shared cups of wine in the garden. He was dressed simply, but well. A soft tunic, sandals hastily slipped on. And that boyish tousle to his hair, as if he had made up his mind to come to you before truly considering the weight of it.
Still, something about the moment felt… off. Too quiet. Too bold.
“You should not be here.” You said, voice soft but serious now. “If anyone sees—”
“No one saw,” he cut in, stepping further into the room. “I was careful.”
Your breath caught in your throat. He looked at you with that same easy charm, but behind it, something new flickered. A tension. Something not quite desire, not quite impatience, but close to both.
You swallowed. “Titus, this is not the time. Or the place.”
“I know,” he said. “But after what happened with Lucilla I thought… You would like to see me again.” He said her name flatly. Too flatly. “You left early. The servant told me you did not walk directly back to your villa. I was concerned.”
You stared at him, blinking once. “Are you… keeping track of me now ?”
He did not flinch, his jaw ticked once. Only once. Then he smiled again, smaller this time. “No. I just noticed. I notice you.”
That should have sounded sweet, but it did not. “I am tired.” You said gently, retreating a step toward your bed. “Can we talk tomorrow ?”
“No.” You blinked, caught off guard. “I want you to come with me.” He said, voice barely over the rustle of the night wind. “Far from here. Far from Marcus. From Lucilla. From all of this.” He raised his arms in the air, gesturing the world like it was something he could discard.
His words hung between you like a promise, his tone was even pleasant, but there was something rigid in the way his hands curled at his sides. “I thought you would see it by now.” He stopped. “But maybe I was wrong.”
He looked at you again, and this time, his gaze had lost all softness. “Is it him ?” He asked, his gaze even darker, edged with something colder. “Are you still thinking of him ?”
Your blood stilled. “What ?”
“Marcus.” He said, with no affection in the name. “Even now. Even after everything. He is the reason you keep your distance.”
Your voice lowered to a thread. “Titus… that is not something we are going to talk about now.”
He stepped forward. “Why not ? You speak to him without words. You let him exist in your silences. Do not lie to me—do not pretend he does not live in this room more than I ever could.”
The air felt like it collapsed in on itself. You took another step back. “You should go.” You said, voice still calm. “You have said what you came to say.”
But Titus did not move right away.
For one heartbeat too long, he stayed exactly where he was—the lines of his face hardened into something unfamiliar. Shadow curled beneath his eyes, in the way his jaw tensed, in the hollow hush that followed your words. Then, slowly, he bowed his head like a man in prayer, as if collecting himself. When he lifted it again, the smile had returned.
But it was wrong.
“I am sorry,” he said softly. “That was unfair. I should not have come—”
“Titus.” You cut him off, voice sharp now. “Get out.”
But he did not. Instead, he stepped forward—slow, unhurried. Measured, like a man walking toward a decision he had already made. Like a predator who already knew how the night would end.
“I could be better for you than he ever was.” He murmured, his voice velvet-wrapped. “You know that right ?”
You could not answer. Because part of you still wanted to believe this was not happening. That this was still the man who read Homer with you in the sun. But he kept walking toward you, one step after another. Your body moved on instinct, retreating step by step, until the wall found your back and left you nowhere else to go.
He watched the retreat with something almost tender. “You are always with me.” He said. “Not just in the gardens, or the halls. You look at me with those eyes… like I am the only one who sees you. And you think I do not feel it ?”
“I do not.” You shook your head, but the words were airless.
He did not stop.
You moved from the wall, circling the bed to keep distance between you, but the room was only so large—and his steps were slow.
“You do.” He said again, smiling now—not kindly. “You wanted someone to see you. I did. You leaned into me. You laughed. You touched my hand—”
“I was being a friend.” You said, your voice breaking into something harder. “You are twisting that into something it never was.”
He tilted his head, as if pitying you. “You let me believe it.”
“No,” you said firmer. “You chose to believe it.”
And then he was too close. His hand reached for you, brushing your arm, fingers grazing the bare skin just above your elbow like a question asked without permission. You flinched away, nearly tripping over the edge of the low couch.
“Titus,” you warned, voice trembling but fierce, “Do not.”
But he did not hear you. Or he just did not care. His other hand lifted, fingers brushing your jaw now, angling your face toward his. “You wanted this.” He murmured as you chook your head. “Your husband treats you like a servant in your own home. I see you, he does not. Why pretend you are still waiting for him to wake up and be someone else ?”
And then he leaned in. You turned your face sharply, pushing against his chest with all the force you had. “No.”
He froze, lips near your temple, breath warm but unwanted. “No ?” He repeated and for the first time, there was a crack in his voice. A falter. As if the rejection had not occurred to him as real. As if he believed you owed him something you never offered. “You think he cares ?” He let out a chuckle. “He barely touches you. And you—siting at his side like a loyal dog, hoping one day he will give you crumbs of affection.”
Your hand moves before your mind caught up. The sound of your palm against his cheek cracked through the stillness. You shoved him harder this time, and he stepped back, blinking. “Get. Out.” You said, voice ringing now, loud enough to shake the quiet walls.
He stared at you. And something cold and small finally settled into his eyes. Not rage. Worse. Injury. Like you had wounded him. Like he was the one betrayed.
“I see,” he said, tone flat now. “You really still wait for him, then.”
“It is not about that—” You did not know how it happened. One breath, you were pushing him away. The next, Titus grabbed your wrist.
Not bruising, not yet. But his grip was firm. Too firm. It was not affection anymore, it was control. And when you pulled back, trying to free yourself, his hand did not let go.
“You do not seem to understand,” he said, jaw tight. “You do not know what he is. What he does to you. I am trying to save you from that—”
You yanked harder, panic rising sharp in your throat, but his other hand clamped down on your shoulder. “Titus.” You warned, the word strangled. “Let go of me.”
His eyes blazed—something wild now, no longer masked by charm. “You wanted this !” He snapped, louder now. “Do not lie to me. Do not act like I am nothing !”
His hand dropped suddenly, fingers closing over your breast through the thin fabric, the pressure hard and possessive. Every muscle in your body locked; shock stole the air from your lungs. You tried to twist away, but his grip only tightened, thumb digging in as though to stake a claim.
Then his mouth was on yours, hot, forceful, tasting of the wine he had stolen from the garden table. His breath came in sharp, eager bursts, lips crushing rather than kissing, the scrape of stubble burning your skin. Bile rose in your throat—revulsion and panic fused. Instinct took over. You bit down, teeth meeting flesh.
He jerked back with a chocked cry, the metallic tang of his blood lingering on your tongue as you drew a ragged breath and staggered free of his reach. The pain did not humble him, it only stripped the mask off completely. “You are just a slut !” He spat, wiping his lip with the back of his hand. “I should have taken you the first night you came to my villa. You would have stopped playing games then.”
That was when your fear hit something sharp. You screamed. It was not planned, not measured—it tore from your throat with all the force of desperation, filling the marble corridors like a shattering glass.
And everything moved fast.
Footsteps thundered down the hall. Doors opened. Fabric swished. Metal rang. Voices called out, overlapping, startled—
The guards.
Titus turned just as two of them stormed in, their blades half-drawn, eyes scanning and sharp. You stumbled backward, breath ragged, hand still raised as if to hold him off.
“Step away from the Domina !” One barked.
Titus hesitated—just a heartbeat—and in that space, you saw his pride fall into something colder. He looked at you like a man watching the last card fall from his hand. Then he lifted both arms, slowly, as if he was the victim here.
“She misunderstood—”
“Now.” The second guard ordered.
And when they seized him, one on each arm, he did not even fight. Not truly. But his gaze never left yours as they dragged him from the chamber.
Then he was gone.
And the doors were wide open.
Silence fell again, but it was the kind that hummed, like air still vibrating with all that had just broken loose. A servant stood near the threshold and her voice wavered, “Domina... are you..—”
But you did not hear the rest. Your ears were ringing. Your chest heaved. You were not crying, not yet, there were no tears, only the breathless, stunned ache of trying to understand. How had you missed it ? Your mind was racing and empty at once.
“I am fine.” You heard yourself say eventually. The lie was brittle, she flinched at it.
The humiliation lingered. Not because of what he had done, but because for a moment, you had let yourself be foolish. You thought you had control, but you only had pain and shame. And worst of all, you still cared what Marcus thought. And he would never know what happened here. Only that you had let another man close.
So, you turned—not toward your chambers. Not toward comfort. Toward the only place your feet knew to go when your thoughts scattered. Your pace was fast, uneven, your steps echoing down the corridor with a fury you didn’t yet feel. You reached the door in seconds—shoved it open.
You did not know how you had found yourself in Marcus’s empty chambers. The villa had felt too vast, too cold, too full of empty rooms echoing with what had been and what would never be again. Your legs had carried you here almost without thought, as if some unseen thread tugged you toward the one place where all the fractured pieces of your heart might, if only for a moment, still fit together.
The heavy curtains hung shut, soft shadows pooling on the worn floor. You sank onto the low bed, the weight of your breath steadying, uneven at first but slowly slowing. The faint scent of cedarwood and his skin wrapped around you like a fragile shield—familiar, grounding. It was strange to feel comfort here, in the place that held so many silences between you, but for the first time in weeks, the tremors beneath your ribs softened. You closed your eyes, the steady rise and fall of your chest syncing with the slow pull of sleep. In the quiet, in the dark, you let yourself fall—not safe, not healed, but momentarily still.
And far across from the domus, unaware of the storm, Marcus was sitting beside Lucilla. The night pressed down like velvet soaked in heat—heavy, perfumed, unrelenting. Rome exhaled around them in slow pulses: incense curling in the hallways, the sharp tang of oil and smoke from distant braziers, laughter too loud to be real.
Marcus had taken his place there hours ago, in the quiet illusion of rest, one foot braced against the marble ledge, his hand around a cup of untouched wine. Lucilla wore that gold-stitched gown she reached for when she wanted to be seen, the one that caught fire under candlelight and clung like memory. Her hair was pinned in those deliberate, impossible coils that whispered effortlessness while shouting precision.
She was speaking.
He was not listening.
His thoughts had drifted again—as they often did those times—toward you. He did not even know where you were that night. He never really did anymore. Probably somewhere quieter, reading, or out walking the peristyle gardens, with your sandals scuffing the stones he once promised to replace. Or maybe with himagain. Marcus had no claim on your time, no right to care. But he did. And tonight, the ache of not knowing felt like punishment.
Lucilla was laughing softly beside him, saying something about someone’s scandalously dressed wife—as if it could not be her in another situation—and he nodded absently until her voice sharpened, her words slicing through his distraction.
The blonde’s voice rose beside him, threading itself with laughter, a cultivated kind, the one meant to be overheard. “—and she was wearing silk so sheer it might as well have been air. Honestly, do these girls not know what men are ?”
He nodded, the words sliding past him unheard. She let the silence linger as she saw the vacancy in his eyes, then spoke, her voice syrup-thick with curdled sweetness.
“I ran into your wife earlier.” She said at last, tilting her goblet so the light caught the wine. Her tone was velvet-thick, but a sly note edged the silk. “She was on her way out. Seemed unsettled, poor thing. We had a… conversation.”
Marcus’s gaze snapped to her, the tension in his shoulders sharp and immediate. “What did you say to her ?”
“Nothing to rattle porcelain, I promise.” She purred, swirling the crimson in her glass. “I was positively gracious. You would have been proud.” He did not look convinced. “Marcus, relax. I was the soul of sisterly concern. Besides, she was distracted. Her charming friend Titus had her attention well in hand…” She let that sink in, watching his eyes darken.
His jaw tightened, worry flickering behind his composure. The blonde placed one of her hands on his forearm, comforting him. Even though, deep down, the General was well aware that her gesture was in no way kindness. Lucilla’s lashes swept down, feigning innocence. “Truly, I only wished her well. But if you are so worried, perhaps you should see her yourself. You know... before someone else does.” She lifted her goblet in a mock toast, and drank.
That landed. Not because of their cruelty—Lucilla’s tongue had always been dipped in venom and she always had a taste for veiled insults—but because of what they revealed. There was something in the way she spoke, always threaded with implication. But now, Marcus saw it for what it was: a game. Every word weighted with poison beneath her perfume. Every glance calculated.
When she made her final cutting remark, laced with that familiar condescension, the General did not flinch. He only stared at her, and for the first time, saw her clearly. The years of performance. The cold pride. The way she twisted affection into power and wielded it like a knife. She was not the woman he used to know anymore, she became a complete stranger.
Something in him went still. He realized, with a quiet finality, that he had nothing left to give her—not his loyalty, not his guilt, not even his attention. And somewhere, in the quiet hollows of the villa, he imagined you again. Alone. Waiting. Or maybe not. Maybe you were done waiting too. But either way, you were the only direction left worth walking toward.
The blonde could no longer bear his silence, “Honestly, you should keep better track of your little provincial dove.” She sighed, as though offering a practical advice. “Some women forget their vows the moment a clever tongue flatters them.” Her gaze flicked to Marcus’ hand, tight around the cup. Her gaze lingered on his alliance. “It would be a pity if the wife of Rome’s most disciplined General turns out to have so little discipline of her own.”
Marcus turned his head slowly, the muscle in his jaw clenched so tight it ached. “Do not speak of her like that.” He said quiet but sharp, the warning unmistakable.
Lucilla raised an eyebrow and laughed under her breath, “Oh, Marcus. Do not be tedious. You hardly look at her. She flinches when your shadow darkens the room. Is she meant to be your grand devotion now ?”
His throat burned as he turned toward her fully, the muscles in his neck coiled tight like a bow drawn too long. “She is my wife.”
The words snapped through the air like something barely leashed. Not protective—possessive. Not tender—furious. His eyes, usually unreadable, flared with something raw and dark, and Lucilla’s smirk wavered just slightly.
“And yet,” she said smoothly, a silver of a smile curving her lips, “You are here. With me.”
Marcus stood. It was not graceful—the marble scraped harshly against the floor, harsh and jarring in the quiet courtyard. His goblet tipped as he moved, wine spilling in a thin ribbon down the pale stone like blood. Lucilla’s hand started out to catch his wrist, but he tore away, as though her touch blistered.
His breath came hard, controlled by force of habit. “She may be quieter than you,” he said, his voice low, but the fury beneath it thrummed like a struck wire. “But that does not make her a fool. You speak of her as if kindness is a sign of weakness. But it is not. It never was. You should know it.”
The blonde’s expression shifted. Not shocked, she never allowed herself that. But wounded. In the way proud people are when reminded the world does not orbit around them. Pride did not break in her; it bent like glass about to snap. Her posture straightened as if shielding herself in hauteur.
“She will never understand you.” She said coldly, trying to reclaim control. “Not the way I do.”
Marcus did not blink, did not breath for a moment. His eyes, locked on hers, were storm-dark and unflinching. “Then I will spend the rest of my life wishing she would.”
“You will come back to me Marcus. You always do.”
That was it, his temper snapped like a blade drawn from its sheath. “No.” He said, and the world landed like a verdict. “Not this time.”
His back was facing her, but as he was about to leave, he turned his head slightly, just enough for her to hear him convincingly. “I would rather spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of her silence…than waste one more night drowning in your noise.”
He did not wait for a retort, did not need to. His steps rang hard, each one putting distance between them. Between who he had been and who he still hoped he could become. He did not look back. Not once.
The night air hit his face like a warning, sharp and cool against the heat rising in his chest. He did not return to the villa. Not yet. He could not—not like this. His feet carried him aimlessly through the lower gardens, past the olive groves and down to the edge of the stream that cut through the estate. He stood there a long while, breathing deep, the scent of wild thyme and wet stone anchoring him.
Rage pulsed beneath his skin, for the first time in too long, he was not just angry at Lucilla, he was furious with himself. For every moment he had lingered in her orbit out of old guilt and cowardice. For all the times he had let her bitterness feel easier than your quiet hope. For every word he had not said to you, and every one he never stopped Lucilla from saying.
You were never the fool.
He was.
And if it was too late, it would be no one’s fault but his own.
By the time he returned, the moon had shifted across the sky, and the villa was deadly quiet. He had not intended to walk so far, or for so long. He did not even light a candle; every hallway of this place was burned into his memory. All he wanted was silence. Just a moment to sit, to breathe, to feel something other than this cold weight in his chest. The soft creak of the door to his chamber opening felt distant, like he was watching himself from afar.
He stepped inside, exhausted and distracted, already reaching for his tunic—until he froze. Because someone was there. He was excepting the usual quiet, but instead, he found you.
You were sleeping in his bed as if you belonged there. The moonlight slipped through the tall windows, pale and clen across the floor, reaching the edge of the linen sheets where your hand had fallen. For a long moment he did not move, just looked.
You lay curled on your side, facing the window, wrapped in the folds of his sheets like you had always been there. The fabric clung to the curve of you waist, gathered loosely around your hips, one bare leg tangled through the linen like you had grown too warm in your sleep. Your hair had fallen messily across the pillow—soft, unruly strands fanned out like spilled ink in the moonlight. He had seen your styled, composed, dressed in silk and command. But never like this. Never undone.
Your shoulder rose and fell with your breathing, slow and even, but your brow was furrowed faintly—as if even in sleep, something pressed at you. A tension you could not quite shed. His eyes lingered there. He told himself not to stare. But he did.
Your skin glowed strangely pale in the dim, brushed by silver where the light caught it. One hand rested near your face, fingers curled loosely, the other lay above the covers, relaxed on the sheets that bore his scent and yours now. And there was something in the way your body fit into the space—his space—that made his chest tighten.
You did not belong to him. Not truly. Not anymore, maybe never. But this… this was a version of you he had never been allowed. Unarmored. Asleep in his bed, like the fighting had faded, like they might have been something else. And he wanted—badly, suddenly—to reach out. To press a hand against your spine, just to feel if you were really there.
He did not know what to make of it. Why you were here. If you had waited for him, or simply needed somewhere else to be. He was not even sure what he felt about it. Only that something in his chest cracked open a little at the sight of you there. Alone. Still. Safe.
The floor was cold under his feet. He hesitated before sitting on the edge of the bed, unsure whether to wake you, unsure whether he even wanted to. But then, as he slid under the covers—keeping a cautious space between you—your eyes fluttered open. You did not startle. Just looked at him, sleep still heavy in your gaze. “What are you doing here ?” You asked, voice rough with rest.
His eyes met yours in the dim. “I could ask you the same.” He said softly—not cruel, not cold. Just quiet. Like he was trying not to break the moment.
You exhaled long and low, “I just needed… a little quiet.” There was a taut thread woven through the words, one that made him frown, as if he could sense that something was bothering you.
He dragged a hand through his hair, “Do you want me to leave ?”
Your eyes stayed forward, fixed on nothing in particular. “No. I just needed… space. Not solitude.”
A quiet beat passed and then he let out a breathy huff. “Strange place to find it.”
As he settled back under the covers, you turned your back to him. But quickly glanced over your shoulder, giving him a fleeting look. “We share a name. Not much else lately, but I thought that maybe it would be enough.”
He did not answer. The silence that followed was brittle, tired. Not angry—not anymore—just the ache that remains when all the sharpness has dulled into distance. You curled inward, arms folded to your chest like a shield. The sheets stretched between you like a white flag neither of you knew how to raise.
Time passed, slow and indistinct, a gray stretch of stillness broken only by the distant hush of wind against the shutters. At some point, without meaning to, your body shifted. A subtle exhale. A small lean—not toward him, not deliberately. But toward warmth. Toward something you remembered. Something that did not make your skin crawl.
The mattress dipped behind you. Then, quietly his arm came around your waist. Not a claim. Not a plea. Just a presence. A line of contact drawn gently across the space you had not known you needed filled.
Your eyes opened. He did not speak, but you knew he was awake. His breath was too steady. Too measured. He was waiting—like the bed might shatter if he moved too fast. Then it came. A sound you did not expect. Not a sob, just the thinnest, shuddering breath catching in your throat. A sniffle. One you could not swallow in time. You were finally able to release all the pressure of this evening.
Behind you, he stilled. “…Are you crying ?” His voice was low, careful. Not cold.
You hesitated, wiping at your cheek. “No.”
It was not convincing, but Marcus did not press. He did not shift away, if anything, his arm curled more firmly around you, anchoring you there. No questions. No demands. Just that solid, steady warmth.
You stayed like that for a long time, the silence between you full of things you had not said—maybe could not say. But slowly, gradually, your body began to unclench. You pressed back into him, just slightly. The movement was small, but his response was not, he held you like that meant something. Like you were something he could still protect. And for the first time since that night, you believed he might.
Titus did not follow you into sleep. His shadow did not linger at the edge of your thoughts like it had for hours. There was no phantom grip on your skin, no echo of his voice in your ears. For the first time his name did not come to your mind at all.
What filled you instead was warmth. The slow, steady rise of Marcus’ chest against your back. The quiet way his breath brushed your hair. The subtle pressure of his hand at your waist—not caging, not expecting. Just there.
You had never imagined peace would come like this—in the arms of the man you had once believed had broken you beyond repair. But as your lashes fluttered shut, and your body gave into exhaustion, it was not fear that lingered.
It was safety.
Not just in the room, or in the house—but in him.
And sleep took you before you could stop it, the weight of his arm around you the last thing you remembered.
Across The Hall (12) | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader
Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader
Summary: You and Michael share a strong, loving connection. You plan a heartfelt surprise that brings you even closer.
Word Count: 3570
Warning: Age Gap (early 20s/early 50s)
Authors Note: Thank you for following along and showing so much love to this fic!!! I’ve truly enjoyed reading your comments and messages. They mean a lot (and some seriously cracked me up lol). I had so much fun writing this. Maybe we’ll see them again in the future...(lol im sad its over) but for now they live happily ever after. Enjoy! -Ryn
(if you're into Animal Kingdom, I wrote a Andrew Cody Fic lol shameless plug)
You come out of your apartment, locking the door behind you, and just as you turn around, you see Michael stepping out of his. His hair is still slightly damp from a shower, his sleeves rolled up casually, coffee mug in hand. You both meet in the middle of the hall, that easy, familiar rhythm between you two already in motion.
“Good morning,” you beam up at him, eyes lighting up the way they always do when you see him.
He smiles down at you, warm and a little sleepy, and reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His thumb lingers against your cheek for just a second longer than necessary. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he says, his voice low and gravelly, still coated in the softness of morning. He leans down and plants a slow kiss on your lips—gentle, unhurried.
He takes your hand without thinking, fingers intertwined, you walk together toward the elevator, the silence between you filled with quiet contentment. It was like this every week in the morning, just like it was before—but now, instead of being just friends, you were something more.
The elevator doors slide open and you both step inside. He presses the lobby button with hand holding his mug, still holding yours in the other. He glances sideways at you, his mouth tilting into a soft grin. “You sleep okay?”
He watched you for a second longer, then tilted his head slightly.
“How’s the noggin?”
“Sometimes I get dizzy, but mainly headaches now,” you said with a small shrug. “Therapy’s the same, but I’m improving. They’ve got me doing stuff for my coordination—and they showed me some tricks to manage the headaches.”
“Progress is progress,” he said quietly. “Even the small stuff matters.”
You smiled faintly, appreciating how he never made you feel like you had to downplay anything.
Michael was there for you through it all—calm, patient, and steady. He never asked for more than you could give. On the hard days, he gave you quiet comfort. On the good days, he cheered you on like every step forward was something to be proud of.
As you worked on healing and growing, he never rushed you. He just stayed by your side, a constant reminder you weren’t alone.
He loved you the way you always needed—without pressure, without conditions. Not with big gestures, but with quiet care: in how he listened, how he stayed, and how he made you feel like enough, just as you were.
His love was gentle, patient, and safe—and in time, you realized it was the kind of love you’d always deserved.
Michael nodded slowly, taking it all in, his thumb brushing gently across your knuckles. His expression stayed soft but alert, like he was mentally filing away every word.
His smile softened, though that familiar crease formed between his brows—a flicker of concern he didn’t bother hiding. But, like always, he didn’t push.
Instead, he gave your hand another gentle squeeze. “Let me know if it gets worse today. I’ll check in later.”
You nodded, eyes meeting him for a quiet beat.
“I know you will.”
The lobby is cool and quiet when the elevator doors slide open again. You step out together, your footsteps soft against the polished floor.
Outside the morning air is fresh, a little crisp, and the city around you is just waking up.
You both stand on the sidewalk in front of the apartment building, pausing like always before going your separate ways for the day. He’s heading toward the hospital, you towards the school. But neither of you moves yet.
“I have a surprise for you tonight,” you said, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder.
“Oh do you now?” Michael asked, arching a brow as he looked down at you with an intrigued grin.
“Mhm,” you hummed, smiling to yourself.
“What kind of surprise?” he asked, that familiar teasing edge slipping into his voice as he stepped a little closer. His hands found your waist, fingers tracing slowly along your sides.
You rolled your eyes and nudged his chest lightly with your hand. “None of that,” you said with a soft laugh. “If you’re lucky, there’ll be dessert.”
His smirk deepened, but he didn’t say anything right away. Instead, he just looked at you, like he was memorizing this moment, your flushed cheeks, the glint in your eye, the way you never fully pulled away after touching him.
The two of you hadn’t officially crossed that line. Not yet. He’d been patient. Always letting you lead. Always stopping where you drew the line.
He tilted his head slightly, a playful glint in his eye.
“Lucky how? Like… dessert or dessert?” he asked, eyebrows raised, voice dipped in playful mischief.
You caught the teasing in his tone instantly—light, warm, and absolutely on purpose.
“Michael Robinavitch!” you gasped, half-laughing, half-scolding, giving his chest a little shove.
He just smirked, completely unbothered. “Don’t wear it out now, baby. I mean, if tonight’s the night, you’re gonna be saying it… over and over.”
“Stop it!” you groaned, burying your face in your hands as your whole body flushed with heat. Your cheeks were burning, your ears too, and you were pretty sure your neck was just as red. It felt like your whole body was on fire.
He chuckled, his grin spreading wide, watching you squirm. “Okay, okay. I’m just teasing.” He nudged your foot gently with his. “I like when you get all flustered.”
You peeked at him through your fingers, shaking your head. “I’m hot now, thanks.”
You grabbed the neckline of your dress and fanned yourself dramatically, trying to cool down, but it only made him laugh harder.
“You’re welcome, lil’ inferno,” he said,looking entirely too pleased with himself.
You shot him a look—half warning, half amused—but you couldn’t hold back the smile tugging at your lips.
“Unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath.
“I try,” he replied smoothly, bumping your shoulder gently with his.
Laughing and moving the conversation you say “Be ready by nine.”
He nodded slowly. “Attire?”
“Dress up, please,” you said
“Alright, you got it”
“Anything else, sweetheart?” His voice dropped just a fraction
“Yes, I need a kiss before we part ways.”
He leaned in without hesitation, giving you a peck.
When he started to pull away, you didn’t let him. Your hand slipped up to his jaw, fingers curling there as you kissed him again—deeper this time, slower, unwilling to let go.
He smiled against your mouth, his voice low between kisses. “Babe, I gotta go. Jack’s gonna light me up if I’m late for shift change. He already gave me the ‘don’t make this a habit’ speech last week.”
“Tell him it’s not your fault,” you said, breathless. “Tell him I made you a little late.”
He let out a soft laugh, eyes half-lidded as he looked at you. “He knows it’s you. Everyone at work knows it’s you. I’ve stopped even pretending it’s foot traffic.”
You giggled. “Foot traffic? That’s the best you could come up with?”
He shrugged, shameless. “It worked—twice.”
You grinned, fingers gently tracing the edge of his scrub collar. “Well… can you blame me? I love kissing you…”
You murmured it as you leaned in, pressing kisses to his cheek, then his jaw, and finally his lips.
“Sweetheart…” he groaned
His ears were pink. His cheeks, unmistakably flushed.
You blinked, then grinned. “Ha! Look who’s all flustered now.”
His brows shot up. “I’m not flustered,” he said quickly—way too quickly.
“Ohhh, yes you are,” you teased, beaming. “You’re blushing. You’re red as a tomato!”
“It’s the sun,” he muttered. “I’m getting sunburned already. It’s only gonna get worse if I stay here any longer.”
“Okay, okay—one more kiss, and I’ll let you go.”
You lean in and plant a quick peck.
“Alright, go,” you laughed, giving him a gentle push as he started to back away.
But then he paused, sighed like it physically pained him, and stepped right back into your space. His hand slid to the back of your neck as he kissed you again—this time slower, more deliberate. There was weight behind it, warmth, like he was imprinting something into you to last the rest of the day.
When you broke apart, his thumb traced a soft line down your cheek, his eyes never leaving yours.
“I’ll see you tonight,” he murmured.
“Have a good day, Teach,” he added, still smiling as he walked backward.
“You too, Doc.” You tossed him a playful salute before turning around and heading off.
And finally—reluctantly—you both went your separate ways.
—
“I know. Please don’t start,” Michael muttered, striding past the nurses’ station without slowing down.
Jack barely glanced up from the computer, already smirking. “Didn’t even say anything yet.”
Michael didn’t stop. “Your face said enough.”
Jack chuckled, logging out of the computer and trailing him toward the staff room. “It's hard to keep a straight face when you come waltzing in here looking like a lovesick puppy.”
“I am not a lovesick puppy.”
“Yes, you are,” Princess chimed in from her station as they passed by, not even looking up from her charting.
Michael groaned, while Jack grinned wider. “See? Not just me.”
The majority of the staff had lost the bet made months ago—except for Mateo and Perla.
Mateo had guessed right: Michael didn’t have a girlfriend (at the time.) And Perla? She’d hit the nail on the head when she insisted you weren’t in the medical field.
After your accident and unexpected trip to the ER, Michael finally came clean—shutting down the whole “friend-neighbor-almost something” narrative for good.
But not before ripping everyone a new one for turning his love life into some kind of fantasy draft.
“Gee, thanks,” he muttered now.
Jack clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re whipped. So whipped. It’s actually unbelievable how whipped you are,”
They stepped into the staff room, the door clicking shut behind them. Michael walked over to the lockers, tugged his open, and tossed his bag inside.
Jack leaned against his locker, arms crossed. “I’m just saying—before her, you were all scrubs and sarcasm. Now you’ve got layers. Emotions, loved up—”
Michael didn’t answer right away. He shoved his bag further in, then shut the locker with a quiet click.
Jack watched him, still smirking. “Seriously, though. You’ve changed.”
Michael glanced over, brow raised. “Is that a bad thing?”
Jack shook his head, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. “No, man. It’s not.”
He meant it. For all the teasing, all the jokes—Jack was genuinely happy. His best friend was happy. And that was rare enough in their world to be worth holding onto.
“She’s got a surprise for me tonight.”
Jack tried—tried—to look innocent, but the smirk was already creeping in. “Does she now?” he said as he opened his locker and grabbed his bag.
Michael turned, fully facing him. “You know what it is, don’t you?”
Jack shrugged, clearly enjoying himself. “Nope.”
“Jack.”
“Don’t look at me like that, man. I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”
“So you do know.”
Jack slung the strap over his shoulder, still pretending to study the inside of his locker. “I may have… helped coordinate something.”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “You helped her?”
“She needed access to a contact. I made a call. That’s it.”
“So, you do know.”
Jack finally looked at him, the grin breaking through. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
Michael gave him a flat look. “You’re the worst.”
Jack laughed, heading for the door. “Tell her that after you see what she planned.”
Jack zipped up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. “All I’m saying is… maybe wear something nicer than the hoodie you’ve been living in.”
Michael gave a faint, amused scoff. “She did say to dress up.”
Jack nodded like that confirmed everything. “Then don’t screw it up with that ‘comfort over effort’ routine.”
Michael smirked. “You done?”
Jack was already at the door. “Almost.”
He turned back, backing out of the room with his usual smug ease. “Try not to look too shocked when she blows you away.”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
Jack grinned. “What can I say? It’s fun watching you fall.”
He disappeared into the hallway, the door swinging closed behind him with a soft click.
Michael stood there a second longer, the room suddenly quieter. Then he exhaled, just once, and started thinking about what the hell he was going to wear.
—-
You met Michael in the middle of the hallway, and for a moment, he just stood there—staring.
“Wow… you look… wow,” he said, a little breathless, eyes sweeping over you. “So beautiful,” he murmured, like the words slipped out before he could stop them.
You giggled, cheeks warming under his gaze. “Thank you. You look wow too.”
He stepped closer, hands naturally finding your waist, already drawing you in like it was instinct. But before he could close the distance, you held up a hand—and something else.
He blinked. “Is that… a blindfold?”
You smiled, a little mischievous. “It is.”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere special,” you said, stepping behind him.
He let out a quiet laugh, but didn’t argue as you gently slipped the blindfold over his eyes, fingers brushing his hair back before tying it.
“You trust me?” you asked softly, your hands resting on his shoulders.
Michael nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting. “With everything.”
You gently tied the blindfold over Michael’s eyes, your fingers lingering for a moment as you brushed stray hair away from his face.
“Ready?” you whispered.
He nodded, his breath steady despite the darkness behind the fabric.
Taking his hand, you led him softly through the hallway. The subtle click of your footsteps echoed as you guided him toward the elevator.
The doors slid open with a quiet ding, and you stepped inside, still holding his hand firmly but tenderly.
You led him through the lobby and outside, taking a careful step forward onto the sidewalk.
The city felt alive yet hushed—the distant wail of a siren, the soft buzz of neon signs flickering above closed shops, and the rustling of trees in the faint wind. Michael could hear the occasional hum of a car passing by.
“Almost there,” you murmured.
His grip tightened just a little, the only sign he was feeling the anticipation too.
You slowed your pace as you approached the spot you’d picked, the shadows folding gently around you both, mingling with the distant murmur of nighttime traffic.
Your fingers brushed lightly against his palm, grounding him, “Just a few more steps.”
You stopped and gently tilted his chin up, the blindfold still shielding his eyes
“Okay,” you whispered, your fingers brushing his shoulder. “You can take it off now.”
Michael slid the blindfold off, blinking into the warm glow spilling onto the sidewalk. His eyes landed on the familiar sign: Bella Notte
He turned to you, surprise lighting up his face.
“Surprise,” you said softly.
He smiled—partly at the moment, partly at the memory.
Michael's kind gesture, asking if you wanted to come with him. It ended up being the start of something neither of you saw coming.
You’d order takeout—cacio e pepe, bruschetta, mozzarella and prosciutto, and of course, tiramisu. Then back at your apartment, you’d sit across from each other at the island table, eating and talking like you’d done it a hundred times. It was quiet. Easy. The kind of night that stayed with you long after it ended.
“It’s closed” you told him now, voice soft. “Just for us.”
He looked back at the glowing windows. “Really?”
“Mhm.”
“How’d you manage that?”
“I had help from Jack, actually,” you admitted, glancing at Michael as you both stood outside Bella Notte. The soft glow of string lights spilled from the restaurant’s windows, casting a warm, romantic hue across the cobblestone sidewalk. “The owner came into the ER a few weeks ago with a burned hand. Jack treated him, and the guy said he owed him a free dinner.”
Michael raised an eyebrow, amused. “So Jack cashed it in for us?”
You nodded, smiling. “Yes.”
Michael shook his head with a soft laugh. “That sneaky bastard.”
You bit your lip, hesitating for just a second. “I was telling him about Bella Notte… how we went there together that night. He mentioned the free dinner, and—”
Michael’s expression shifted—barely. Not hurt, but something softer, more reflective, settled in his eyes.
“He thought it’d be romantic,” you added quickly, fingers fidgeting at your side. “You know, a full-circle kind of thing.”
Michael looked at the restaurant, then back at you, his eyes lingering.
“It is,” he said simply, voice low and sincere.
You searched his face, suddenly nervous under the weight of the moment. “Is this okay? If not, we can—”
But he didn’t let you finish. He closed the space between you and kissed you—gentle, but certain. His hand slid along your jaw, anchoring you in place as his lips pressed against yours, warm and full of quiet affection.
When he finally pulled back, he kept you close, his forehead brushing yours.
“This,” he murmured, breath warm against your lips, “is perfect.”
—-
The two of you ended up trying the majority of the menu—half out of curiosity, half because neither of you could decide on just one thing.
It started with the bruschetta—crispy, warm slices of bread topped with bright tomato, garlic, and fresh basil. Michael took one bite and immediately pushed the plate toward you. From there, it spiraled.
You shared bowls of creamy fettuccine alfredo and rich, red-sauced rigatoni that left both of you shamelessly mopping up the last bits with warm focaccia. The waiter barely had time to clear each plate before the next round arrived—crab-stuffed ravioli, garlicky shrimp scampi, a perfectly blistered Margherita pizza with fresh mozzarella and basil.
At some point, Michael leaned back with a groan, hand on his stomach, and said, “Okay, I’m officially full. But also, we’re sharing the tiramisu.”
You laughed, cheeks aching from smiling so much. “We’re going to roll out of here.”
You sat across from him, legs brushing under the table, sharing bites between laughs and stories. The flicker of candlelight danced in his eyes, and your heart felt impossibly full.
You weren’t just eating dinner. You were making a memory—layered and warm, like the food, like the company. One that neither of you would forget.
You glanced at him across the candlelit table, your fork idly pushing the last bite of tiramisu. Your heart thudded softly, nerves prickling at the edge of your calm. You took a breath, reached for your water, then set it down again.
“I have to ask you something,” you said, your voice quieter than before.
Michael looked up immediately, eyes warm and attentive, the same way he always looked at you when you had something important to say.
You looked up at him, a little nervous but smiling, heart fluttering as you finally let the words leave your lips.
“May I be your girlfriend?”
His expression softened instantly, the corners of his mouth tugging into the smallest, most tender smile. His eyes, warm and steady, never left yours.
There were no expectations, no pressure—just the quiet honesty between two people who already knew. There had been no labels, no formal declaration before now. But still, it had always been there. You knew how he felt. And he knew how you did, too. You were his, and he was yours.
“Honey,” he said gently, voice full of affection, “what do you think we’ve been doing all this time? I’ve seen you as my girl from the start. I’ve just been letting you set the pace. I’ve been yours, and you’ve been mine. We both know that.”
“I know,” you murmured, cheeks warm. “But I wanted to make it official, you know… say it out loud. Make it real. You’ve been so patient with me.”
He leaned in slightly, thumb brushing your cheek in the softest stroke. “It’s real. It’s always been real.”
The air between you felt electric but calm, like something solid settling into place.
His eyes never left yours. “Well then—yes,” he said softly. “I’d love it if you were my girlfriend… but I may be your boyfriend?”
Your smile deepened, your heart fluttering at his words, the warmth in his tone.
“Yes,” you whispered, breath catching.
“Okay then, it’s settled—out loud and in the air,” he chuckled, his voice low and full of something rich and steady. He leaned in and kissed you, soft and sure, sealing the promise between you.
“I love you,” you whispered against his lips, your voice steady.
He paused, pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze deep and unwavering.
“Is that too fast? I know we just officially started dating and all,” you joked, a playful smile tugging at your lips as you tried to ease the nerves that still fluttered under the surface.
He laughed softly, the sound warm and full of affection. “Too fast? No way. Just right.”
He leaned in again, resting his forehead gently against yours. “I love you too.”
And just like that, everything felt still and full all at once—this moment, this love.
This was the love you deserved. Him. And though you never expected it, somehow, you found it—right across the hall.
A/N: Hello lovelies! Thank you so much to everyone who left kindness for me after last chapter. This is getting toward the end here, I think there will be probably 2-3 more chapters before we put this bad boy in park. As always, I would love love love to hear any thoughts you have.
Word count: 3491
Rated: Mature
Tags: Angst, Mutual Trauma, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Tension, Sex, Mutual Pining, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Comfort/Hurt, Where the comfort also hurts, a lot of baseball talk tbh
--
Rose woke with a sharp headache and her heart rattling in her chest. Without opening her eyes to the daylight that slipped around the curtain, the specific ways she was uncomfortable trickled in. Her throat was dry and sore. Her skin felt tight and itchy. She had been clenching her hands in her sleep, and she could feel indents in her palms from her nails. Her leg muscles were threatening to tighten and cramp if moved wrong.
Wanting to go back to sleep, she tried to lay still but kept holding her breath to avoid moving. Her head throbbed and reminded her to breathe again. Repeating that loop eventually felt enough like insanity that it drove her to action.
After putting down an electrolyte packet in a glass of water and four ibuprofen, Rose settled on the couch. Hauling herself from one room to the other took more energy than it should have. It was late morning already but her only plans were to sleep as much as her body would accept. A list of problems for her future self wrote itself in the back of her mind, including the lack of anything edible other than protein bars in her kitchen. She had other plans for her days off, errands to try to take care of during real people hours and a pile of laundry. None of that was going to happen. She was going to be on this couch or in her bed for the next two days.
Turning the TV on, she found the local station playing The Price is Right and dozed off to Drew Carey almost immediately.
The next time she opened her eyes, the sun was setting and there was a resounding thud coming from her door. It took a few blinks for her brain to catch on that someone was knocking. Rather insistently. The Pirates game had replaced game shows and televised court, and a bleary glance at the scoreboard revealed a pitcher’s duel against the Brewers.
Aching, unsteady legs carried her to the door, which she peeked out with a groan before opening.
“Hi,” she said with a lazy wave to Robby, who lowered his hand from where it was poised to continue knocking.
His brow was pinched and his jaw set, but his shoulders relaxed a fraction at seeing her in the doorway. Rose watched his expression ease as he gave her a clinical once over to confirm she was alive followed by a less dispassionate scan of the expanse of her bare legs under the Knoch High School Varsity Wrestling shirt.
“Hey, I didn’t hear back from you all day and I thought…” Robby trailed off, clearing his throat. “I wanted to make sure you were alright.”
Rose held up both arms as though presenting for inspection. “Can’t let almonds take me down. I’ll live.”
His scan yielded a similar conclusion, frowning a little at the bruising on her forearm from the IV.
“Hopefully we earned a good patient satisfaction score,” he joked, feeling more uncertain now that his main concern had been alleviated.
“Good thing they’re anonymous.”
They blinked at each other, Rose not moving out of the doorway and Robby not leaving. The silence allowed him to process the sound from her TV.
“What inning is it?” he asked casually, peeking ever so slightly around her. He was tall enough he didn’t really have to, but it felt polite to pretend.
“Bottom of the fourth. No runs.”
“Did you see the score yesterday? Another loss in the history book. Dwindling suck buffer.” One hand was in the pocket of his sweats, the other rubbed his beard absently.
“I didn’t check before going to bed.” Rose shook her head, leaning wearily against the doorframe. She had only been awake a minute, and she tried hard to resist yawning but lost the battle, eyes watering.
Robby looked sheepish when she finished rubbing them dry.
“Sorry to drop in on you, I know you said you would probably sleep all day. I tried texting and then calling, and when you didn’t answer... I wanted to see if you needed anything, company included.” There was an almost pleading waiver to the low rumble of his voice.
Asking for assistance, even comfort, and expecting anything felt precarious to Rose. It left her exposed, admitting to needing someone else. Divulging the exact way in which she was failing to keep herself upright was an ordeal worse than exchanging childhood trauma scars. Rose hated admitting even perceived failures, leaving her certain the only kind of help worth accepting was the kind offered without asking. The insistent kind.
The kind given out of someone seeing her, noticing her need.
The kind that sat next to her on the roof and refused to leave in spite of her protests.
The kind that showed up at her door even though he had been a prick the night before.
No one had sent Robby. She had a shitty night and he was there - standing in her hallway with a half panicked, half remorseful look on his face while she stared at him.
His gaze fell almost longingly over at the couch and TV as there was a mix of crowd noises. When he looked back at her, his teeth dug into the back of his cheek as he raised his eyebrows, shrugging a little. He made a very contrite picture.
Rose shut her eyes against the waves of his guilt crashing over her and stepped out of the way so he could come inside.
“You’re ordering me soup,” she muttered as she felt him breeze past her, taking off his shoes by the door and looking up at her with an easy smile.
“Yes, ma’am.” His eyes crinkled as he said it and Rose blamed the multiple rounds of adrenaline less than 24 hours prior for the feeling in her chest.
“And I’m not putting on pants,” she added, collapsing back into her corner of the couch.
Robby huffed incredulously. “As though I would have asked. I’m not trying to get into it with a varsity wrestler.” His fingers caught the hem of the shirt as he sat beside her with a smirk.
The gesture was both a reason to touch her, and an excuse to check the bruising on her thigh. Even without his glasses he could tell his dose had not bruised but the two others had. Fluke was more likely than user error but he felt guilty somehow.
Rose allowed the gentle affection with a hum, glancing down at the shirt in order to remember which one she was wearing. “It’s from home,” she said by way of explanation. “There’s no year so I couldn’t tell you which brother it belonged to.”
“Lotta possibilities?” He asked curiously, feeling another bubble of shame not knowing the answer. He knew she had brothers, just didn’t know how many.
“Four,” she confirmed without judgment. “Three older, one younger. All wrestlers.”
“No good emergency contacts among them?” Robby said it before he could stop himself. No one in the city? That’s what Jack had said when they talked this morning.
“Wow, Abbot is about as respectful of HIPAA as Kirk is of the Prime Directive,” Rose said evenly, shaking her head. She extended her legs, the motion naturally moving her away from his touch.
“Well, it’s more administrative than anything…” He pointed out softly but winced. “I shouldn’t have brought that up right now.”
“I would love to leave work out the window over there, please.” Rose pointed into her bedroom. “You were good at leaving all this outside work last night.” She gestured generally between them.
There was a moment of hesitation before he responded.
“I have to be completely impartial at work. It can't get messy or emotional. We have to be able to leave it at the door.” This was the conversation that Robby had been preparing to have for about 20 hours, and his careful wording sounded like a press release.
“Who are you talking to? I have a gold fucking medal in keeping it professional at work. You treated me like a crash mannequin.” Rose narrowed her eyes. She would kick him out of this apartment. “You didn’t even check in before you went home. You just pissed Abbot off and left.”
“I didn’t piss him off. Like all good friends he isn’t mad, he’s just disappointed,” Robby admitted bitterly.
The information Abbot was on to them was news to Rose, who eyed him. “Whose behavior did he find odd?”
The flush up his neck was enough of an answer, and the swell of righteous indignation felt better than nailing her first surgery as lead. The panic at someone finding out they were involved had to go in a box for the moment.
“He was surprised I wasn’t more concerned, or at least more hands on, I guess.” Robby sighed heavily, rubbing his hand over his neck and shrugging his shoulders.
“You didn’t have to hold my hand, but you also didn’t have to pass me off to a gaggle of med students the first chance you got.” She sounded more tired than angry.
“It’s a teaching hospital,” he tried half-heartedly and then collapsed like a marionette as she leveled him with a look. “I’m sorry. I should have at least made sure you were alright myself. Jack said you looked mad when I walked away and then after he called me out, I was too in my head to act normal.”
Rose lifted a shoulder. It was hard to argue, and she found herself back in Room 14 three years ago, Robby sitting across from her and carefully stitching up her forehead. What was she supposed to do? Be mean to him for trying not to blow up their situation?
At least he had bothered to do the sutures himself back then. Didn’t pass that off to a med student.
Rose had yet to sort out why it bothered her so much or, more honestly, yet to fully admit to herself that it bothered her because she wanted to be able to expect more from him. He had hours to think about this, but she had hardly any time to decide if it was worth fighting about or if she could even put into words how exactly he had failed to meet her expectations of their unspoken, if not non-existent, agreement. It wasn’t fair to be angry at people who didn’t know they were letting her down.
His hand on hers tugged her thoughts back down beside him, even though she wasn’t responding.
“I am sorry.”
It was quiet, earnest. The sort of genuine apology he perhaps didn’t owe her considering their relationship’s lack of definition.
“I know.” It was the only way to push them past this moment. The only end to this conversation that didn’t involve cracking herself open in front of him or arguing until he eventually left.
“Would it help if I ordered groceries and made you soup?” he asked, nudging her gently.
“It certainly wouldn’t hurt,” Rose conceded, feeling herself once again sink into the familiar comfort of him. It was easy to bask in the heat he radiated and pretend it didn’t also leave her sunburned.
“I can do that.” Robby perked up at the prospect of utility, pulling his phone and his glasses from his pocket. His other hand fell to her knee as he keyed in everything he needed to make chicken soup. It didn’t feel like enough, she didn’t feel there but he hadn’t come over to fight.
Something in Rose settled as his thumb rubbed circles on her skin and she watched the game, blinking against the dry exhaustion in her eyes.
“You can go back to sleep.” His eyes had only flicked over at her when he made the offer.
“I don’t need permission,” Rose muttered petulantly.
Robby held up his phone-holding hand in surrender, leaving the other on her leg. “I don’t want a cage match, Undertaker.”
“Watch out. I’ll crush you with my thighs.”
“Please do.”
The earnest push with which the words left him made Rose turn red, and she bit her lip in self-satisfaction. They weren’t especially verbal companions, so sometimes it was nice to elicit a sincere reaction from him.
“Shut up,” she laughed. “You’re lucky to be here.” There was no bite to the jab.
Robby grinned, shaking his head as he placed the order. After tossing his phone onto her ottoman and kicking his feet up, he lifted his arm for her. “When you wake up, there will be soup.”
Letting herself melt into his side, Rose shut her eyes, a sigh leaving her at how much better they felt closed than staring at the TV. His fingers brushed over the stretched out collar of the old cotton shirt as he rubbed her neck.
There was science happening, she was sure. It wasn’t just a coincidence that he turned off the part of her brain that resisted relaxing for sleep. It wasn’t fair she couldn’t compound whatever was happening chemically that let her doze off so easily.
“Don’t start a fire in my apartment,” she mumbled as her last waking comment.
Robby’s scoff stuck in his throat as he kept himself from jostling her. He shook his head fondly, eyes on the game. Focusing on her slow, even breaths and the weight of her against his chest, he quieted his own mind. Couldn’t do any more damage control now, and hopefully the soup was going to earn him some points back.
An hour later, he had to carefully untangle himself from Rose so he could get the delivery from the door. His chest tightened uncomfortably at her soft grunt of disapproval before she settled into the pillow propped against the arm of the couch and fell back to sleep.
It was ostensibly the first time Robby had been left “alone” in her space. He moved quietly to get the groceries put away, making only a small racket finding the right kitchen utensils to get started cooking.
Rose didn’t stir while he was getting the soup simmering. She stayed softly snoring while he cleaned out her fridge, unloaded her dishwasher, folded the laundry from her dryer, and started a load of dark clothes. He checked the scrub pockets as he tossed them in, preventing two lip balms, three saline flushes, and her headphones from going through the wash.
If he kept focused on tasks, Robby couldn’t let himself get too in his head about not knowing the score between them. Things had started to clutter in their silence. The ease of no labels allowed for casual intimacy without obligation, but they’d spent so much time together, there was no way to keep the personal boxes separate from the work boxes. Thousands of hours side by side in the Pitt couldn’t just be professional when they shaped his very understanding of her.
At least her laundry was easy to sort. He wasn’t presumptuous enough to put it away for her, but he left it stacked on her dresser.
The baseball game went to extra innings and Robby was just coming back from taking out her trash when Rose sat up on the couch and rubbed her face.
“You’re letting them play so much free baseball,” she said disdainfully.
Robby made an offended noise as he locked her door behind himself. “I’m letting them? You’re just as much to blame, if not more. Where was your good energy when the bases were loaded and we only had one out? I got us through the bottom of the eleventh.”
Rose laughed even though her chest ached. “I’m so sorry. There I go, jumping in without context.”
He sighed overdramatically while he replaced the trash bag. “No benefit of the doubt tonight apparently,” he quipped.
She came into the kitchen to get something to drink, feeling raisin-like. It took a long moment for her half-awake brain to take in the tidied state of the kitchen and the sound of the laundry running.
“You didn’t have to do my chores,” she said with an embarrassed chuckle, trying to remember exactly how bad the kitchen had been before. The horror doubled as she went in the fridge and noticed he had purged her dead leftovers and rotting produce.
Robby raised a shoulder and made a dismissive noise. “It wasn’t all that bad,” he said reassuringly, shaking his head.
“It’s nice of you to lie.” Rose said with a nod, finishing the water before turning to the stove. “And you actually made soup.”
“Were you just expecting a human pillow and delivery soup?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I don’t have any neurons firing at the moment. I’ve had no thoughts since I let you inside,” she said with a tired smile. It sounded less pathetic than admitting she tried not to expect anything.
His hand found hers to pull her gently into a hug. Rose tucked her head just under his chin as he gave her a firm squeeze. A long, deep breath left her as a rush of both comfort and anxiety swelled over her. Would he stay? Would she sleep tonight if he left?
“I’ll bring you some soup, go direct your energy at the bucs.” Robby pressed a kiss to her head and nudged her hip.
Two innings later, the Pirates threw a wild pitch and allowed the Brewers runner from third to steal home to end the game 0-1 in the 14th.
“I can’t believe they waited until I was awake to lose. Wasted the bullpen, played five free innings.” Rose had a scowl on her face as she ranted.
“One loss away from being an even 50/50.” Robby shook his head, chuckling humorlessly. “Hey, at least we can’t ever be accused of being fair weather fans.”
“It could take decades to swing that ratio one way or the other again. Weird to see this particular historical struggle.” She sighed and pulled her legs up and under her on the couch.
“Hate seeing other teams celebrate,” she added, turning off the TV.
Robby laughed, picking up both empty bowls before standing with a groan to put them in the dishwasher.
“I was too busy telling one of our batters to sit the fuck down for sucking, but the soup was really great.” Rose said, turning to look at him with a smile.
“Actually, you mentioned it after you called Horwitz a little bitch.” The pleased grin on his face made her feel warm.
Rose tried to grimace around a smile in faux-apology. “This is why I avoid watching baseball in public. I can’t be held accountable for the things I say.”
“I consider myself lucky to get the uncensored commentary.” Robby said as he put the leftover soup in her fridge, leaving her kitchen clean. “I’m glad you liked the soup though, I’ve been making it for a long time.”
He lingered a moment in her kitchen and a sudden apprehension slipped over her as she realized they had never spent a night together that didn’t involve having sex. She didn’t think Robby expected anything given the circumstances.
She just sort of figured…
“I should head out. I told Dr. Pace I would head in early tomorrow, and you should enjoy your day off. Get as much rest as you can.”
That he would probably leave to avoid figuring it out.
“Yeah, sure, of course.”
Now think of three more ways to say okay, Rosie - her mind mocked her.
“Thank you for the soup and for removing the biohazards from my fridge.” Back to baseline, back to taking what she could get with a smile and insisting to herself it was enough.
“Oh, don’t forget to put the clothes from the washer in the dryer before you go to bed. And stop leaving IV flushes in your scrub pockets,” Robby goaded with a smirk. The thought of staying made him nervous, mostly because he hadn’t decided if this was still a good idea. If it ever had been. He wasn’t going to be able to sleep if he stayed.
“Guilty as charged. I’m the reason we can’t appropriately staff nurses. Resource wasting.” She nodded and heaved a dramatic sigh, grateful to have something to joke about other than him leaving.
His laugh had an almost melancholy fondness that sent Rose’s heart stuttering. It was impossible to turn off the pattern recognition. To ignore that this felt like the beginning of the end once again. A last supper of sorts.
As though refuting that interpretation, Robby came over and kissed her sweetly. “I’m sorry your weekend was stolen from you by almond milk.”
Rose offered him a tight-lipped smile when he pulled away, and she stood to walk him out. By the time she laid down in bed by herself a few minutes later, she felt heavy and very much awake.
Summary : Marcus Acacius never asked for a wife, and he certainly did not ask for you. As he kept his distance, you stayed silent. But now, you are smiling again. Yet, not at him. He sees too late what he broke, what he lost, and what he could have had if only he had reached out sooner. But in the shadows, Lucilla waits, like she always has.
Marcus Acacius x f!reader
Warnings : arranged mariage, cold behavior, age gap ?, infidelity, secret relationship, angst, no y/n
Words : 4,9K
A/N : Marcus' pov yayyyyy. I'm not really proud of this one, but this chapter is still important.
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Marcus had not changed.
Each morning, as he rose in the aching stillness of his chambers, he told himself it was enough—though his shoulders carried more than old wounds from war. They carried the quiet weight of a life he had never asked for. The coldness was anything but new. It had always lived inside him. Carved there by loss, by duty, by a thousand days of bloodshed that demanded silence more often than grief. But now, in Rome’s golden light, in the smooth, watchful quiet of the villa, it had begun to take on a new shape. It had begun to feel like cruelty.
He knew what he was doing. Or rather, what he was not doing.
Each time you entered a room, he felt it—the subtle shift of air, the softness of your presence that brushed up against his walls and found no opening. You smiled. You spoke gently. You offered olive branches in the shape of warm bread, scented oils, quiet conversation. And still, he gave you nothing but civility.
Not because he hated you, that would have been simpler. But because something in him had been still too long, rusted into a man-shaped cage that did not know how to open. He had never wanted to be a husband. Least of all to a woman like you, a woman unprepared for the iron weight of a man who did not know how to reach out, even when his hands ached to.
He had thought, once, that maybe time would wear him down. That routine would soften the edges of his silence, that your patience might disarm something buried deep. But weeks had passed, and nothing inside him moved.
He remembered that night—the night it had begun to change. You had returned late from the garden, your eyes low, your steps quiet. Something invisible had fractured, and you carried it with the careful hush of someone who refused to let the pieces fall. He had not asked you anything. He had not dared. But from that moment on, a veil had fallen between you, thin and nearly invisible, but undeniable.
And he had done nothing to lift it.
He watched you became smaller in your own home, like someone drawing their warmth inward just to survive the cold. You moved gently through the villa, always careful not to step too close, not to intrude. When you spoke, it was with the softness of someone who expected silence in return. And that was what he gave you.
The truth of it haunted him.
Because you were not a mistake, you were not a punishment, you were simply wrong for the man he had become. Or perhaps, more painfully, too right for the part of him he had long buried. The part that wanted to believe in connection, in something lasting. In peace.
Lucilla had always known that about him.
She had seen him through blood and ruin, years ago, when his name was still only whispered in war tents and carved into stone by men who died shouting it. She had been there in his lowest hours. Not as a lover at first, but as a constant. A witness. A mirror. She had understood the language of silence long before anyone else tried to translate it. And in the comfort of her presence, he had learned to stop pretending.
But now—now, even that comfort felt compromised. Because Lucilla was not stupid.
She saw the way he watched you when he thought you would not notice. She saw the weight of his silences grow heavier with each passing day, saw how the cold between you and him had started to feel less like armor and more like regret. She never said it aloud but she had grown sharper in recent weeks, more possessive in the way her fingers brushed his sleeve or the way her voice dropped when speaking of you.
He did not blame her.
He did not blame anyone actually.
Except, maybe himself.
He remembered a morning not long ago, early light falling through the tall windows, where you sat unmoving, a scroll unrolled and unread on your lap. He had paused in the doorway, unseen, watching the stillness of your form, the quiet grief that lived not in your face but in your posture, in the way your shoulders curled slightly inward, like someone bracing for another disappointment.
He should have gone to you, should have said something. But all he did was turn and walk away. Because he knew—somewhere deep, somewhere shameful—that the longer he let this go on, the more irreversible it would become. And still, he did nothing.
Not because he did not feel. But because feeling was not enough. Because the truth he could not say was this: he had never wanted to be a husband. And yet here you were. And worse—he had never wanted to need someone like you. Yet, slowly, terribly, he did. But by the time he would admit it, you would no longer be waiting. He knew that.
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It was a banquet, yet another, gilded and loud, and full of the smells of wine and sugar-drenched fruit. Rome parading its triumphs before itself, drunk on its own image. He stood alone near a column, watching the blur of silk and gold, the gleam of laughter that rang false in his ears. He had not touched his cup, had not spoken more than a dozen words all night.
Your voice had reached him once as you greeted a senator’s wife with that unfailing grace of yours. He had turned to look. Just once.
Lucilla, of course, had noticed. He had not seen her approach—not really—but her intoxicate scent had arrived first, the familiar hush laced with something richer, darker, as if even her perfume insisted on being remembered. It was the kind of fragrance designed not just to please but to linger, to mark the skin, to haunt the spaces after she was gone. She moved like a shadow trained in its own weaponry: quiet, fluid, always knowing how to stand just close enough without demanding attention.
“Careful,” she murmured just beside his ear, her voice low and sharp, honed like a blade concealed beneath velvet. “We have to talk.”
Marcus did not reply, nor turned. But his hand around the rim of his goblet, trembled slightly. He kept his gaze fixed on the movement beyond them—on the sweep of robes, the glint of polished goblets raised in ritual cheer, on the hollow theater of laughter that rolled across the banquet hall like a tide without origin. Everyone here was pretending. Every glance, every syllable, every practiced smile. Just another masquerade.
And he had been pretending too.
Lucilla shifted closer, the silk of her gown whispering against his boot. “She nearly found out,” she hissed, her voice meant for him and him alone. “That night. In the garden.”
He did not need clarification, he knew exactly which night she meant. His jaw tightened, memory flashing like heat behind his eyes. He should have stopped it all long before, should have ended this—whatever it was between him and Lucilla—when it was still salvageable. But he had not. And now the thread she had spun around him, years in the weaving, was snarling into a knot too tangled to ignore.
“She is clever you know,” Lucilla said, tilting her head. “She asked questions. It was only luck that she believed me.”
Believed her. The words struck him harder than he expected, sharp and low in the gut. She had lied. And you—you had believed her. You had trusted the woman who smiled at your table, who spoke in pleasantries and wrapped deceit in silk and civility. His stomach turned. Not from Lucilla’s betrayal, but from his own.
“She is not like the others,” Lucilla added, as if the thought unsettled her. Her tone was even, but there was an edge beneath it now—wary, calculating. “She notices. If we are not careful—”
But he was not listening anymore, across the room, just past the golden pillar flanked with ivy and candles, he saw you.
You were seated beside a man he did not know—younger, the son of a patrician from the north, recently returned from Alexandria, all sharp cheekbones and sun-warmed charm. He wore his toga too loosely, laughed too quickly. He had one of those inherited faces too used to being looked at. You were not leaning in, but you were not recoiling either. The way your head tilted slightly, just so, the way your fingers drummed along the edge of the table, not nervously, but thoughtfully. And then—Gods help him—you laughed.
It was not loud, nor flirtatious. But it was real. A soft, unguarded breath of amusement that lit across your face like morning sun. Marcus inhaled through his nose, and the air caught halfway down. He had never heard you laugh like that in his presence.
Lucilla kept talking beside him, her words like water against stone, insistent, unheeded. “She does not know what you have been through, Marcus. She does not understand. She never will. She would not last a day in the cold places you have lived—”
And then she touched him. Her fingers brushed over his forearm with a gesture so familiar it might have once felt like comfort, but now... now it was unwelcome. Not just wrong. It felt like a theft.
Because his gaze was still on you. And all he could see was the way your hand rested on the table, your fingers brushing that man’s sleeve by accident, casual, brief—and he hated it. Hated the echo of it, the mirror of what Lucilla was doing now. That she could touch him when his mind was elsewhere, that someone else could touch you and receive what he never asked for but now realized he had always wanted.
Lucilla’s hand tightened slightly, sensing the shift in him. “Marcus ?”
But his body was already tilting away. A step, a breath, a lean. But to Lucilla, it must have felt like the beginning of loss. And for Marcus, it was the end of pretense. He did not look at her when he spoke. “Move.” His voice was controlled, but the kind of controlled that could not be softened. The kind of calm that came before the draw of a sword.
“Marcus—” she tried again, the edge of her composure thinning. “She was speaking to another man. You do not owe her anything. You and I—this is not—”
He did not let her finish. His hand lifted, brushing hers from his arm in a motion that was not harsh but irrevocable, the gesture of a soldier shedding what no longer served him. She stepped back as though the air had changed temperature. And he walked across marble floors glossed with candlelight, past idle nobility with mouths full of honeyed words and hands stained in politics. Toward you.
You looked up as he approached, your conversation pausing mid-sentence. You blinked, once, twice, as though not trusting what you were seeing. You opened your mouth, but the man beside you was already retreating, sensing the gravity that entered with Marcus’s arrival.
He did not even acknowledge the man, as his eyes never left yours. “We are leaving.” He said. Quietly. Just that. No explanation. No warning.
You hesitated, your fingers clenched lightly around the rim of the table, your body still angled toward the seat. Your expression was unreadable at first, caught between confusion and that deeper, older thing—resignation. A kind of knowing that lived in women who had long accepted their lack of choice.
“I—Marcus, what is this ?” You asked, voice low, not wanting to cause a scene.
He did not answer. The way he stood, the set of his jaw, the command in his silence, it made resistance feel futile. Still, you lingered. You looked past him, briefly, and your gaze found Lucilla, who stood at a distance now, her smile brittle and fixed, her hands coiled together like something held back only by pride.
You rose.
Not out of agreement. Not even out of submission. But because somewhere in that moment, you realized that what he offered now—however sudden, however unclear—was more honest than the indifference he had buried you beneath for weeks. And you were tired of being unseen.
You left without taking his arm, but you followed. And behind you, Lucilla watched. Her face pale and her hands trembling just slightly. Because for the first time, she was not the one being chosen. And Marcus—Marcus did not look back once.
Not at her.
Not at anyone.
Only at you.
The carriage ride home was silent. Not the still, companionable quiet that sometimes followed long evenings—but the kind that vibrated beneath the surface, sharp with things unsaid. The kind that filled the space between two people like smoke, invisible but choking. Marcus sat across from you, unmoving, eyes fixed on the black shape of the road beyond the open window. His jaw was tight, one hand resting against his thigh in the rigid posture of a man at war with himself.
You stared at your hands folded neatly in your lap, fingers trembling faintly despite your best effort to still them. He had not said a word since pulling you from the banquet floor, had not looked at you, had not explained, had not acknowledged what he just had done. But now, alone in the dark velvet of the carriage, you were no longer shocked. You were angry.
And underneath the anger, something colder had begun to settle, something that tasted like shame, like humiliation. Because the moment you had turned to ask him what was wrong, the moment your voice had wavered with confusion—he had not answered, as if you did not deserve the dignity of a reason.
As if you had done something wrong.
You clenched your jaw, heart pounding louder with each mile that passed, fury sparking hotter with every glance he refused to give you. By the time the gates of the villa came into view, you were no longer confused. You were incandescent with rage. When the carriage rolled to a stop and the footman opened the door, Marcus stepped out first. Still silent. Still calm. He did not even glance back to see if you followed. You did, but not for the same reason as before. You followed because you were done letting this continue in silence.
The walk through the atrium was short, a blur of shadow and candlelight against white marble. He turned toward the corridor that led to his private quarters—as he always did. As if tonight had not happened. As if ripping you from a conversation like some jealous tyrant was not worth discussion.
But this time, you did not let him go.
“Marcus.”
He stopped. His shoulders stiffened, but he did not turn. You did not care anymore, you stepped forward until you stood behind him, your voice low and cold as steel. “What is your problem ?”
That made him turn. Slowly, brow furrowed, mouth set in that same expressionless line he always wore when the walls went up. But you were not afraid of it anymore.
“You do not speak to me,” you said, each word deliberate, each breath carefully held so your voice would not shake. “You barely look at me. You treat me like a stranger in a house that is supposed to be mine too. And I have tried—I have tried to live with that. To respect whatever it is you think you are protecting. But tonight—” your voice caught, not with weakness, but fury “—you pull me away from a conversation like I have done something wrong. Like I am a problem to be managed.”
He said nothing, of course he did not. You moved closer, circling around to stand in front of him now, forcing him to look at you. “You do not get to do that. You do not get to be cold for weeks—months, and then act like I belong to you the moment someone else says something kind !”
His eyes darkened—not with anger, but with something worse. Guilt. Maybe shame. You could not tell and you really did not care at all.
“That is not how this works,” you hissed, your voice breaking now, fury crashing into something fragile beneath. “You do not get to disappear behind silence and distance and then come dragging me out of a room like you have any claim to me !”
He finally opened his mouth, but you raised your hand.
“No.” You pointed your index finger toward him, “You do not get to talk now. I am talking.”
He closed it again, but did not look away. And you hated him a little for that. For standing there so still, like none of this touched him. Like he was not the reason your hands shook. Your voice dropped lower. “If you want something from me, Marcus—if you actually feel something, if there is anything in you besides shame and silence and this endless, cold pride—then say it ! Ask for it ! But do not you dare punish me for what you ca not admit.”
He did not speak. His expression flickered, not a change, but a crack. His throat moved in a tight swallow, but still no words came. You stared at him. Waiting. Wanting something—anything—to make this mean something.
But there was only silence.
And you felt it then. The final break. That small, foolish piece of hope that had still lived somewhere in you, the one that had clung to his name, to the quiet way he stood when you entered a room, to the moments when you thought there might be something there.
It died.
You shook your head, voice barely a whisper now. “You really do not have anything to say.”
Still, he stood there.
So, you turned. Not toward your room. Not in defiance or drama. Just away. Away from him, from the weight of everything he would not even try to say.
And this time, he was the one left standing still.
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Marcus could not sleep. Not for lack of exhaustion, the weight in his chest was enough to flatten a man twice his size, but because the silence in his chamber refused to be still. It scraped against the inside of his skull like iron dragged across stone, and every time he closed his eyes, he saw your face.
Not the quiet version of you, not the one he had grown used to—if he could even say that—not the one who spoke softly, who walked carefully around his moods. No. What haunted him now was the version he had tried to pretend did not exist: the one who had finally looked at him with fire in your eyes, the one who had stopped being kind, the one he had driven to fury.
You had stood there in the atrium, lit by the echo of too many quiet evenings, and you had spoken to him like someone who had reached the very end of something. Your voice had trembled with fury held too long beneath the surface. And he had let you go.
He had watched you turn, and for the first time in a very long time, he had felt fear. Not battlefield fear, not the cold clarity of calculated danger. But the raw, unshakable fear of a man who had realized, too late, that he had taken something living and turned it into dust.
He sat now at the edge of his bed, tunic wrinkled from where he had laid down hours earlier, then risen again, and again, and again. The wine he had poured sat untouched on the table. A breeze drifted through the open window, cool against the sweat at his temple, but he did not feel it. All he felt was your absence. And the sound of your voice, still echoing in his mind.
Gods.
He buried his face in his hands, elbows on his knees. His breath shook, and he hated himself for it. But there was no battle here to win, no strategy to retreat to. Just a silence he had built himself, brick by brick, and the realization that he might have finally sealed himself inside it.
He stood suddenly, as he did not even remember making the decision, just the movement : one step, then another. The villa was dark as he stepped into the corridor, his bare feet soundless on the stone floor. The night was deep, heavy with the scent of cypress and cooling marble, and not a single servant stirred. He did not bring any source of light with him, he did not need one, because he knew the path to your chamber by heart.
Each step felt like it carried the weight of a hundred unsaid things. He did not know what he would say when he got there. He did not know if he would knock, or turn back, or fall to his knees the moment he saw your face. All he knew was that he could not stay away. Not anymore.
When he reached your door, he stood there for a long moment. The wood looked softer in the moonlight, blurred at the edges. His hand hovered, and for a breath, he considered turning back. Then he knocked once, quietly.
No answer.
He waited, heart thudding like a drum in a storm. He knocked again, just slightly louder.
Still nothing.
His hand dropped to his side. Maybe you were asleep. Maybe you had nothing more to say. Maybe he deserved that silence now, the one he had offered you so many times. Maybe—
Then he heard it.
Faint. Muffled.
Not words. Just breath.
The kind a person tries to hide. The kind a person makes when they are crying into a pillow and trying not to let it escape their throat. His chest clenched, a violent, gut-deep reaction, like a blade shoved through the ribs from the inside out. He pressed his palm flat against the doorframe to keep from staggering.
Gods.
You were crying.
Because of him.
Not in anger now. Not in defiance. But because something in you had broken, and he had been the one to break it. And you were trying to cry quietly—because even now, even now, you did not want to disturb him.
Something inside him shattered. He lowered his head against the wood, closing his eyes. “Please,” he whispered, though he was not sure if it was for you or for himself.
He did not knock again, just stood there, listening to the sound of your pain, to the quiet unraveling of what he had never had the courage to hold. And for the first time in years, Marcus wished that someone would come and strike him down where he stood. Because what he had done was worse than cruelty.
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The weeks that followed were made of absence. Not loud. Not cruel. Just absence. The kind that settles like dusk, imperceptible at first, until you look up and realize the light has gone and you never saw it leave. There were no slammed doors, no raised voices, no final, cutting words meant to scar. Only space, and the silence inside it.
You did not avoid Marcus. Not openly or childishly, you were too composed for that. But there was something in the way your footsteps passed him now, lighter, quieter, as though your body had learned to retract itself from his presence. The brush of your gown no longer reached him, your fingers no longer touched the edge of his sleeve in passing. You did not linger in thresholds anymore, did not pause before you exited a room.
Your scent had vanished from the air in the shared spaces of the house. The triclinium, the library, even the shade beneath the olive tree where you once sat with your sandals off and a book forgotten in your lap—all of it smelled only of stone now.
You greeted him as a wife should. You bowed your head when appropriate, your voice was even, smooth as poured wine—and just as impersonal. But your eyes… your eyes no longer searched for him across a room. No longer stayed on him when you thought he was not looking.
You had become a stranger in the shape of the woman he should have loved better. A ghost with a pulse. Marcus, who had once commanded legions, who had stared down barbarians and traitors alike with unblinking resolve, did not know how to fix what he had broken.
So, he did nothing. Well, not exactly. The only thing he did was not reaching for Lucilla. He did not meet her when she called for him, and did not went to her villa late at night, like he would have done before.
He told himself it was patience. That healing required space. That if he rushed you now, forced closeness, demanded confession, he would only wound you further. But deep down, beneath the reasoning and the Roman pride and the well-worn habits of silence, he knew the truth.
He was waiting. Waiting for you to return to him. Waiting for the grace of your forgiveness without having to ask for it aloud. Waiting for the kindness he had squandered to be extended one more time, without cost. And every day you did not come back was another quiet confirmation that you were done offering.
You smiled now, sometimes. But never at him. You laughed once or twice, in the garden with a servant girl, or at something read from a scroll. But the sound was brief, private. Not meant to be shared. And never in hispresence.
When you spoke to him, it was only in the language of civility. Clear. Respectful. Empty of warmth. And that—that calm, that poised neutrality—was worse than anger, worse than tears. Because anger at least was still a thread. Still a tether. Still a sign that some part of you burned for him, even if it burned in pain.
But this ? This was extinction.
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The shift came quietly. He noticed it during a garden gathering hosted by the widow Domitia—one of those breezy Forum affairs where senators aired their wealth in wines and foreign spices while pretending to care about poetry. You were dressed in a soft dark blue that day, your hair was coiled up, away from your neck, the way you always wore it when the sun was strong. And you stood at a distance from him. Not far enough to be scandalous, but far enough that you could no longer be considered at his side.
But you were near him. The man from the banquet.
You spoke with him easily, your voice low, shaded with interest. Your posture leaned just slightly toward him, like a flower drawn toward light. Marcus stood across the colonnade, his goblet untouched in his hand. He watched the way your fingers played along the rim of your cup when the man leaned in. The way your mouth moved when you spoke—not smiling, but open.
He did not move. Did not interrupt. Did not speak.
Because what right did he have ?
He had given you every reason to drift. Every reason to find warmth elsewhere. And yet, something in his chest—that old soldier’s instinct, that possessive ache he had never dared name—flared like an open wound.
You walked with that man again two days later. In the villa gardens. A servant mentioned it in passing—an innocent report about ‘my lady’s guest’—and Marcus had nodded, pretending not to care. But that night, you came back with color in your cheeks and soil on your fingertips, and for the first time in months, your face looked alive.
Like you had finally remembered that the world held beauty. That your body still moved in it. That someone saw you. And Marcus, from the shadows of the peristyle, watched the way you stepped through the atrium, humming faintly to yourself, a sound that had not been heard in the villa in weeks, and he felt it: the burn.
It was not jealousy.
It was loss.
Real loss. Not the imagined kind that might be recovered with a few good words. But the quiet, irretrievable kind. The loss that comes when something has gone cold and hardened, and you didn’t even realize you had stopped holding it.
You had stopped waiting for him.
And still—he did nothing.
Because what could he say after months of silence ? After watching you try, and fail, and try again ? What could he offer now, when everything you once hoped to find in him—warmth, touch, want—had become something you had taught yourself to live without ?
He had once been a man others followed without question. Now he stood alone in the home you shared, reduced to the echo of a choice he never had the courage to make. And the worst part, the part that scraped bone, was not that you had left him.
It was that you had stayed. Right here. Under the same roof. Wearing the same name.
Summary : Since your marriage, the distance between you and Marcus has only grown wider. Doubt settles in, hand in hand with your growing loneliness. But during a conversation with Lucilla, you come to realize something far heavier—you are even more alone than you thought.
Marcus Acacius x f!reader
Warnings : arranged marriage, mentions of suicidal thoughts (blink and you'll miss it, it's like just one sentence), cold behavior, age gap ? (not mentioned), infidelity (towards reader), secret relationship, no y/n
Words : 5,9K
A/N : this one was so hard to write, idk why. Sorry if it’s not perfect
masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter
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The domus was quieter than you imagined a place of such size could be. Its silence was not peaceful; it was the sound of old stone and restraint, guards who never laughed, courtyards where voices echoed too sharply. Rome, they said, was the center of the world. But for you, it felt more like a stage where everyone played a part, and you were still reading the wrong script. Your new home was beautiful, you could admit that. Even if it never quite felt like yours. The marble glowed ivory in the mornings, and the frescoes caught the changing light like painted memories, but there was something unyielding in the walls, something that did not bend to your presence. The mosaic of Gods watched you wherever you walked, their inlaid eyes judging, as though they knew you did not belong in this place.
And yet, you did what was expected of you. Gods, even more. You learned the names of every servant in the villa, learned where they came from, and tried to address them in their own dialects—poorly at first, but with effort, and with warmth. You oversaw the household ledgers, made notes in elegant Latin, organize the pantry to accommodate both Roman and your homeland’s cuisine—dried figs wrapped in parchment, pickled lemons floating in clay jars and cinnamon sticks tied with string, sent directly from your mother’s kitchen gardens across the sea.
You had meals prepared with quiet hope, always with some small detail meant for him. Lamb seasoned the way his men said he liked, olives pressed into the bread he often reached for first, honey-wine chilled precisely to the hour he returned. You even arranged a private dinner once, beneath the olive trees in the inner courtyard, where hanging lanterns cast golden halos through the leaves and the scent of citrus bloomed in the dusk.
He had thanked you with a nod.
Just a nod.
A simple and quiet nod. How stupid of you.
He never ignored you, and sometimes you wish he would. That would have been easier. Cruelty had shaped, form and texture. But civility ? Civility was airless. He was always courteous, always present in body but never in soul. His answers remained clipped, delivered with military efficiency. You dared to ask once, when you saw the pale edge of a scar disappearing beneath his tunic, if it sometimes still hurt.
“No.” He said. And that was the end of it.
You tried again, weeks later. He had just returned from the Senate, and you met him as he sat, pouring his wine before he even asked. “How was the council ?”
He shrugged, already reaching for a piece of bread. “As expected.”
“Do you often speak on behalf of the Emperor ?”
“When required.” He replied, cutting into the meat without ever looking at you.
“Do you-”
“I had a long day,” he interrupted firmly, glancing sideway to your form. “Please.”
As always, you nodded and lower your gaze, retreating just before his indifference could harden into something sharper. You had learned quickly the quiet line between civility and dismissal. This time, you did not even get the chance to tell him about the meal. How you had spent half the afternoon with the chefs, your sleeves rolled up and helping to cook the roast with spices your mother had insisted you bring from home. “He should taste where you come from.” she had said, tucking the jars into your palms before you could say anything.
But Marcus never asked, never seemed to notice, never paused, never looked at you the way husbands were supposed to look at their wives. His expressions always remained unchanged as he took his place at the table, not even looking at you. You would trace the lines of his profile over and over, trying to find the man everyone else seemed to see. He was never cruel though, never raised his voice or said anything unkind. Just detached. And somehow, that was worse.
His silence and distance stretched on for weeks. You had already gone over it all in your mind, countless times. Was it your fault ? You barely knew each other, why did he not at least try to act like a kind husband ? Maybe he did not see the efforts you made, did not feel the quiet weight of your loneliness. Perhaps it was simply normal here, in Rome—for a man to neglect his wife so thoroughly. After all, it was so easy to hide behind duty, to wear the excuse of responsibility like armor.
And yet, he had not even bothered to do that. He had not even tried to offer you those hollow words. Since your wedding night, he had not deigned to speak to you for more than a few clipped seconds at a time. Surely, he could not imagine what it felt like to live in this constant state of silent dismissal. And so, you tried. You held yourself together with frayed strings and stubborn hope, and each day, you persevered. Secretly, foolishly, you hoped that maybe he might change. But deep down you knew. You were not meant to except anything in return. Not from him or anyone.
A few days later, you could not take it anymore. It had been two days since you last saw him. Two long, empty days. You wandered through the corridors of his villa like a ghost—alone, disoriented, slowly unraveling. You could not flee, that would be reckless, foolish, and so humiliating for you or your father. But the mere idea of stepping outside made your stomach twist. You could not bear the stares anymore, the judgment etched into every look. Perhaps you were discreet, yes, but not naïve. Or at least, that is what you once believed.
The rare times Marcus allowed you to company him beyond the villa’s walls, you could feel it—the whispers, the mocking smiles, the stinging judgment. Walking beside Rome’s most revered General made you disappear in your own skin. You were not seen as a person anymore, only as a wife. Not even his.
That morning, something inside you broke. You had risen far too late, long past the moment you always cherished: sunrise. The one constant in your days, the only faithful presence left to greet you. And even that, now, had passed you by. That day, your mother arrived at the domus unannounced, as if she felt that broken feeling from where she was. It was late in the afternoon when a servant came to your room, wide-eyed and breathless. “Domina… Your mother… She is here.”
You did not believe it until you saw her. She stood in your chamber like a mirage; her cloak dusty from travel, her hair twisted in the same thick braid she wore the day you left, the faint scent of jasmine clinging to her skin like a memory.
“I was not supposed to come.” She said as soon as you closed the doors behind her. You fell into her arms without a word, breathing her in like air after drowning. “I had to see you with my own eyes,” she whispered, cupping your face, her thumb brushing your cheek. “Letters do not hold truth. Not the kind I needed.”
Yes, the letters. It was clear you could not speak the truth in them, not fully. You could not lay bare the reality of your new life: its silence, its coldness, its invisible grief. You reminded yourself that in some strange way, you were still lucky. While you suffered in loneliness, others died in agony. That thought haunted you, shamed you even. And yet… there were moments when the weight of it became too much. Moments when you would have gladly traded places with those lives lost. When you would have offered yourself in exchange, just to be freed from this beautiful prison gilded in gold. But you could not write that—not to your mother.
You both sat near the brazier, heads close together like the nights of your girlhood, when you had listened to the ocean wind rattling through the shutters and believed the world would always be kind to you. You felt her eyes study your face. She could see it, surely, the fatigue carved into your skin, the fine line that had deepened between your brows, born from confusion and sleepless worry. You could not let her grow more concerned than she already was, and so you spoke.
“I just did not sleep well, mother. I am fine.” But even as the words left your lips, you could not convince yourself.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then softly, with the heaviness of someone who already knew the answer, she asked, “He sleeps elsewhere ?”
You hesitated. Then nodded.
“I thought it might be… a slow beginning,” you said, though even the words felt thin now. “I thought if I gave him peace, he would give me trust.”
She looked at you with a gaze you had never seen in her before, something almost sacred. There was no use in lying anymore. Not when her eyes saw through every wall you had built. Not when they refused to let you hide anymore. “I tried, mother. Every day, I try. I make this house a home. I speak his tongue, follow his customs. But I think… I think I am only another one of his duties.”
Your mother exhaled through her nose, not sharply, but in sorrow. She reached for your hand, her fingers soft and warm against yours. “There are men,” she said gently, “who wear armor inside their skin. Even when there is no more war to fight.”
You looked at her completely lost, your voice a whisper. “But am I not enough reason to take it off ?”
She did not answer immediately. Her gaze drifted to the window, where the rooftops of Rome caught the last rays of sun, burnished gold and cruelly beautiful.
“He may learn,” she said at last. “Or he may not. But you, my daughter, are not here to be small.”
You pressed your forehead to her shoulder and stayed there, unmoving, wrapped in her quiet warmth. For a moment, you let yourself forget the silence of the halls, the weight of your own unanswered questions. She said nothing because she did not need to. Her presence alone was enough, like a balm laid gently over skin that had long since learned to ache in silence. You breathed her in, that faint familiar scent of crushed herbs and something maternal you could never name, and clung—not to her exactly, but to the feeling she brought. The reminder that there was still softness in this world. That someone, somewhere, still saw you.
She left before nightfall, as if she feared to overstay in a home that was never truly yours to begin with. Or maybe she was too furious to risk running into Marcus. You walked her to the threshold, fingers reluctant to let go, your mouth forming the barest thank-you that did not even touch what you wanted to say. Her departure felt like waking from a dream you were already mourning, like the kind you chase back into your pillow, only to find it slipping further each time.
That evening, you sat at the long marble table once more. Alone. Again. The light from the candles trembled faintly along the gold detailing of the walls, too bright for the mood that clung to the air like fog. His chair remained untouched, the embroidery on its cushion undented, preserved in its quiet defiance. The food cooled slowly on the plates, but you could not bring yourself to lift the fork. You stared down at your wine—red, still, and full—as though it might hold some answer at the bottom of the cup. But it did not. It never did actually.
There was no anger in you. Not that night. Just a familiar hollowness, settling in again like an old companion. You sat there, in the vastness of a home that had never felt like yours, and wondered how long it would take for the sound of your own thoughts to drown you.
You would try again tomorrow, you promised yourself.
And the next day.
And the next.
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But there were patterns you could no longer ignore. The day Marcus finally decided to make his grand return, he gave no explanation for his strange and prolonged absence. Nothing. Not a word. And in the days that followed, nothing changed. The same distance. The same evasive glances. He slipped right back into his silence, as though he had never been gone.
As thought you had never waited
He left earlier in the mornings. Returned later. Sometimes did not come home at all until the moon hung low and pale, and even then, he would pass your chambers without a word, smelling faintly of perfume that was not yours. The scent so faint it might have been imagined. But it was not. And yet, it clung to him like smoke after flame, unsettlingly familiar. You tried to place it once, standing alone by the doorway long after he had gone—that note of crushed rose and some darker resin beneath—but your memory gave you nothing. Just unease.
You could not let the weight of it settle without resistance. You owed yourself the truth, or at the very least, the effort to seek it. So, you began to watch, to listen, to gather the pieces one by one as the days unfolded. And yet, something refused to align. As if a part of the puzzle had been carved to deceive, beautiful on the surface but wrong in its shape.
You began to see things with new eyes. The way certain hours of the day were always unaccounted for. The way Lucilla began to arrive unannounced. The way she never glanced at you directly, but smiled as if she knew a secret you did not. The way the servants went silent in her presence, and even more silent in yours after she left.
That evening, a dinner had been arranged. Not grand enough to warrant togas stiff with ceremony, nor quiet enough to be dismissed as informal. A gathering, modest in size but laced with the kind of expectation that only Rome could dress in such refined stillness. You had prepared for it without thought, your fingers guiding the clasp of your dress, smoothing the folds, pinning your hair—motions you had long since stopped attaching meaning to.
The seat at Marcus’s left awaited you, as it always did, and you sat there before the others arrived, your hands folded gently in your lap, your spine held by an invisible thread of composure. He was beside you already, not late for once, but silent, cloaked in the same guarded stillness he wore as naturally as his mantle of command.
He had not said much. Well, he rarely did. But for a moment, his eyes had lingered on you simply… observing. As if trying to remember something that refused to take shape. You could feel the weight of his presence more than you could feel the shape of it. And when you dared glance toward him, there was nothing in his expression that betrayed thought or feeling. Just distance.
Then she arrived.
Lucilla swept into the atrium with the poise of someone who had once belonged to the place and never truly left. Her dress was a muted gold that caught the light just enough to seem effortless, the shade almost the same as the skin at her throat. Her hair was gathered with a kind of calculated ease, too graceful to be accidental, too loose to be innocent. Her voice followed her, soft and warm, full of the kind of charm that made people lean in just slightly, as if wanting to catch a secret they knew she would not give.
You felt Marcus shifting beside you, so subtly it might have been nothing. But you knew his silences well by now. You knew the way his body tensed, not from danger, but recognition. His gaze moved—past the servants, past the senators already halfway rising in greeting—and settled on her. Not with shock. Not with longing. But with that heavy pause, the kind that stretched a single moment wide enough to fit years inside.
He looked at her as one looks at a place they have once been and both long for and regret.
It was not dramatic. No drawn breath, no visible stiffening. But it was enough. Enough for your own gaze to falter, your stomach to dip, your throat to tighten. And when at last he turned to you, his greeting quiet and courteous, it did not matter what he said. The pain lay not in the words, but in the ease with which he spoke them, as though you were no more than any other guest at his side.
Dinner passed like mist. The roasted duck, crisped with honey and thyme, the jeweled lentils, the pine nuts glistening with oil. You registered none of it. Their voices moved around you, threading together with the practiced smoothness of people who had spoken many times before in places you had not been invited. Lucilla never raised her voice, never pressed, well she did not need to. Her control was in the softness of it, in the practiced pauses, in the way her laughter folded at the edges of his words as if they had rehearsed the timing in another life. And Marcus… Marcus responded with a familiarity that asked for no explanation. One that told you enough.
You smiled when you had to. You answered when spoken to. But each movement felt like wading through something thick, something that clung to your skin. The wine was too warm. The candlelight too bright. The scent of pomegranate and spiced oils made your chest tighten. And when Lucilla laughed—that delicate, curved laugh—it was not jealousy that came. It was the confirmation of a quiet truth; one you had tried to ignore. That you were sitting beside him, but he was somewhere else entirely.
You excused yourself before the final course, fingers trembling slightly as you set your napkin down. No one stopped you. Marcus did not even turn, his shoulder already leaning, just slightly, toward hers. His hand rested near his cup, fingers curled in a way that invited the space between them to narrow. You stood slowly, brushing your fingers once more along the cool edge of the table before turning away to the gardens.
The night clung to your skin like silk, warm despite the breeze, the air heavy with something darker and unspoken. You did not look back as you crossed the peristyle, just moved, half-guided by the rhythm of your breath and the dull ache that now lived beneath your ribs, quieter than before but no less present.
Inside, the murmur of conversation spilled gently from the triclinium. You did not return to it. Instead, you lingered in the antechamber, half-shadowed beneath a tall candle, where the flickering light painted gold across the stone floor. Here, the house felt quieter. Removed. As though you had stepped just slightly outside the world everyone else still inhabited.
Then you saw her.
She rose from her seat with the same fluid elegance she wore like a second skin—unhurried, unannounced. There was no drama to it, no glance cast around the room. Only the subtle gathering of her shawl, the way her hand trailed for the briefest moment across the back of Marcus’s chair, and then—
She moved.
Out into the corridor, past the columns, toward the garden. You hesitated. There was no reason to follow her. No purpose, no justification. But your feet had already begun to move before your thoughts could intervene. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was guilt. Or maybe it was the simple, awful need to understand—her, him, or yourself. You did not knew anymore.
You told yourself that you only stepped into the garden because the air inside felt too thick, because your thoughts screamed too loudly within the echoing silence of your own restraint. So, then, you wandered past the stone columns, past the still water of the fountain, trying to find a breath that did not burn. At least, that is what you tried to convince yourself.
You caught her beneath the laurel arch—the same one you used to stand under at dawn, waiting for the first light—and it hit you all at once. The scent. Not the sweetness of garden herbs or fresh linen, but something richer. A fragrance you had noticed once on Marcus’s cloak, faint and persistent, clinging where your hands had never touched. At the time, you had told yourself it was a stranger’s, a passing trace from a crowded room.
But now, in the dark, under the stars, it wrapped around you again—and this time it had a name.
Suddenly, everything snapped back into place.
It was her perfume you scent on Marcus’ shadow.
The one she had worn the night you first met her, when she leaned in too close with a smile that was too sweet. You remembered it—the way it clung to her skin, expensive and deliberate, a scent that marked territory without needing words. She belonged in this house more than you did.
The garden exhaled cool air around her as she stepped into the night. Silver light softened the sharpness of her shoulders, catching in her hair like it had been placed there on purpose. You felt invisible, walking behind her. Like a ghost in someone else’s story. She reached the edge of the walkway and turned. Slowly. Not startled. Not surprised. As though she had already known you were there. Her eyes met yours, and she offered you a smile.
That smile—soft and polished, serene as temple marble. It held no suspicion, no tension. You had seen her offer that same expression to Marcus, across the atrium, when she thought no one was looking. Now, that same look was yours. Somehow that made it worse.
“You walk like someone carrying a secret,” she said gently, almost amused, but without cruelty. “Do you need something from me ?” Her voice was so gentle, and she looked at you with such tenderness. There was something kind, something genuinely good that seemed to radiate from her presence.
And yet, you did not know how to answer. Your mouth was dry. Your thoughts rushed forward too fast and tripped over themselves. Lucilla waited. She always waited—not with impatience, but with the calm of someone who had already played this scene before.
“I did not mean to follow you.” You murmured eventually.
“But you did.” There was no bite in it. Just a simple truth spoken without judgment.
You dropped your eyes to the stone floor and nodded, heat crawling up your throat. She turned slightly, looking toward the laurel trees that danced softly in the breeze. “It is quiet here at night,” she said, voice distant. “I like to walk when the house sleeps.”
“I do too.” You replied. “But tonight, I could not.”
Lucilla glanced sideway at you. “Why not ?”
You did not answer. You could not, at least not without unraveling. Instead, you asked the question you had not dared until now. “How long have you known him ?”
A pause. Just long enough to feel measured. “A long time,” she said eventually. “Before the wars. Before he learned how to wield silence like a weapon.” Lucilla kept her gaze fixed straight ahead when you finally reached her side. Her back was straight, her hands clasped neatly behind her, as if she was reciting something she had long since committed to memory.
The answer struck something in you. A note of truth so resonant it almost hurt. “He acts different with you,” you confessed. “Not soft, but… closer.”
Lucilla tilted her head without looking at you, as if she had not anticipated this. Suddenly, there was nothing soft left in her voice. Her brows drew together in a sharp frown, and even before she spoke, you could feel the irritation radiating from her, pulsing off her body like heat from sunbaked stone. “He knows I am not asking for more than he is ready to give.”
The honesty of it stung more than you excepted. “So you think he is cold with me because I expect something real ?” The words came out sharper than you intended. Not because you wanted to wound her, but because you no longer knew how to ask gently for something that kept slipping through your fingers.
She did not flinch, of course she did not. She titled, once again, her head slightly, like someone measuring a fragile object for cracks. Her voice, when it came, was smooth but laced with that certain knowing that made your spine straighten in defense.
“I think Marcus fears depth,” she said carefully, each word placed like a stone. “Not because he lacks it. But because he gave it once, and what he gave was lost. That kind of wound does not bleed anymore. It calcifies. It teaches you to guard what you love by never letting it be loved again.”
You stood very still.
She had been kind to you when you arrived—warm, even. The only one who had offered you a true smile, a soft touch of welcome when everything else had felt like ceremony and silence. You remembered how gently she spoke that first night, how it had made you feel seen for the first time since your arrival. But, that memory now flared like a sting against your skin, the contrast unbearable.
“So he lets you in,” you said, and it came out colder than you meant. “That is how you know.”
Her eyes narrowed, just a little. Not enough to seem angry, but just enough to make it clear she had heard what you were really saying. “I have known Marcus longer than anyone in this house,” she said, and though her tone was soft, it carried an unmistakable edge. “I have seen what he is like when no one is watching. What he hides from even himself. That sort of knowledge does not come from title or proximity. It comes from surviving with someone.”
You felt your stomach twist. “But you, are not his wife.” You replied, and your voice wavered between defiance and desperation.
Something flickered in her gaze then. Something proud, something ancient. But her smile did not falter. If anything, it grew fainter. Sadder. “No,” she said. “I am not. Which is why I can afford to be honest with him.”
You scoffed, unable to stop yourself, “Honesty… You two seem to treat it with a luxury, not a principle.”
The words settled like ice between you.
“Are you implying something ?” She asked quietly.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. When Lucilla finally took a step back, it was not with the grace of a victor. It was slower, smaller, measured perfectly to make you feel as though you had struck first.
“I did not realize that you thought so little of me.” Her voice trembled just slightly, just enough.
You opened your mouth—whether to apologize or defend yourself, you did not even know yourself—but she was already turning away, her posture tense with something between pride and sorrow. Her eyes did not narrow, and neither she raised her voice.
“I have only ever been kind to you,” she said, and her voice was maddeningly calm. “Even when I did not have to be. Even when others would not.”
You opened your mouth to reply, but no words came fast enough. She went on, her gaze never breaking from yours. “From the moment you arrived, I treated you with warmth. I welcomed you into a world that is colder than you realize. And still-” she shook her head lightly, not in anger, but something quieter. “Still, you speak to me like I am your rival. Worse—your enemy.”
There was no venom in her tone. That made it worse. Your pulse had risen seconds ago, chest tight with something sharp and defensive. But now that heat began to dull, giving way to something heavier. Shame crept in, slow and low, curling around the anger like a vine around stone.
“I did not mean to…” You started, your voice thin.
She stepped back half a pace—not retreating, just drawing a boundary.
“I have lived long enough to recognize fear when it wears the mask of cruelty,” she said, softer now. “You are not the first woman to feel lost in his silence. But you might be the first to take it out on someone who is only ever offered you understanding.”
It landed with the weight of truth. No accusations. Just… quiet disappointment. Your throat tightened. You had not expected kindness to be a weapon, and now it was turned inward, piercing something you did not know was vulnerable. All the words you had flung like stones—suspicion, jealousy, hurt—suddenly felt childish, small.
“I did not mean to-” You said, barely audible.
But Lucilla did not wait for you to finish. She turned, not in fury but in sorrow, and walked away with the silence of someone who no longer needed to defend herself. And as her figure slipped between the marble pillars and into the night, your anger left with her. Replaced by a quiet ache, dull and sinking. You stood there, hands clenched at your sides, and felt it bloom behind your ribs: you had wounded the only person who had offered you kindness in this house.
And somehow, that hurt more than any of the silence Marcus had ever given you.
And you hated yourself a little for it.
You breathed out slowly, the tension in your shoulders beginning to unravel, even as your chest remained tight. You had let suspicion get the better of you. Gods, you had followed her like a shadow, had spoken too sharply, had thrown barbed questions like someone preparing for betrayal. And she had not met you with cruelty. Now, in the silence of the empty courtyard, it was not anger you felt anymore. It was shame.
What had you done ?
Lucilla had smiled at you. That soft, slow smile she always wore like a veil, neither warm nor cold, simply practiced. And still you had doubted her. She was his friend. His oldest companion, maybe the only person who had known him before the walls went up. Of course they were close. And yet you had questioned it. Accused her, even if you had not meant to. Your voice had been edged with fear, your words too pointed, too raw.
She must think you are fragile, insecure, a jealous child playing dress-up in a home too grand for you. You sat down slowly on the fountain’s edge, fingertips brushing the cold marble. The night felt softer now. The air cooler, clearer. You told yourself it was relief. Still, something gnawed at you. Not doubt in Lucilla’s words… but in yourself. You had let that perfume, that glance, that silence turn into something else in your mind. You had let yourself spin shadows into stories. And now you were left with the sour taste of regret.
You stayed in the garden, head tilted to the stars you could not name, trying to gather yourself. You had wanted truth, but now that it was offered, it felt heavier than you expected.
You did not hear the steps at first.
The garden held too many sounds; the wind threading through the laurels, the soft ripple of the fountain in the dark, your own breath, shallow and uneven in your chest. But when the footsteps stopped behind you, not heavy, not urgent, just there. You felt it before you turned. A shift in the night air. A stillness pressing in.
Marcus.
Standing just beyond reach.
“Why are you still out here ?” His voice was quiet. Careful like a blade turned flat so as not to cut.
You did not turn to face him yet. Your fingers brushed the edge of the marble, grounding yourself. “I needed air,” you said softly. “To clear my head.”
A pause followed. Not long, but long enough to carry weight. You could almost hear him choosing his next words. “Lucilla seemed… upset.”
You winced. You hated how easily your body betrayed your guilt, how quickly the shame surfaced. “That is my fault.” You said before you could stop yourself.
He waited.
But you did not elaborate.
You could not. The words burned in your throat, too tangled to set free.
“I thought…” You shook your head, staring out at the dark curve of the garden. “It does not matter anymore.”
“I see.”
You turned to him then. Slowly. You did not know what you were looking for in his face, a crack in the calm, perhaps. A glimpse of something real. Or maybe just permission to say what needed to be said.
“She told me there is nothing between the two of you,” you said, your voice barely more than breath. “That she only knows the shape of your silences.”
Something flickered behind his eyes. Not surprise. Not guilt. Just the faintest withdrawal, like a man pulling his hand from a fire he had not realized was lit. “She is been a part of my life a long time.” He replied, and his voice held nothing but truth. Clean, uncomplicated. The kind that did not defend, but did not deny.
“I know.” You whispered.
And now you did. You should have the moment you saw them together; the familiarity that ran deeper than words. The ease of shared pain. There was nothing seductive in it, only something private. That was what stung.
“I think I was unkind,” you admitted. The words tasted strange in your mouth, raw and half-formed. “I let fear turn me into something cruel. I made her feel unwelcome. And she is been… kind to me. From the beginning.”
He looked at you then. Really looked. Not like someone observing, or assessing, or simply fulfilling the role of husband. But like a man seeing the ache that had no name. The hollow behind the eyes. The tired slope of your shoulders. You did not look away.
“You were not cruel,” he said, after a pause long enough for the wind to shift. “Just hurt.”
The word landed softly. Hurt. No embellishment. No dismissal. And somehow, it was worse than blame. Because it was true. Something inside you gave. Not entirely, not visibly, but enough to feel it: a slow loosening of the knot you had been carrying behind your ribs for weeks. Your throat tightened. For a moment, you thought you might cry. Not from sorrow, but from the unbearable relief of being seen.
But you did not.
Instead, you stood up. Your voice was steadier now when you said, “I am going to bed.”
He nodded once. You moved past him, your steps slow, your breath measured. But this time—this time—you felt it as you passed:
He turned.
Not to stop you. Not yet. But to watch. To follow not with his body, but with something else. With thought. With attention. And though nothing was spoken, you carried the echo of it with you into the darkness. Only when they stopped behind you did you sense him. Marcus, standing just beyond reach.
Summary : Torn from your coastal homeland to seal an imperial alliance, in a wedding crafted for power, not love, you vow to fulfill your duty and perhaps find something more. But on your wedding night, you discover a colder truth: Marcus’s body is yours, but his heart is somewhere else. Still, you are determined to prove your worth, to decode his silence, and to uncover the man behind the armor.
Marcus Acacius x f!reader
Warnings : arranged marriage, mentions of politics, smut, cold behavior, age gap ? (not really mentioned or important), infidelity (towards reader), secret relationship, no y/n
Words : 5,8K
A/N : alright first part of the request ! Thanks again @negrita2345 for your excellent idea, hope you'll like it. Kind of anxious bcs I hope it’s good, I mean in the way you imagined it. Anyway if you have a better title, I'll take it lol. Anyway not much of angst but we need to start slow and setting the context
Marcus' masterlist | next part
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The olive groves whispered like priests in prayers, swaying beneath the salt-heavy breeze that rose from the sea. From your terrace, the horizon gleamed, a stretch of molten silver where sky met water, endless and unreachable. White sails drifted across it like wandering souls: merchants, imperial messengers, galleys bearing soldiers with polished helmets and unseen orders.
But today, the wind carried no peace. It was too quiet. Something had shifted, you could feel it long before anyone spoke it aloud.
The household moved with unnatural quiet, servants murmured behind closed doors and hurried theirs steps as though silence might shield them from whatever was coming. Your father had not touched his breakfast. And you mother—your serene and inscrutable mother—sat rigid at the head of the table, her fingers endlessly smoothing the same fold in her silk robe, over and over, as of the repetition might erase the tremble in her hands.
When a servant found you in the gardens and bowed deeply, announcing with careful reverence that your presence was requested in the atrium, your feet already knew where to carry you. The click of your sandals echoed off sun-warmed stone as you passed under the colonnade. It smelled faintly of crushed herbs and old parchment, your father’s scent, the scent of duty and legacy.
Then you saw them, your father stood as though carved from granite: arms behind his back, posture impeccable, chin lifted with imperial resolve. His face was unreadable, but not empty, no. There was something behind his eyes, calculation, or maybe regret. Your mother was seated beside him, her back stiff but her gaze soft, resting not on you, but the floor.
Two imperial envoys flanked the far pillars. Strangers in gleaming bronze, with helms tucked beneath their arms and scroll slung at their side. Their armor shone like mirrors, catching shards of sunlight that danced across the walls. One of the scrolls had a seal on, a red wax pressed with the mark of an eagle glinted like fresh blood.
Your heart stuttered once in your chest. Not fear, not quite. Just the cold certainty that your life was about to be unmade. You stepped forward, voice calm and practiced. The same voice you would use at your father’s side while translating foreign decrees and entertaining Roman governors at the harvest feasts.
“You summoned me, Father ?”
He did not look at you right away, instead, he dismissed the nearby servants with a flick of his fingers. Only when the last one bowed out the room, did he extend one hand toward the envoy. The scroll was handed over in a heavy silence, consuming a part of your soul.
You watched the wax break under your father’s thumb, a clean sound, like a lock opening. He read aloud, his voice loud and clear, “By order of the Roman Emperor, and with the blessing of the Senate, a marriage is hereby decreed…” He continued, but the words grew distant. Your ears filled with the sound of your own blood.
A marriage ?
You felt the floor tilt slightly under your feet, your stomach tightening as though braced for an all and your head spinning. Your breath snagged in your chest as you looked around for something—your mother’s eyes, the sea, anything steady—but the stone walls began to feel too close.
Still, you did not speak. You took a breath, deep like diving into cold water, and moved to your mother’s side. Her hand reached instinctively for yours, but you remained still.
Your father’s voice dropped in tone, “You have been chosen.”
You had always known this day would eventually come. But you never imagined it would happen like this…. Not so early.
Your knees bent beneath you, and you let yourself fall beside your mother. You looked straight ahead, heart beating heavily, like a drum echoing down a long and empty corridor. You let the silence stretch until you had the strength to speak.
“To whom ?” you dared to ask because not asking would have felt like a surrender.
Your father eyes finally met yours, “General Marcus Acacius,” he read, “a man held in highest favor by the Emperor himself.”
Each word struck with brutal precision. Marcus Acacius. A name carved into the bones of the Empire. You had heard it before, whispered with reverence by soldiers passing through your father’s court. Stories of battlefield valor, of loyalty, of a man more iron than flesh. You had never seen his face, but now his name felt heavier than gold.
Your throat tightened. Rome. You were being sent to Rome. Your lips parted, but no sound emerged. You pressed them together again, holding in the cry that threatened to escape, just a crack in something old and unspoken.
Your mother stood then, as if stirred by some silent storm. “Aretas,” she said, her voice urgent. “The General-”
“-is a man of honor”, your father interrupted sharply, giving her a warning look. “And this is not a request.”
“Aretas,” your mother hissed, stepping toward him, voice sharp with fear and something dangerously close to rage “You would send your own daughter like a sacrifice ? Offering her like some- some tribute to the Gods of war ?!”
Your father turned his head slowly, his jaw clenched tight. “Mind your words.”
“She is too young !” your mother snapped, the tremble in her voice now pushed aside by fury. “She still walks barefoot in the garden. Still sleeps with the shutters open to hear the sea. You promised she would have a say, that there would be time-”
“-I promised,” your father cut in, louder now, “that she would be protected. That she would have a future.”
“She is not livestock to be bargained for land and influence !”
“She is the daughter of this house !” Aretas barked, the echo of his voice crashing against the walls, as one of the envoys shifted uncomfortably, “She bears my name and my blood. And that blood will mean something in Rome. Do you think I have not considered what this will cost her ?” he turned away as if the sight of you was too much. “what it will cost me ?!”
Your mother pressed her fingers to her temple, massaging them as she tries to steady herself. Then she looked at him again, her voice aching. “She was meant to be more than this…” she whispered as a cried escape her throat, “meant to choose who she loved.”
“She was born into a world where we do not get to choose,” your father replied calmer now, but his voice sounded like a man bearing the weight of a boulder no one else could see. “Not you. Not I. And not her.”
Your mother’s voice cracked, “You would give her to a man she has never met.”
“I would give her to a man who commands the loyalty of Rome. A man the Emperor trusts himself.” He glanced at you finally, “A man who will keep her alive and safe.”
“And what of her heart ?! What of her joy ?”
“Mother-” you tried to calm her down.
Your father looked away. “She will learn without it.”
She turned back to you and grasped your hand tightly, and this time, you let her. Her fingers trembled. “You do not have to accept this,” she whispered. “You are not a piece on the board.”
But you were. You had always been. And you knew it.
You rose slowly, gently letting go of her hand, and walked to the terrace again. The sea stretched before you, wide and glittering and full of vanished sails, the scent of salt stung your nose. A warm wind lifted the hem of your gown. You remembered running through those olive trees, chasing shadows between the rows. You remembered laughing, barefoot and free, before anyone asked anything of you.
You closed your eyes and then you nodded. “I will go,” you simply said.
Your mother gasped loudly, like something inside her had crumpled. She turned away, pressing her fingers to her lips.
You stood still, facing the horizon. “I will do my duty,” you whispered.
That was the beginning. The moment the Empire reached across the water and placed its claim upon your life.
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The marriage was held beneath a sky as blue as tempered steel, Rome’s finest stage set for politics disguised as ceremony. Marble gods stared down from their pedestals, unmoved by the day’s union. Senators stood in rings of gold-threaded togas, murmuring among themselves like old crows. Red petals were scattered over the flagstones, crushed underfoot like drops of blood. Every detail had been carved and calculated with purpose.
Not for love, but for the Empire.
The Forum itself had been cleared, roped off by imperial guard. Lictors lined the periphery, their fasces polished, gleaming in the sun. A choir of flutes and lyres played from the steps of the temple, slow and solemn, not joyful but dignified, like the funeral of your freedom.
And yet, when you looked down the aisle, past the priests and the marble gods, you saw only him. He stood like he had been carved into place by fate, a figure of stoic poise and discipline. He wore the ceremonial breastplate of a General; gold and leather laced over his chest like armor made for myth. A dark crimson cloak draped over one shoulder, clasped with the mark of the Emperor’s seal.
He was taller than you had imagined, broader too. There was a steadiness to him that unnerved you. Not exactly stillness but what seems to be contained power. His face was carved from shadow and sunlight, jaw squared, and eyes the cold color of rain-smoothed stone. A thin scar curved along the left side of his jaw, not disfiguring, but sharp, like a signature. And those eyes, when they finally found yours, held no flicker of joy, no welcome. They were grounded, unreadable—everything but empty.
You had expected indifference, arrogance, perhaps. But what you found was something far more dangerous. Intrigue. He inclined his head in a silent greeting, a soldier’s nod; respectful and impossibly formal. Not a smile, not a spark. But not disdain either. Your breath caught when he looked at you, like a man preparing for a siege. And yet, something in you shifted. Not in fear, not even in disappointment, maybe… fascination ?
Your gown swept the marble behind you; white silk, embroidered with silver and copper threads in the style of your homeland, a small rebellion your mother had insisted on preserving. The veil shimmered behind you like mist, long and soft. At your side, your father walked stiffly, his expressions carved into diplomacy. He held your arm like he held his blade, firmly, not quite gently. Then, he had to leave you, let go of your arm and give you to the stranger you were about to marry. The man that would now take care of you.
The altar was lined with fresh-cut laurel and pomegranate. The priest chanted the sacred rites. Your name, and his, spoken aloud and you did not even know the sound of his voice. Yet, your fingers touched when the rings were passed, and that single brush of skin sent a whisper of something electric up your spine.
His palm was cold. Yours trembled once. He did not look at you, not directly. But you saw his jaw tighten, like he had felt it too, and did not know what to do with all that knowledge. You wondered, absurdly, if he was nervous. The rings were slipped on, and the oaths exchanged, a scribe to the side of the altar wrote everything down on a parchment.
And then, it was done. The General slowly bowed his head to you, like a man offering deference. As if you were a queen or at least something close enough to one. You barely breathed and then, without ceremony he stepped closer and pressed a kiss to the corner of your lips. It was not a kiss of a lover, nor even a husband. It was warm, brief, controlled, a brush of lips against your mouth—soft as breath and gone before your body could register it fully. It felt more like a vow than anything spoken aloud, enough to give the impression of a real kiss to anyone in the room. A promise, you told yourself, or at least, the possibility of one.
When he pulled back, his face remained unreadable, but his eyes lingered just a second longer than necessary. Your pulse caught and something in your chest uncoiled, just slightly.
He offered you his arm and you took it, not because you had to, but because in that moment you wanted to. The applause rose behind you, Rome roaring her approval. The marriage had ended not in intimacy but in spectacle. Trumpets blared, laurel wreaths were raised, a sea of dignitaries, senators, Generals and foreign envoys surged toward the newlyweds like waves crashing. Rome really knew how to honor herself with grandeur.
You followed the General—now your husband—through the ceremony’s afterbirth, your arm still looped lightly around his. His pace faltered, but he did not speak, not a word since the vow. He only nodded to those who saluted him, eyes scanning the crowd like a commander in unfamiliar terrain; polite, present but unreachable.
He escorted you up the steps of the banquet hall, a domed, opulent chamber overflowing with gold-threaded cushions and garlands of flame-colored flowers. Long tables were set with silver bowls of figs and honey-glazed. Musicians played a slow, elegant melody that failed to cover the growing thrum of conversation and political hunger. You were sat beside him on the raised dais. He poured your wine without being asked, a gesture so rehearsed it barely felt real.
“Is everything alright ?” he asked at last. His voice was low and measured, like someone asking after a guest, not their wife.
You looked at him, studying the face everyone in Rome revered; hard lines, eyes like winter stone, no warmth and no cruelty. He had done nothing wrong, but he also had done nothing at all.
“I am fine.”
He gave you a short nod, then returned to scanning the room. You sat in silence for another few minutes, listening to the rustle of silk, the laughter of people who knew how to perform joy. Rome was a chorus of masks, and you had not yet found your own. Suddenly you could not breathe under the weight of it all, the crowd, the wine, the stifling future curling around your throat like incense.
“I need a moment.” You murmured.
The General turned slightly, “Do you want me to come with you ?”
You hesitated when you thought you saw a hint of concern in his eyes, until you realized it was more impatience. As if he was waiting for you to leave in a hurry and that you will not ask him to follow you. His question, actually, was not a question, just an illusion of goodwill. “No. I will manage alone.”
You slipped away down one of the side corridors, grateful no one stopped you. The quiet found you quickly, pressed between the walls and the cool hush of shadow. You exhaled as your footsteps slowed. And then, you saw her. She stood beside a bronze basin, one hand lightly skimming the water’s surface, she had the posture of someone who belonged to every palace she ever entered. The low torchlight painted her in gold and shadow. The gown she wore was violet—not just beautiful, but deliberate. Imperial.
You had never seen her face before, even not during the ceremony, or at least you thought so. There were so many people today, that, you had not even been able to talk to your own mother since the ring around your finger sealed your future. The woman was older than you and impossibly poised, the kind of woman whose presence made others instinctively stand straighter. A circlet of hammered gold rested in her hair.
“Oh,” she said, her lips curling into the beginnings of a smile, a kind expression on her face as she turned to see you. “You needed a moment too ?”
You paused, just outside the doorway, unsure if you were intruding. “Yes,” you said. “The hall is... a storm.”
She gave a quiet laugh. “That is a generous word for it.”
Her voice was soft but assured—a voice trained in courtrooms, or perhaps something even older. She stepped slightly away from the basin and folded her hands loosely before her. “I watched you, during the ceremony,” she continued gently. “You carried yourself well. I remember my own wedding…my knees would not stop shaking.” She adds with a chuckle. There was no bitterness in her tone. Only memory.
“Thank you,” you said, your voice more honest than you had expected. “I had no training in how to marry a stranger.”
She tilted her head. “No one has. Not really.”
There was a quiet, companionable moment. And in it, something settled. Her gaze on you, curious, thoughtful, without a hint of superiority. Just as you began to ask something—anything, out of instinct more than strategy—footsteps clicked at the far end of the corridor. A servant appeared in a rush, breath shallow, eyes darting between you both.
“Domina—” the girl began, before catching herself. “Mar— the banquet awaits your return.”
You turned your head, but not before seeing her expression falter, just for a flicker. Not shame, just the lightning-fast reflex of someone used to secrecy.
Her smile then returned effortlessly. “Of course,” she said, with a nod. “Thank you.”
The servant bowed and backed away quickly. The still unknown woman looked at you again, her voice calm. “It is never truly your night, is it ? Not in Rome. Every moment belongs to someone else.”
You did not know what to say. Her eyes searched yours, not intrusively, but with a strange gentleness. “I hope,” she said softly, “that he will be kind to you.”
And then she turned, leaving you in silence, the scent of myrrh and rose trailing after her like a veil. You stood alone for a long minute, your breath lodged somewhere between your ribs.
⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆
The villa was quiet now, the revelers long since departed. Torchlight flickered along the walls of your new chambers. Servants had come and gone, laying out fruit, wine, flowers. Silk robed folded neatly, oils on the table and perfumed water in basins in which you had bathed and dried your hair with trembling fingers.
The door closed behind him without a sound. You had been sitting by the window—watching the night spill over the city like ink. The moon hung heavy and indifferent as its rays reflected off your skin, a strange shade of blue—the silk robe clinging to your skin still damp from the bath, the scent of rose oil ghosting over your collarbones. You did not look up at first, you had imagined this moment so many ways that the real thing felt too fragile to meet head-on.
But when you turned, you saw him.
He stood there in the glow of the fire, freshly changed into a dark linen tunic. His formal armor was gone, replaced by something quieter, more intimate, though the presence he carried made the room feel no less like a battlefield. He was… handsome, yes—striking, even. The sculpted kind of man you only ever saw carved into stone. His brows furrowed as if in thought, or perhaps weariness, and his eyes watched you like a soldier scanning a map before a march.
Still, you could not help the way your heart stuttered when he finally stepped closer. “My lord,” you said, quieter than you meant to.
At that, he tilted his head slightly. A single dark brow lifted, not unkindly, more like curiosity. “You may call me Marcus,” he said, his voice low and even. “We are husband and wife now. No need for titles in private.”
There was a careful courtesy in the way he said it. Not warm. Not cold. Like a gate held half open, daring you to enter but offering no welcome.
You nodded once, unsure it that was kindness or obligation. “Marcus,” you repeated, tasting the name.
He crossed the room with military precision as you rose to your feet slowly, smoothing the folds of your robe with shaking hands. And for a long moment, silence stretched between you like a blade unsheathed but not yet used. He wasted no time in catching your eye and slipped into the sheets of the—your sharing bed.
“You are not what I expected,” you murmured before you could stop yourself, moving unconsciously in his direction.
That made him pause. “No ?”
You shook your head. “You are… quieter.”
A breath of something like amusement crossed his face, not quite a smile, but the ghost of it. “Most Generals are quieter after the wedding than before it,” he said dryly.
That startled a soft laugh from you; small, nervous. He turned his face then, as if your reaction had caught him off guard. He looked at the wall, then the floor, anywhere but at you.
You studied him.
There was something about the way he carried himself. The way his fingers flexed once at his sides and then stilled again, that felt like he could control fire. And it drew you. Even now, even as you knew this was not a love story, maybe not yet, or maybe never—but you were drawn to him.
After this evening at his side, you had expected nothing from a man like him. Still, as you sat across from him at the imperial banquet—smiling politely, answering questions from governors and senators who barely remembered your name—you could not help glancing at him in those small, unguarded moments.
Marcus Acacius was every inch the legend you had heard of: carved from silence, shaped by discipline. His posture never faltered, even when seated, and his replies were devoid of warmth. But what struck you most was the restraint in his gaze, like there was something caged behind those irises. And yet, when his eyes landed on you, even briefly, something changed.
A flicker, gone before it could fully become a thought. A hesitation, as if there was a war behind those eyes that had nothing to do with you. You did not flatter yourself into thinking he was pleased by the match. No one truly was. This was not a marriage woven of love or even desire. It was strategy, diplomacy, obedience. A bargain between Empires, in which you were the treaty dressed in white.
But you were determined to be more than that. You had promised yourself—there, on the terrace of your homeland, when the sails of your old life disappeared behind you—that you would not enter this marriage meekly. You would do your duty, yes. But more than that: you would try to love. You would give this cold stone the warmth of yours hands, even if it never warmed in return.
He had barely spoken to you since the ceremony. A bow. A glance. He had offered his arm but not his voice. You watched him, not as an infatuated girl—you were not that foolish—but as a woman determined to understand the man she had been given to.
There was something in him, you were sure of it. A kind of tension, as if every movement was measured to avoid some fault. And it made you wonder what lay buried under all that discipline ? Even the greatest Generals were made of flesh, even marble could cracked under pressure.
You wanted—needed—to know who he was when the armor came off. And tonight, in the hush that followed the ceremony… you would begin to try.
“I will not force you,” he said suddenly, voice tight. “If you would prefer to wait, I-”
“I do not want to wait,” you said, before you could give yourself time to retreat. “This is our wedding night. I would rather… not be alone.”
He looked at you then. “Very well,” he said simply.
You sat on the edge of the bed, near his feet, leaving just enough space between you to preserve modesty, and just enough closeness to feel the tension like a thread drawn taut between your bodies. The room was dim, lit only by candles flickering near the carved columns. Somewhere beyond the walls, musicians still played for the last drunk guests, but their music had thinned, like it was too hesitating.
For a moment he grimaces, a faint tightening around his eyes, as if settling into something that did not quite fit. You turned your face fully toward him now, unsure whether to speak, unsure whether silence would offend or comfort. When he adjusted his posture and leaned back a little, his gaze slid toward you again, and then, down.
Your robe clung faintly to your skin in places that left much to the imagination, thin and delicate, the firelight made suggestions of the shape beneath it. You had not meant it to be seductive, but you had not stopped it either. His eyes lingered, no longer guarded. After all he was a General, not a monk.
A muscle in his jaw tightened, his hand curled, crumpling the sheet at his side. You bit your lower lip, almost without realizing it, heart thudding. You had imagined wanting from him, but it was just a thought. Maybe something you could use to reach him.
Just for a breath, he looked at you not as duty, but as a woman.
And something flickered across is expression, as if torn between distance and desire—no, worse; as if he had fought the feeling and already lost.
You took a breath that trembled in your chest and let the courage carry you forward. Slowly—almost reverently—you crawled across the sheets, each movement delicate. The soft rustle of fabric beneath your knees was the only sound as you were now on all fours, looking at him directly in the eye. You kept your hungry eyes fixed on him, searching his face for any kind of reaction. He was statuesque in the low light, his expression unreadable once again, though his body seemed to betray him as you could feel his already hard cock beneath the sheets, which made you smirk.
A flush of warmth spread through your chest as you did not know how to begin. You straddled him gently, your thighs sliding over his, your breath hitching as your bodies aligned. His eyes flickered open, and for a moment, just a moment, there was something there—not desire, not affection, but… permission. And, you could work with that.
You stood over him with your arms embedded in the mattress, you leaned down and placed a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth—a quiet echo of the one he had given you at the altar, but his lips did not move, they did not even flinched.
Undeterred, you continued. A kiss on his cheek, then another along the edge of his jaw, yet another just below his ear, a trail down the column of his throat. You felt him shift beneath you, a ripple of muscle and restraint. A sound escaped him, almost a sigh, but muted. His hands came hesitantly to your hips, trying to push you away carefully. But, you rocked your hips once, lightly—testing, and his grip tightened—more by instinct, like a simple reflex but—pressed your body a little closer to his.
You smiled faintly and rose, looking only at him with a burning desire, slowly peeling back the sheet between you. His eyes snapped open with surprise, maybe a quiet resistance ? His hands slid over your thighs and he closed once again his eyes, taking a deep breath. You did not pause anyway. Your hands moved with a confidence you did not quite feel, lifting the hem of your robe and slipping it over your head. Revealing your warm and naked body to him, as the air kissed your bare nipples. You saw his gaze moving over you, and for a breathless heartbeat, you felt seen.
But then, suddenly, it was gone. His eyes drifted to the side, unfocused and his jaw clenched. You tried not to falter.
He leaned back against the headboard as you settled atop him again, you took advantage of this moment to lift yourself gently and removed the covers that had separated your bodies until then. He looked at you with intrigue, certainly not expecting such gesture and ardor from you. Then, lifting the edge of his tunic to free him, you licked your lips impatiently. His cock was rock hard—thick and ready—but he barely reacted to your touch. No smirk, no words, no heat in his eyes.
Still, you guided his fat cock to your entrance, offering a last glance—a silent plea to meet you there, even if it is just for a moment. You sank down, gasping at the stretch, your body trembling as he filled you completely. Slowly you took him inch by inch, your breath breaking into gasps as your body stretched to accommodate him. Just too much at once, a new world splitting open inside you and your moan broke the silence like a confession.
He grunted softly beneath you, but you moved anyway, riding slowly. As he spread your walls, you let out a loud moan, scrunching up your face from the slight pain. Your hands braced on his broad shoulders and your breath mingled with the scent of his skin. You bit your lip, letting soft sounds escape, trying to give yourself fully. He was so deep inside you, you could feel his cock in your stomach, and the sensation was just delicious, you could not stop yourself anymore.
He let out a few careless whimpers, as your hands found support on his broad shoulders, allowing you to keep your balance and find a rhythm that suited your desires. You bit your lower lip and moaned once more, his hands shyly roaming your body as you surrendered yourself completely to him, leaving no room for hesitation. Suddenly he frowned and sighed through his nostrils, then look at you—properly—just once, a long and unreadable gaze.
Your hands clenched at his shoulders, as he made no move to guide you through it. So you set another rhythm, slower—rolling your hips to feel every inch of him inside you. Your hands found his chest to steady yourself, and your thighs trembled with the effort. His hands left your body and found the sheets beside him. You let go and tried to make him want you again, but it was as if he had barricaded himself in, letting you use his body as you pleased. You leaned in, trying to draw him back, but he moved his head slightly, preventing you from kissing him or even making contact with his skin.
The warmth between your legs grew and you began to ride him with growing confidence, chasing something unspoken between you. You tried to catch his eyes, but he was not looking at you anymore. His head tilted back; eyes closed, lips parted slightly in some imagined reverie. Your fingers traced along his collarbone, but he did not stir. It was as if he was unable to face the sight of your body on his.
Still straddling him, your movements reduced to a fragile rhythm. Not for pleasure anymore, but for your dignity. To convince yourself there was still something happening between your bodies. But he was limp beneath your touch, his body remains inside yours, but something in him was… gone. You looked down at him, pleading, and saw the furrow between his brows, the ways his lips seemed to mouth something you could not decipher.
You slow to a stop and stay still atop him, your breathing uneven and shallow from the thrum of something colder uncoiling inside you. The rise and fall of his chest beneath you were distant, absent. His hands no longer held you, his eyes had closed again, retreating into some private place far from where your skin met his.
And then, the question tumbled from your lips before you could bury it. “Am I…” you paused, voice tight, “not doing it right ?”
The words hung in the air between you like a mist that refused to lift. He opened his eyes and looked directly at you. Not at your body, your mouth or your hands, even less the place where you were joined. But at your eyes, like a man stepping into a memory he had not meant to find.
There was no irritation in his expression, no hunger. Just softness, and what seems like pity. And that, somehow, was worse. His voice was almost careful when he responded, “No. You are alright.”
But he did not say what it was. Your fingers, unsure, rested on his chest where his heartbeat barely stirred beneath your palm. You leaned forward slightly, a whisper of movement, your voice fragile now. “I can try something else, if you want.” A thread of hope knotted tight in your chest. “If you tell me what pleases you, I-I can try…”
For a moment, silence. Then a quiet breath and a small shake of his head. “I am just tired,” he murmured. “That is all.”
Just tired.
That simple.
That final.
You stayed there, frozen in that moment, as if stillness might hold something together—whatever this was supposed to be. But the thread between you had already slackened. A tender, desperate intimacy folded into something formal. As though your body had become just another offering to be endured.
He shifted, gently—not urgently—adjusting the blanket, reaching for the edge of the sheet. You took the silent cue, sliding off him with grace you barely possessed in that moment, pulling the cover over yourself in one practiced motion. You turned away so he would not see your face, because you were not sure what expression you wore.
Marcus settled back into the mattress with the weary composure of a soldier finished with duty. His arm fell across his chest and his eyes shut again, for good this time. You lay beside him a long while, watching the gold-leafed ceiling flicker with candlelight. Somewhere beyond the walls, music still played.
You slipped from the bed, eventually, quiet as the dying flame of the candle next to you, and walked barefoot to the far end of the room. You wrapped yourself in the nearest robe, not for modesty, but for armor. You settled back into bed beside him, leaving as much distance as possible before closing your eyes. And just as you felt yourself drift off into a deep sleep, a solitary tear escaped your eye.
Summary: You finally feel like you started your marriage… with the good… and the uncertain
Warnings: Use of she/her pronouns, reader has hair, Ancient Rome AU accuracies and inaccuracies, arranged marriages, age difference (Marcus is late forties reader is 20), cursing, angst, flucc, descriptions of a mainly patriarchal society, smut, a ‘handy’ job hehe, MIGHT MISS SOME WARNINGS
Notes: Sorry for the delay! love you all
“Can we stay here, for today?”, you asked him, touching his chest, touch, always touching him now, the warmth of his skin was something that soothed you, like something you now needed.
“Well, the medicus did say that I needed to care for my health”, he said teasingly. You smiled, closing your eyes and enjoying the sun sneaking through the window, the warmth of his skin, and the faint smell of the jasmines he had brought you and now laid on the table near the bed.
“Are you in pain?”, he asked gently, caressing your back, “Did I hurt you?”
“It burns a bit”, you answered softly, truthfully, “but I’m not hurt”, you leaned in and kissed his chest, just above his nipple. “Are you alright with me, touching you?”, you asked
“I am yours to do as you please”, he whispered. You raised your eyebrow as you looked down at his body, there weren't only scars, but spots tainting his tanned body, he was so soft yet so rough at the same time. His age had left marks on his skin, but it felt so natural when you passed your hand over his chest and belly.
You heard his breathing getting heavier, you didn’t understand why until you saw the sheet over his weight… grow… your hand travelled over his belly and abdomen until the fabric was covering him, and you moved it, got it out of the way
His cock was becoming stiffer as you got closer to it.
“Pulchra”, he groaned, but it sounded more like a warning. “You don’t have to”, but you didn’t listen to him, you wrapped your hand around him, making him draw delicious sounds that made your skin prickle. It was odd… something being so hard yet so soft as the finest silk, at the same time.
You squeezed, making him moan in pleasure.
“My love”, he grunted, calling for you, “if you want to do that… you need to…”, you looked at him.
“What?”, he looked at you with those glossy dark brown eyes, like the ones of a pup, “I want to please you”, you explained softly, he grabbed your hand and you let him press it against his lips. Your own breath got caught in your throat when he lewdely licked your fingers.
When they were wet enough, he wrapped them around his manhood again, with that slick, they rolled up and down his shaft easily, making his moans more pleasure-fueled
You moaned softly, the whole situation was making your body feel like it was in flames, you didn’t even know what to make of yourself.
“My love”, Acacius whined, and as you looked at his beautiful face contorted in pleasure, you truly saw the man under the armour, you saw your husband, being pleasured by you. In the midst of it, you saw him reprieving himself from something
“What is it?”, you asked
“I need you”, he said, opening his eyes and looking at you, you hadn't stopped your ministrations, which you think is why he was having such a hard time expressing his mind.
“What do you mean?”, you asked innocently, he leaned in and trapped your mouth, kissing you roughly. He turned towards you, grabbing your thigh in his big hand and made you pass it over his legs.
Soon you were on top of him, your hand releasing him to grab onto his shoulders for stability. Your thighs had to be spread wide to accommodate over his hips and not fall over.
“You are not too sore, my love?”, he asked against your lips, you were, but you were more wanting then sore, so you shook you head softly.
“No, I swear it”
“Good”, it was his turn to pleasure you, he made sure you were wet enough, with his thick fingers in between your thighs, and then he wrapped his hand around his shaft, that was conveniently right under you, feeling heavy right against your intimacy.
In this position, you felt strange, like out in the open. Not only because it was midday, the sun shining brightly, letting you see every detail, but because you were right there, exposed on top of him, to his hungry gaze, not as close as the way he took you for the first time.
“You are so beautiful”, he murmured, “my pulchra”
“You said that twice”, you said folly
“I must mean it then”, you moaned when he entered you, your hips moving instinctively, taking more of him inside you. You both moaned at the same time as the friction and stretch was delicious.
“I can’t believe you kept this from me for months”, you whined making him chuckle darkly. You finally understood it, everything behind the act of sex, the gods, the paintings, the mosaics, everything depicting the act, now you finally understood why.
The pleasure that bloomed right where you were connected extended to the entirety of your body, making you shake, your thighs drenched with your own arousal as you moved slowly over your husband.
This was too new to you, and yet, it felt natural, as you have been doing it for ages
His hands grabbed you greedily, touching your sides, your breasts, to settle on your hips, you knew he might leave marks as he was grabbing the soft skin there, leading your movements with the control he enjoyed having.
“For the gods, you are something out of this plane”, he whispered
Once you both reached the elysium fields, you collapsed on top of him, and he hugged you against his chest, caressing your sweaty back
“I’m never parting ways with you again”, he said.
As a young woman, you had been warmed of the sweet words that come from men in ecstasy, and that you’d do well not to take them seriously, but you couldn’t help but put down your wall a bit more as you were held in his arms.
And it was harder not to believe them when you realised that once you left your rooms (somewhere in the afternoon the next day), Acacius had been right there next to you. He came with you to the kitchens, you ate together, he would sit in the garden as you gardened, he would go with you on a walk to go and see Luna and her foal.
And you were silent no more, he would ask you things in turn.
Now he knew you had a very sheltered life in Rome, so instead he would ask about your thoughts, about what you had read, about what you wanted to do.
In turn, you’d ask him about his travels.
You realised he didn’t enjoy speaking about the battles and conquest, but rather the places and people he came across. The different cultures he had met.
You spend your time thinking that this is what it should have been like, after you got married, you should have left Rome for the countryside and you should have started your marriage just like this.
And now you were suddenly overthinking everything.
For how long was this going to last?
You had been accustomed by now to be alone, terribly alone, now he was there like a shadow, the change so brutal that it made your head spin. You were so happy now you were starting to be afraid you’d lose his company again.
The contrast was so notorious, you didn’t want to go back to that loneliness, and that made you nervous. When he was not within your eyesight you started experiencing anxiety. But in every turn, even without realising it, he was there. Watching you with those soft dark eyes of his, a gaze, you’d realise, kept solely for you.
But he left today, in the middle of the morning, he didn’t tell you were he went, just that there was something that required his attention, and he left with a giddy smile and a quick trot of his horse.
He might have said something to the servants, because they were running from one side of the villa to the other, and soon, the whole triclinium all the way to the atrium was surrounded by a delicious smell. They were cooking something good.
Your questions were not answered until two hours later, as the sun watch in the garden would reveal, when Marcus came back with Cecilia and her husband, her babe, and an entourage of servants railing after them
“My love”, she greeted, kissing both of your cheeks, “you look positively radiant!”
Your cheeks heated just by thinking to the reason why
“Thank you”, you murmured gently
“Your handsome husband here promised us a day of relaxation and fun”, she said with a cheeky smile, “and you… are going to tell me all the gossip”.
It had been some sort of surprise, as Acacius smiled gently as the servants packed you a heavy lunch and carried it to the edge of the lake. Finally, you had the opportunity to see it.
After walking along the shore and hear Cecilia yapping about the patrician women of Rome (ones she now frequented after marrying her husband and her trip to Sicily) you had finally found a moment alone, when both men decided to walk along the shore, talking business (despite promises made), and Cecilia send her servants away.
“You seem so much better”, she said in a careful whisper, “that when I saw you a week ago”
“Well, much had changed”, you offered, as those tempestuous eyes of her couldn’t be fooled
“Like?”, she encouraged
“I was untruthful to you”, you said carefully, her child babbled, grabbing onto her skirts, the wind flew slowly and warmly, you both found yourselves under a tent, resting over thick fabrics placed for your comfort. “Acacius and I… weren’t alright”
“Oh yeah, I could tell”, she said with a knowing look, you look back at her wide eyed
“Really?”
“Oh darling, you are many things, a good liar, is not one of them”, she said, without wiping that smirk off her face
“Oh”, you lamented
“But I take that whatever was going on was fixed”, she teased
“Oh yes”, you said happily, she shrieked, making her child jump in his place, playing wit wooden figurines
“So… “, she encouraged yet again
“We might be giving your child a life-long friend soon, or bride”, she applauded, being comically imitated by her son, who giggled happily, his thick curls jumping as he applauded with his chubby arms.
“So before”
“He hadn’t touched me”, you said carefully, “only after i confronted him after you left is when he realised, how lonely I had been, he never consummated the marriage, and then he left for Hispania…”, you wanted to omit the part in which he loved your mother, only thinking about it made your skin crawl.
“What? Why didn’t he?”, she asked
“Well, I believe it was because he didn’t want to pressure me”, you said. The naughtiness returned to her face
“So…”
“So?”, you asked her, confused.
“Is he or is he not… a very virile man?”, she said in a cackle. You wanted to hide your face in the sand and she threw your own phrase back in your face.
“Yes he is”, you admitted, your voice muffled by your hands
She laughed and applauded again.
Her son, Julius, applauded again, giggling happily, you couldn’t help it, and scoop him up in your arms playfully, making him giggle even more
“You are just like your mother”, you grunted playfully, “just a bundle of giggles”
He was so sweet
And that is how Acacius and Cecilia’s husband found you, giggling and gossiping, and this time… you did recognize the look Marcus gave you when he saw you with a child in your arms. This was going to be a very fun night with your husband, you’d gather.
The rest of the day was spend playing in the shore, splashing in the water, Marcus grabbing you, pulling you with him into the waters, before you could admit to him that you did not know how to swim, he catched you in his arms squeezing you against his chest, as he kissed the side of your face. You gazed upon his face, kissed by the afternoon sun, lines around his big smile, those kind eyes of him, gleaming with happiness. You looked to your friend and found a similar image, she was being tackled by her husband into the water, she screeched as she fell into the water.
It was one of those moments you wished you could live forever in.
. . .
You were watching your husband like a hawk as you brushed your hair, and he undressed, waiting for the moment he was going to give up his act and jump you hungrily. You were looking forward to it, slicked between your thighs.
But he did not have the same look on his face as he looked at you, he almost seemed troubled as he paced around the room, once he had changed into his sleeping robes.
“What’s wrong?”, you asked him, setting the brush on the table. He finally looked at you and took a big sigh.
“You know Cecilia’s husband is a member of the senate… and he was there last week”, he said softly, “even though though I have little less of half a year left at the command of the Legions, I need to…”, he paused, studying your face in detail, as he was afraid of how you were going to react, “go back to Hispania”, he said slowly and quietly, watching you intently.
You only nodded, with an unreadable expression on your face. You expected this, sort of…
“So, when do we leave?”, you asked nonchalantly, but of course he caught it, immediately
“We?”, he asked, a smile creeping on his face
“You are not leaving me again”, you said curtly, “you promised me, Acacius”, you said severely
“I know”, he said with a soft smile, he dared to remove a lock of hair from your face, taking advantage and touching the skin of your cheek
“We are going to Hispania, then”, he said with a soft smile, you smiled widely
“Can’t wait”, you pronounced proudly. He leaned in and trapped your lips with his on a chaste kiss
“Your mother is going to kill me”, he said, without wiping the smile from his face, “for taking you away from Rome, away from the soft shade of the Empire”
“She’ll understand”, you said back with a soft smile, you leaned in and kissed him in turn, and he hummed against your lips. “Now will you have me?”, you asked him, “I recognized that look in your eyes, you had when you were watching me”
“Oh really?”
“Oh yeah”, you gasped when he grabbed you, making you around his hips with your legs, and led you to the bed.
“I’ll show you how virile I am”, he grunted playfully against your lips.
