You can call me H for short. I’m 24 years old, so please be wise and respectful while interacting on my blog. English isn’t my first language, so there will be grammar mistakes here and there, thank you for understanding and being kind about it.
Stan List
I’m a certified DILF enthusiast. I stan a lot of them, including Pedro Pascal, Noah Wyle, Shawn Hatosy, Mads Mikkelsen, and more. Feel free to slide into my DMs if you want to talk about them!
Requests for these actors are open (for example: Pedro Pascal x Reader or specific characters like Javier Peña x Reader).
Writing List
I write about my favorites, but mostly you’ll find works featuring: Michael Robinavitch, Joel Miller, and Jack Abbot
I also write for other characters from The Pitt. For The Last of Us, I only write for Joel Miller.
About My Writing
I do write smut, but I’m still learning and not an expert, so please keep that in mind and be gentle with me.
Reminder
Requests are open through the request box, but I take things very slowly. I do have a backlog, and my mood can go up and down, so please be patient and understanding. I promise I’ll get to them when I can.
Warning: This fic contains one exhausted ER doctor aggressively trying to protect his peace, one mama losing control of her kitchen to two oversized toddlers, and one five-year-old casually announcing she has a boyfriend during dinner like it’s breaking news. Expect domestic chaos, flour-covered beards, emotional support cheese cubes, shameless family flirting, “NO YOU DON'T” severe dad jealousy over a preschool boy named Lucas, and a tiny girl fully aware she can manipulate her father with one “you’re my favorite boy.”
Michael learned a long time ago that if he wasn’t careful, the hospital would follow him home.
Not physically.
But emotionally.
It happened to a lot of people in his field. The exhaustion, the pressure, the constant exposure to grief and panic and trauma and it clung to the skin if you let it. It made voices sharper. Patience thinner. It made people carry their worst days into places that were supposed to feel safe.
Michael refused to let that happen.
Especially after Aria was born.
Because she was still little. Still soft-hearted and observant in ways adults underestimated. And Michael knew children noticed everything; the tension in voices, the heaviness in sighs, the way someone’s eyes looked tired even while smiling.
He also knew what it felt like growing up around emotions adults didn’t know how to manage properly.
So over time, he created rituals for himself.
Small things.
He sat in the car for a minute before coming inside.
Took a breath.
Removed the invisible weight of the hospital piece by piece before reaching for the front door.
Doctor stayed outside.
Papa came home.
And that evening, when the front door finally opened just before dinner, the first thing Michael heard was tiny running footsteps slamming across the floor.
“PAPAAAAAA!”
He barely had time to close the door before Aria crashed into him at full speed.
“Oof—Jesus Christ,” he laughed warmly, catching her automatically before she knocked herself backward.
Aria wrapped around him instantly, arms tight around his neck while her legs locked around his waist dramatically.
“You home!”
“I am home,” Michael smiled, pressing a loud kiss against her cheek.
“You late.”
“I know.”
“You smell like hospital.”
“That’s offensive.”
Aria giggled loudly while Michael carried her further inside like she weighed absolutely nothing.
From the kitchen, you looked over your shoulder just in time to see your daughter aggressively kissing Michael’s face while he pretended to suffer through it dramatically.
“Oh no,” he sighed heavily. “I’m under attack.”
“By LOVE!” Aria shouted proudly.
“That’s the deadliest kind.”
You snorted softly, trying to hide your smile as you stirred the pot on the stove.
And then Michael looked at you.
Really looked at you.
It happened every single day without fail.
The moment his eyes landed on you, something in his entire expression softened instantly.
The tension around his shoulders eased. His eyes warmed. His mouth curved into that quieter smile he only really used at home.
“There’s my wife,” he murmured.
You rolled your eyes lightly.
“You says that every day.”
“Because every day I’m surprised you still like me.”
“I love you.”
“Exactly,” he said seriously. “Even crazier. I love you too, My wife”
Aria made the loudest fake gagging noise imaginable between you both. And Michael leaned closer to give you a sweet and gentle kiss on your lips.
“EW.”
Michael immediately gasped.
“Excuse you? That’s my wife.”
Aria hugged him tighter possessively.
“That’s MY mama.”
Michael narrowed his eyes at her.
“Our mama.”
You laughed softly while turning off the stove.
The warmth of moments like this never got old.
Never.
Even after years together.
Especially not after long hospital shifts.
Because no matter how difficult his day had been, Michael always came home like this as if the two of you were still the best thing he’d ever found.
“Go wash your hands,” you told him.
Michael nodded obediently before looking at Aria.
“You heard your mother.”
“You heard your wife,” Aria corrected immediately.
Michael looked deeply offended.
“Wow. Betrayal.”
A few minutes later, your kitchen became a complete disaster.
Not because dinner was complicated.
But because Michael and Aria together in one space somehow always created chaos naturally.
At first, it started innocently enough.
Michael stood beside you helping chop vegetables while Aria sat on the counter swinging her legs and “supervising.”
Which really just meant stealing ingredients every thirty seconds.
“Aria,” you sighed without turning around. “Stop eating the cheese.”
“I testing.”
“You tested six times already.”
She gasped dramatically.
“Need more testing.”
Michael, still cutting vegetables, nodded thoughtfully.
“She’s committed to quality control.”
You slowly turned toward him.
“Michael.”
“What?”
“You are encouraging her.”
“I’m encouraging scientific curiosity.”
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously.
That man had the audacity to look innocent while secretly sliding another cheese cube toward Aria when he thought you weren’t looking.
Unfortunately for him—
You saw everything.
“OH MY GOD.”
Both of them burst into laughter immediately.
“Papa gave me!” Aria squealed happily.
Michael pointed at her instantly.
“She’s a liar.”
“You literally just did!”
“No proof.”
You stared at the two of them in disbelief.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m raising two children.”
Michael grinned shamelessly.
“Yet you love us both.”
That unfortunately was true.
The situation somehow escalated from there.
Michael accidentally spilled flour across the counter while trying to help knead dough.
Aria laughed so hard she nearly slipped off the stool.
Then she tried stirring sauce herself.
Too aggressively.
A splash landed directly across Michael’s black shirt.
Silence.
Aria froze.
Michael slowly looked down at the stain.
Then back at her.
Aria’s eyes widened.
And before you could warn either of them,
Michael flicked flour directly onto her nose.
Aria SCREAMED with laughter.
“PAPAAAA!”
“You started this war.”
“I’m baby!”
“You’re dangerous.”
The next five minutes became complete nonsense.
Flour everywhere.
Aria hiding behind Michael while throwing tiny pinches of cheese at you.
Michael pretending he was “neutral” while actively making things worse.
At one point, you turned around and saw flour somehow stuck in Michael’s beard.
“How did you even get it THERE?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
Aria laughed so hard she wheezed.
Then Michael reached down and wiped flour lightly onto her cheek too.
“Oh my GOD,” you groaned, finally laughing despite yourself. “Can Mama cook in peace for ONE night?”
Both of them froze immediately.
Then slowly looked at you with matching guilty expressions.
And it was terrifying.
Same eyes.
Same tiny pout.
Same “maybe she won’t stay mad if we act cute” face.
Michael even had flour in his eyebrows now.
“You’re beautiful when you’re angry,” he offered carefully.
You pointed toward the dining table immediately.
“Out.”
Aria copied your tone perfectly.
“Yeah Papa. Out.”
Michael looked genuinely betrayed.
“This family turns against me too fast.”
Still...
Your chest felt warm watching them.
Because this was exactly what Michael protected so carefully.
This softness.
This normalcy.
This safe little life.
Dinner eventually made it to the table despite the kitchen looking like a crime scene afterward.
The three of you sat together while warm food filled the room with comfort and the soft hum of music played quietly in the background.
Michael changed into a clean shirt while Aria proudly announced she “survived the cooking battle.”
Now she sat between both of you happily kicking her legs beneath the chair while talking nonstop about preschool.
“And then Noah cry because Mila say his dinosaur ugly.”
Michael nodded seriously while eating.
“Understandable.”
“No it’s not,” you laughed.
“It might’ve been an ugly dinosaur.”
“PAPA,” Aria gasped dramatically.
“What? Dinosaurs deserve respect too.”
Aria dissolved into giggles immediately.
This was Michael at home.
Playful.
Patient.
Warm.
So different from the version of him people saw at work sometimes.
At home, he listened carefully when Aria spoke even when her stories made absolutely no sense. He asked questions. Remembered details. Acted shocked at preschool gossip like it was breaking world news.
“And Oliver scream because he saw bug.”
Michael nodded again.
“Reasonable reaction.”
“Papa scared bugs too?”
“Yes.”
“He scream too?”
Michael glanced at you calmly.
“Your mother protects me.”
You nearly choked laughing.
Dinner stayed easy after that.
Comfortable.
Until you noticed the shift in Aria.
It was small.
She suddenly got quieter.
Not sad quiet.
More like…
Nervous.
She poked at her rice for a moment, glancing at you briefly before looking away quickly.
And immediately. You knew.
Oh no.
That look meant danger.
You hid your smile instantly behind your glass because you already knew she was about to say something insane.
Meanwhile Michael sat peacefully unaware, eating like a man moments away from destruction.
Aria cleared her throat softly.
“Papa.”
Michael looked up immediately, gentle as always with her.
“Yeah, baby?”
Aria blinked once.
Then calmly, like she was announcing the weather “I have boyfriend.”
Everything stopped.
Michael froze mid-motion.
His fork literally stayed suspended halfway to his mouth.
“…You what?”
You bit your lip so hard it hurt.
Aria blinked innocently.
“I have boyfriend.”
Michael’s eyes widened in absolute horror.
“NO YOU DON’T.”
You immediately looked down because the laugh threatening to escape would absolutely make things worse.
Aria frowned in confusion.
“I do.”
“No,” Michael repeated firmly, already panicking. “Absolutely not.”
“He likes me.”
“He can stop.”
That was it.
You lost control immediately, laughter bursting out while Michael looked personally betrayed by the situation.
“This isn’t funny!” he said, staring at you.
“It’s a preschool boyfriend!”
“That’s how it starts!”
Aria looked offended now.
“Papaaaa.”
Michael leaned forward seriously.
“How old is he?”
“He's FIVE,” you cried through laughter.
“I need information.”
Aria answered proudly anyway.
“His name Lucas.”
Michael looked physically wounded.
“Oh my God. He has a NAME?”
“Yes?”
“What does he want from you?”
“To color.”
Michael narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
“That’s exactly how men operate.”
You genuinely almost fell out of your chair laughing and Aria crossed her tiny arms dramatically. “You jealous.”
Michael pointed at himself immediately.
“Yes.”
“You old.”
Michael gasped loudly like she shot him.
“WOW. Okay.”
“You old and jealous.”
“And you’re grounded until you’re thirty.”
“She’s FIVE.”
Michael ignored you completely.
“No dating.”
“It not dating.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
Aria stared at him for a second before suddenly climbing down from her chair. She walked around the table quietly before climbing directly onto Michael’s lap.
Michael immediately steadied her automatically, still grumbling under his breath about “boyfriends.”
Then Aria grabbed his face with both tiny hands.
Completely serious.
“You my favorite boy.”
And just like that... Michael melted. Entirely.
All the dramatics disappeared from his face instantly.
“…Yeah?” he asked softer now.
Aria nodded confidently. “Always.”
Michael’s arms wrapped around her tightly as he kissed her temple.
“Okay,” he sighed dramatically. “Lucas can live. For now.”
Aria cheered loudly like she’d won a legal battle while you laughed so hard tears formed in your eyes.
And sitting there at the dinner table with flour still somehow stuck near Michael’s wrist, your daughter safe in his lap, and warmth filling every corner of the room.
Michael silently reminded himself again why he worked so hard to leave the hospital outside the door.
Because this was the part of his life he never wanted darkness touching.
Please do not copy my work. If you enjoy it, I’d really appreciate your support by liking and reblogging instead of reposting or copying. Thank you for respecting my writing and giving proper credit. 🤍 xoxo, offthepitt.
Well guys, to be honest, I’m planning to come back and do a huge cleanup on all my fics here! Fixing the formatting, reorganizing everything, and making it all feel more structured. And somehow… I also want to start another series. 👀 This time, it’s gonna be a DBF series featuring my favorite characters, which obviously means it has to include Joel Miller, Michael Robinavitch, and Jack Abbott.
SOOOOOOOO, Joel honestly fits the “emotionally devastating slowburn” DBF trope the best, while Jack fits rich/emotionally messy forbidden romance, and Michael fits darker obsession + tension energy.
Well guys, to be honest, I’m planning to come back and do a huge cleanup on all my fics here! Fixing the formatting, reorganizing everything, and making it all feel more structured. And somehow… I also want to start another series. 👀 This time, it’s gonna be a DBF series featuring my favorite characters, which obviously means it has to include Joel Miller, Michael Robinavitch, and Jack Abbott.
Like we all know, every DBF fic always comes with a mix of tension, angst, forbidden feelings, and smut… so yeah. 😭 I need that perfect combination of pain and pleasure all at once. The emotional damage? The yearning? The messy feelings? Inject it directly into my veins. 😁🤤
Well guys, to be honest, I’m planning to come back and do a huge cleanup on all my fics here! Fixing the formatting, reorganizing everything, and making it all feel more structured. And somehow… I also want to start another series. 👀 This time, it’s gonna be a DBF series featuring my favorite characters, which obviously means it has to include Joel Miller, Michael Robinavitch, and Jack Abbott.
Warning: This fic contains one silver-haired ER doctor having a full-blown existential crisis in a mall after being called “oldie,” one wife ready to throw hands over anyone making her husband feel less lovable, and one tiny daughter who sees absolutely nothing except “my papa.” Expect emotional insecurity hidden behind tired smiles, soft domestic comfort, grocery shopping with zero budget limits, mirror scene vulnerability, forehead touches, sleepy midnight cuddles, and a five-year-old accidentally healing generational male insecurity with one sentence.
Michael’s off days always carried a different kind of atmosphere inside the house.
Softer. Slower.
Not because he suddenly stopped being a doctor the second he clocked out of the hospital because honestly, you didn’t think that part of him would ever fully turn off but because on days like this, he tried so hard to belong entirely to you and Aria.
And you noticed it in the little things first.
Like how he stayed in bed longer that morning instead of immediately reaching for his phone. How he lazily pulled you closer against his chest when you tried getting up too early. How he buried his face into your shoulder and muttered a sleepy, “Five more minutes,” in that rough morning voice that always weakened your knees a little.
Then there was Aria.
The second she climbed into bed between both of you, Michael’s entire attention shifted immediately.
“Papa,” she announced very seriously while sitting on his stomach. “Mama says your ponytail skill is ugly.”
You burst out laughing instantly from beside them.
Michael looked deeply offended.
“Excuse me?”
“You make me look like broccoli yesterday.”
“You did look like broccoli,” you added helpfully.
Michael narrowed his eyes at both of you.
“I’m being bullied in my own home.”
Aria giggled loudly when Michael grabbed her dramatically and buried his face into her tummy until her squeals echoed across the bedroom.
The morning continued like that afterward; warm, messy, domestic.
Michael making breakfast while wearing sweatpants low on his hips and glasses sliding slightly down his nose because he refused to put contacts in on his days off. Aria sitting on the kitchen counter kicking her legs while demanding pancake shapes that made absolutely no sense.
“I want bunny pancake!”
“You had bunny yesterday,” Michael pointed out while flipping another pancake.
“Okay… dinosaur bunny pancake.”
You snorted into your coffee.
Michael looked at her silently for a moment before sighing like the burden of fatherhood was simply too heavy.
“…I’ll see what I can do.”
And somehow, ridiculously, he actually tried.
The pancake looked horrifying.
Aria thought it was beautiful.
After breakfast, the three of you got ready to head out to the mall. Nothing extravagant. Just errands. Groceries. Things for the house. A few things Aria needed for preschool. Some skincare you’d casually mentioned running out of three weeks ago that Michael somehow remembered better than you did.
Unfortunately for you, Michael’s off days also triggered another problem.
His spending habits.
More specifically
His inability to say no to you and Aria.
“Michael,” you sighed while watching him casually toss another dress into the cart for Aria. “She does not need this.”
“She likes strawberries,” he replied simply, like that explained everything.
“It has strawberries on it,” Aria defended immediately from inside the cart.
“She already has clothes with strawberries.”
“But not this strawberry.”
Michael nodded once. “Exactly.”
You stared at both of them with betrayal.
“This family enables each other.”
Neither of them even looked guilty.
If anything, Michael looked amused.
And honestly? Watching him like this always did something dangerous to your heart.
The way he walked beside the cart while absentmindedly rubbing Aria’s hair every time he passed her. The way his large hand settled automatically on your lower back whenever crowds got thicker. The way he kept reaching for your hand for absolutely no reason other than he liked touching you.
Even while grocery shopping.
At one point, you stopped to compare prices between two products.
Michael glanced once.
Then immediately grabbed the more expensive one.
You frowned. “Michael.”
“What?”
“This one is cheaper.”
“You like the other one more.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is to me.”
Then he leaned closer slightly, voice lower near your ear.
“I work hard so my girls don’t have to stare at price tags.”
Your face warmed instantly.
“Stop saying things like that.”
“Why?” he smirked faintly. “It works every time.”
Unfortunately, the mood shifted later.
Subtle enough that Aria didn’t notice.
But you did.
The three of you had just walked out of another store when someone suddenly called his name.
“Michael?”
Michael turned first, confusion briefly crossing his face before recognition replaced it.
“…Daniel?”
The man laughed immediately and walked forward, pulling Michael into a quick one-armed hug.
“Holy shit, man. Look at you.”
You stood quietly beside Michael while they caught up, and it was strangely nice watching this older version of him interact with someone from a completely different chapter of his life.
College stories.
Old professors.
Complaints about work schedules.
The exhaustion of getting older.
At one point Daniel looked toward you and Aria.
“And this is your family?”
Michael’s expression changed immediately.
Softened.
His hand rested instinctively on Aria’s head, fingers sliding through her hair carefully.
“My daughter,” he said first, his voice gentler without realizing it. “Aria.”
Daniel blinked. “You have a whole kid now?”
“A very spoiled one,” Michael corrected.
“I heard that!” Aria protested immediately.
Daniel laughed loudly at that.
Then his attention shifted to you.
“And your wife?”
For a second, Michael looked at you.
And there it was again.
That look.
That impossibly soft look that still made your stomach flip even after all this time.
“My wife,” he repeated simply.
Not your name.
Not an introduction.
Just my wife.
Like that title alone already carried too much pride.
Everything stayed warm after that.
Easy.
Until Daniel checked the time and sighed.
“Damn, I gotta go.”
“Yeah, us too.”
They exchanged another quick hug before pulling apart.
Then Daniel grinned teasingly.
“Bye, oldie.”
Michael rolled his eyes instantly. “Fuck off.”
“I’m kidding!” Daniel laughed loudly, already walking backward away from your family. “Take care, old man!”
Michael shook his head with a quiet snort.
But afterward…
Something changed.
Not obviously.
Not enough for anyone else to catch immediately.
But you knew him too well.
At first it was just the silence.
Michael became quieter while walking beside you.
Still present physically but mentally somewhere else.
Aria would show him things excitedly, and he’d react a second too late.
“…Papa, look! Bluey bag!”
Michael blinked like he’d been pulled back into the moment.
“Hm? Oh. Yeah, baby. Cute.”
But his smile didn’t fully reach his eyes.
Later, while you were waiting for coffee, you caught him staring at his reflection in the dark window of the café.
Not casually.
Not absentmindedly.
Really looking.
At his face.
At the gray in his beard.
At the lines around his eyes.
At the tiredness sitting heavier on him lately.
And suddenly Daniel’s joking “oldie” comment replayed itself loudly in your own head too.
Oh.
The realization settled heavily in your chest after that.
Throughout dinner, Michael stayed attentive enough not to worry Aria, but you noticed every little thing now.
The way he touched his beard more often.
The way his eyes lingered on younger couples walking by.
The way he smiled automatically at your jokes but seemed distracted immediately afterward.
And Michael had always been like this sometimes.
Quietly insecure.
Especially about his age.
Especially with you.
By the time you got home and finished putting Aria to bed, the feeling in your chest had turned into full worry.
You changed into your pajamas quietly afterward before heading into the bathroom to brush your teeth.
That’s when you saw him.
Michael stood shirtless in front of the sink wearing only his briefs, one hand gripping the edge of the counter while the other slowly moved over his beard.
The bathroom light was unforgivingly bright.
It highlighted every silver strand threaded through the darker beard he used to complain about trimming. The faint wrinkles near his eyes. The exhaustion etched into his features after years of stress, sleepless nights, responsibility.
His stomach wasn’t as firm as it used to be years ago either.
And the saddest part?
The way he looked at himself.
Not with vanity.
Not even frustration.
Just… quiet disappointment.
Like he was mourning a version of himself he thought he was supposed to stay.
You didn’t speak immediately.
Instead, you walked slowly toward him until you stood right behind him.
Then gently, carefully, you wrapped both arms around his waist and rested your cheek against the warmth of his back.
Michael startled slightly before relaxing once he realized it was you.
For several long seconds, neither of you spoke.
You simply stood there together in front of the mirror.
Looking at him.
Looking at the man you loved.
The man who still made Aria laugh until she snorted milk through her nose.
The man who still reached for your hand in his sleep.
The man who stayed awake through fevers, nightmares, sickness, breakdowns, exhaustion without ever making you feel alone.
“You’re thinking too much again,” you murmured softly.
Michael let out a quiet breath through his nose.
“…Am I wrong?”
Your brows furrowed immediately.
“About what?”
He looked at himself again.
“I’m getting older.”
The way he said it hurt your heart.
Not because it was true.
But because he sounded afraid of it.
You tightened your arms around him slightly.
“So am I.”
“It’s different.”
“No,” you whispered gently. “It isn’t.”
Michael laughed softly then, but there was no humor in it.
“You don’t see what I see.”
“Then tell me.”
His jaw shifted slightly.
“The gray hair. The wrinkles. The stomach.” His voice lowered more. “I don’t look like I used to.”
You stayed quiet for a moment before speaking carefully.
“Michael… do you know what I see when I look at you?”
His eyes flickered toward yours in the mirror but he didn’t answer.
“I see the man who held me after labor when I cried because I thought I wasn’t doing enough for Aria.” Your voice stayed soft and steady. “I see the father who slept sitting upright in a hospital chair because our daughter wouldn’t stop crying unless she was on his chest.”
His throat moved slightly.
“I see the husband who still buys my favorite snacks even when I forget mentioning them.” You pressed another kiss lightly against his shoulder blade. “The man who works himself to exhaustion just to make sure the people he loves are safe.”
Michael lowered his eyes quietly.
“And every gray hair?” you whispered. “Every wrinkle? It just means you stayed. It means you lived. It means Aria got more years with her papa.”
Silence filled the bathroom afterward.
Heavy.
Emotional.
Michael’s breathing slowed slightly beneath your arms.
Then finally, quietly
“You really still look at me the same?”
Your chest ached instantly.
You moved around him then, standing directly in front of him before reaching up and holding his face gently between your hands.
“Michael,” you said softly, firmly. “I have never once looked at you and wished you were younger.”
His eyes closed briefly.
“I look at you and thank God you exist.”
Something fragile flickered across his face then.
Vulnerability.
Relief.
Love.
He leaned forward slowly until his forehead rested against yours, his hands finally settling around your waist tightly.
And when he hugged you afterward, it felt desperate in the smallest quiet way.
Like he needed to be reminded he was still loved exactly as he was.
Later that night, the bedroom stayed dark and peaceful.
You slept curled against Michael’s chest, one leg tangled with his while his arm stayed wrapped securely around your waist beneath the blanket.
Even half asleep, he still held you close instinctively.
Then sometime in the middle of the night
The bedroom door creaked open softly.
Tiny footsteps shuffled across the floor.
Michael stirred first, eyes barely opening before immediately softening.
Aria.
Still sleepy.
Still holding her bunny plushie by one ear.
Her hair was a complete mess, cheeks warm from sleep, eyes barely even open properly as she climbed onto the bed clumsily.
Without a word, she crawled directly toward Michael.
Half onto him, honestly.
One tiny leg over his stomach while she snuggled against his side like she belonged nowhere else.
Which she didn’t.
Michael let out the quietest sleepy laugh.
“Hey, baby…”
Aria rubbed her face against his chest tiredly before whispering in the softest little voice imaginable,
“I love you, Papa.”
Michael’s entire expression softened instantly.
Then Aria added sleepily,
“You’re my papa.”
Not complicated.
Not poetic.
Just certain.
Absolute.
Like in her little world, there was nobody better to belong to.
Michael swallowed hard before wrapping his arm tighter around her automatically, pulling her close while keeping you tucked safely against his other side too.
Three people tangled together under warm blankets.
And in the darkness, with his daughter asleep against him and you breathing softly on his chest
Michael stopped seeing gray hair.
Stopped seeing wrinkles.
Stopped seeing age.
Because all he could feel was love.
Please do not copy my work. If you enjoy it, I’d really appreciate your support by liking and reblogging instead of reposting or copying. Thank you for respecting my writing and giving proper credit. 🤍 xoxo, offthepitt.
Warning: This fic contains domestic fluff overload, relentless family softness, and a deeply loved ER doctor being emotionally bullied by his own twins. Includes accidental identity crises after children discover their father has a government name, dramatic sulking from a grown man called “Jack Abbott” instead of “Daddy,” and two tiny chaos gremlins weaponizing new information for entertainment. Features warm family routines, sleepy cuddles after night shifts, shared laughter in the kitchen, matching apologies, and a husband who pouts exactly like his children. May cause aggressive smiling, aching fondness, watery eyes from how loved they all are, and the sudden urge to build a family with someone who looks at you the way Jack Abbott looks at his twins. Read gently.
Six years of marriage, and somehow the love between you and Jack only kept growing stronger.
Maybe it started on your second anniversary, when you sat beside him in that tiny examination room, fingers intertwined while the doctor smiled and told you both the news.
Twins.
You still remembered the way Jack looked at you that day. Completely speechless. His eyes had turned glassy almost instantly, his hand gripping yours so tightly as if he was terrified this was all just a dream.
After everything he had lost before every heartbreak, every lonely night, every moment he thought life had already taken too much from him and there you were. And now, two babies growing inside you.
He had laughed and cried at the same time, leaning down to kiss your forehead over and over.
“Two?” he whispered in disbelief. “We’re having two babies?”
From that day on, Jack changed in the softest ways possible.
He started calling himself “Daddy” long before the twins were even born.
“Daddy’s talking to you both,” he’d say while resting his head against your stomach after exhausting ER shifts.
And you?
You became “Mommy” naturally. Effortlessly.
Especially once the twins were born.
The house was never quiet anymore. Tiny footsteps, endless giggles, toys scattered everywhere, and Jack an exhausted emergency doctor still somehow finding enough energy to crawl around the floor playing dinosaurs with the twins at midnight.
And honestly? You barely called him “Jack” anymore.
It felt strange on your tongue.
To you, he was honey, love, daddy, babe; anything but his actual name. The only time “Jack Abbott” fully came out of your mouth was when you were genuinely angry at him, which thankfully didn’t happen often.
So one night, after Jack left for another night shift at the ER, you were in the bathroom carefully doing your skincare routine when the twins padded into your bedroom wearing matching pajamas.
Like always, they wanted to sleep with you whenever their daddy worked overnight.
One climbed onto the bed while the other stood beside you, watching you apply moisturizer with intense curiosity.
Then suddenly
“Mommy?”
“Hm?”
“Is Daddy’s name Jack?”
You blinked at him through the mirror before smiling softly. “Yes, sweetheart. Daddy’s name is Jack Abbott.”
The other twin immediately gasped dramatically from the bed.
“JACK ABBOTT!” he shouted loudly, clearly delighted by this discovery.
You burst into laughter instantly.
“Yes,” you said, trying not to laugh too hard. “But you both call him Daddy, okay? He’s Daddy for you.”
The twins nodded obediently.
For about three seconds.
Then they both started whispering to each other on the bed, giggling suspiciously while glancing at one another like they had just invented the funniest joke in the world.
You narrowed your eyes at them.
“What are you planning?”
“Nothingggg,” they answered together far too innocently.
You should’ve known right then.
The next morning felt normal.
Jack came home from the hospital exhausted but smiling softly the second he saw you in the kitchen. He leaned down automatically to kiss your cheek while wrapping an arm around your waist.
“Morning, Mommy.”
“Morning, Daddy.”
Completely normal.
He even brought the twins’ favorite donuts on the way home like he always did after night shifts.
Nothing seemed wrong.
Until daycare pickup.
You were in the kitchen preparing lunch when the front door opened.
The twins rushed inside first, laughing uncontrollably.
And behind them was Jack.
Sulking.
Actually sulking.
His lips were pushed into the deepest pout imaginable, brows furrowed while he carried the twins’ tiny backpacks over one shoulder.
You stared at him in confusion.
“What?” you asked, pulling off your apron. “What happened?”
No answer.
Jack walked dramatically toward the couch and sat down with his arms crossed like an offended child.
The twins immediately climbed all over him, still giggling.
“We’re sorry, Daddy,” they both said at the same time between laughter.
Jack only huffed.
You looked between all three of them, trying not to laugh already.
“Okay… what did they do?”
One twin buried his face into Jack’s shoulder while laughing.
The other pointed at him proudly.
“We called him Jack Abbott!”
That was it.
You pressed your lips together instantly.
Apparently, during pickup, the twins had run toward Jack screaming—
“JACK ABBOTT!”
Right in the middle of the daycare hallway.
And when Jack crouched down in absolute confusion, they kept doing it over and over.
“Hi, Jack Abbott!”
“Carry me, Jack Abbott!”
“Look at me, Jack Abbott!”
Meanwhile, the teachers were apparently trying very hard not to laugh.
Jack had stared at them in betrayal.
“No,” he told them firmly while picking them up. “I’m Daddy. Daddy, twins.”
But that only made it worse.
Because the twins found his reaction hilarious.
So the entire walk home became
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“…Jack Abbott.”
And then uncontrollable laughter.
Now on the couch, Jack looked genuinely offended as the twins hugged him tightly.
“We said sorryyy,” one whined.
“You hurt Daddy’s feelings,” Jack muttered dramatically.
“You’re not Jack Abbott?”
“I am,” he sighed. “But not to you two. I’m Daddy.”
The twins looked at each other seriously for a moment before nodding.
“Okay, Daddy.”
Jack finally softened a little.
Then one of them grinned mischievously and whispered loudly,
“Okay… Daddy Jack Abbott.”
You lost it immediately, laughing so hard you had to grab the kitchen counter for support.
Jack looked absolutely betrayed.
“Mommy!” he complained while the twins collapsed into giggles again.
And honestly?
Watching your husband pout while your twins teased him mercilessly might’ve been one of the cutest things you had ever seen.
Warning: This fic contains emotional burnout, hidden self-doubt, and a quiet unraveling behind a soft smile. includes gentle confrontation, tearful vulnerability, comfort food as a trigger and a remedy, and a fiancé who notices everything even when you try to hide. features soft reassurances, patient love, grounding touches, warm embraces, and being cared for when you feel least deserving of it. may cause chest tightness, misty eyes, and the sudden urge to be held and told you’re not alone. read gently.
You’ve been fighting your own mind for over a week now quietly, stubbornly. The kind of battle no one sees. You feel the pressure pressing in from all sides, the exhaustion settling deep in your bones, the constant whisper that you’re not enough. Weak. A failure. And, as always, you keep it to yourself. No one knows. Not even your fiancé, Jack.
Jack, God, he’s everything you once prayed for. The man you asked for in quiet, hopeful moments, long before he ever existed in your life. And somehow, you got him. Soon, he’ll be your husband. He’s the most patient man you’ve ever met more patient than your own father, in ways you can’t quite explain. An ER attending physician, always working the night shift, always giving pieces of himself to people who need him. You’ve never minded. Not when it’s him.
You met him three years ago, back when you were too stubborn to admit you couldn’t do everything on your own. You were in a hardware store, determined to carry more than you should’ve, nearly hurting yourself in the process. Jack stepped in with steady hands, calm voice and somehow ended up building your table at home. He later joked that it counted as your first date. You didn’t argue.
But lately… something’s been off.
Your smiles don’t quite reach your eyes anymore. Your laughter sounds thinner, forced. And eating something that used to be simple, even joyful, now feels like a task you just get through. Every morning after his shift, Jack used to come home with breakfast. Sometimes something light, sometimes something indulgent. You would always light up, always tell him how good it was, how much you loved it.
Now, you just nod. Say it’s good. That’s it.
At first, Jack didn’t push. He gave you space, trusting you’d come to him when you were ready. But now… he can’t ignore it anymore.
The quiet in the apartment feels heavier than it should, like it’s pressing down on your chest and settling into your bones. The mug in your hands has long gone from warm to barely lukewarm, but you keep holding it anyway, fingers curled tight around the ceramic like it might ground you. The TV is on, something mindless playing in the background, but you haven’t registered a single scene. Your thoughts have been loud enough all week, louder than anything else, filling every corner of your mind with doubts that refuse to leave.
You hear the door unlock.
Your heart stutters, not out of fear, but something close to guilt. Jack steps inside, shoulders slightly slouched from his shift, exhaustion written in the lines of his face, but the second his eyes land on you, something soft replaces it. It always does. He shrugs off his jacket, drops his keys, and walks straight to you like it’s instinct.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and warm, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.
You force a small smile, one you’ve practiced all week. “Hey. Long night?”
“Always,” he says, brushing his thumb against your cheek in that absent, affectionate way of his. “You okay?”
You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”
He studies you for a second longer than usual, eyes searching your face like he’s trying to read something between the lines, but then he hums softly and presses another kiss to your lips. It’s gentle, familiar. Safe. You kiss him back, hoping he doesn’t notice how your chest tightens instead of easing.
Then it hits you.
There’s no bag in his hand.
No takeout. No breakfast he picked up on the way home like he always does.
You frown slightly, glancing toward the door, then back at him. “You didn’t bring anything?”
Jack doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he gives you a small smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and turns toward the kitchen. “Thought I’d make something instead.”
You blink, confusion settling in your chest as you watch him move around like he belongs there, like this is just another morning. He rolls up his sleeves, opens the fridge, and pulls out eggs. The sound of them cracking against the bowl is sharp in the quiet apartment, each one echoing louder than it should.
Your throat tightens.
“No, Jack, you don’t have to,” you say, voice softer now, almost hesitant. “I can just eat later or something.”
He doesn’t look at you yet. Just keeps whisking, steady and calm. “I know.”
There’s something in the way he says it that makes your chest ache.
You stare at his back, at the familiar broadness of his shoulders, the way he moves with quiet confidence even when he’s clearly exhausted. He knows. The realization settles slowly, heavily, like something you’ve been avoiding finally catching up to you.
“Jack…” Your voice wavers before you can stop it.
He finally glances over his shoulder, eyes gentle but firm. “Come here.”
You don’t move.
Your fingers tighten around the mug, knuckles paling as your breathing starts to feel uneven. “I’m fine here.”
“You’re not,” he says softly, not harsh, not accusing. Just certain.
The words hit harder than anything else.
Your vision blurs, tears gathering faster than you can hold them back. “I said I’m fine.”
Jack sets the bowl down, wipes his hands, and walks over to you slowly, like he’s approaching something fragile. Like he’s afraid you might shatter if he moves too fast.
“Hey,” he murmurs, crouching in front of you so he’s at your level, his hands gently wrapping around yours and easing the mug from your grip before you can protest. He sets it aside and replaces it with his own warmth, thumbs brushing over your trembling fingers. “Talk to me.”
You shake your head immediately, tears slipping down despite your effort to stop them. “It’s stupid.”
“It’s not.”
“It is,” you insist, voice breaking. “I just… I can’t even handle things properly, Jack. I feel so… useless lately. Everything feels heavy and I don’t even know why. And I hate it. I hate feeling like this.”
He listens. He always listens.
Your words start spilling faster now, like they’ve been waiting for a way out. “And I keep pretending I’m okay because you already deal with so much at work, and I don’t want to be another problem. You deserve someone who’s not… like this.”
Jack’s expression shifts, something deeper settling into his gaze. Not frustration. Not disappointment. Something steadier. Stronger.
“Look at me,” he says gently.
You hesitate, but eventually lift your eyes to meet his.
“You are not a problem,” he says, each word slow and deliberate. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
Your lips part slightly, caught off guard.
“I chose you,” he continues, voice still calm but firmer now. “Every version of you. The happy one, the quiet one, the one who laughs at everything, and the one who feels like she’s falling apart. All of it. That’s what loving you means.”
Your chest tightens painfully, more tears slipping free.
“I see you,” he adds softly. “Even when you think you’re hiding it.”
A shaky breath leaves you, your shoulders finally starting to slump like you’ve been holding yourself up for too long.
Jack reaches up, brushing your tears away with his thumb. “And I know what you’ve been avoiding.”
You already know what he means.
Your gaze flickers toward the kitchen.
“I’m not weak,” you whisper, almost to yourself. “I just… I don’t want to feel like I failed again.”
Jack’s hand moves to cup your cheek, grounding you. “Eating something that comforts you isn’t failing. It’s taking care of yourself.”
You shake your head faintly, but there’s no strength behind it anymore.
He stands, gently pulling you up with him. “Come on.”
This time, you don’t resist.
He leads you to the kitchen, settling you onto the counter like he’s done a hundred times before. The eggs are already cooking, the soft, familiar smell filling the space. It hits you harder than you expect, a wave of memories and feelings you’ve been pushing away all week.
Your eyes sting again.
Jack steps between your knees, hands resting lightly on your thighs. “You don’t have to finish it,” he says quietly. “You don’t even have to like it today. Just… try.”
You nod, barely.
When he places the plate in front of you, your hands tremble slightly as you pick up the fork. He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t watch too closely. He just stays there, close enough that you can feel him, steady and present.
You take a small bite.
It’s simple. Familiar. Safe.
And suddenly, you’re crying again.
Jack immediately pulls you into him, arms wrapping around you as you bury your face against his chest. “Hey, hey… it’s okay,” he murmurs, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow circles on your back. “You’re okay.”
“I hate this,” you sob softly. “I hate feeling like this.”
“I know,” he whispers. “But you’re not alone in it. Not anymore.”
You cling to him tighter, your fingers gripping his shirt like he’s the only thing keeping you steady.
And maybe he is.
He presses a kiss to your hair, holding you there as long as you need, not caring about the food getting cold or the exhaustion still clinging to him.
“Let me take care of you too,” he says quietly.
This time, you don’t argue.
Please do not copy my work. If you enjoy it, I’d really appreciate your support by liking and reblogging instead of reposting or copying. Thank you for respecting my writing and giving proper credit. 🤍 xoxo, offthepitt.
Warning: This fic contains one overworked ER doctor running on zero sleep, one wife holding the entire house together with quiet strength, and one tiny daughter who thinks hugs can fix everything (and honestly… she’s right). Expect emotional exhaustion, soft late-night comfort, gentle back rubs learned from Mama, whispered “it’s okay, Papa,” and a guaranteed ache in your chest. Read with tissues, warm blankets, and someone to hug after.
The call comes just as you’re about to serve dinner.
You wipe your hands quickly and pick it up, already knowing from the timing alone that it won’t be a normal “I’m on my way home” kind of call.
“Hey.”
There’s noise immediately loud, overlapping, messy. You can hear shouting, something metallic clattering, someone calling out instructions in the background.
“Hey,” Michael answers, but his voice is tight, pulled thin like he’s holding himself together just enough to function. “I’m gonna be late.”
You shift your weight against the counter, your brows pulling together.
“How late?”
“I don’t know yet,” he says, a little rushed. “It’s… it’s bad here.”
Your stomach drops slightly.
“What happened?”
“There was some kind of chaos at the traditional market,” he explains quickly. “Crowd panic, some structures collapsed, people got crushed, there’s a lot of trauma cases coming in all at once. Head injuries, broken bones, heavy bleeding…”
Someone calls his name again, louder this time.
“Dr. Robby!”
“Hang on,” he mutters, covering the phone for a second before coming back. “I can’t talk long.”
“It’s okay,” you say softly, even though your chest feels tight. “Just focus on what you need to do.”
“I might be really late,” he repeats, quieter now.
“That’s okay.”
There’s a brief pause, like he’s hesitating.
“…I’ll try to home early as soon everything settled.”
“Don’t worry about that,” you tell him gently. “Just… do your job and come home.”
Another pause.
“I will.”
“Be careful,” you add.
His voice softens just a little.
“Always.”
The call ends, and the noise disappears, leaving the kitchen feeling strangely quiet in comparison.
Dinner still needs to happen.
You finish plating the food and call Aria over. She comes in happily at first, talking about something random, climbing onto her chair and swinging her legs like usual until she looks at the empty seat across from her.
Her expression changes immediately.
“…Where Papa?”
You sit down, keeping your tone calm.
“Papa has to work late tonight, baby.”
Her brows knit together.
“Why?”
You take a small breath.
“A lot of people got hurt today,” you explain carefully. “Papa needs to help them at the hospital.”
She frowns, processing.
“Big hurt?”
“Yeah.”
She goes quiet after that, poking at her food instead of talking like she usually does.
“…Papa eat?” she asks after a moment.
You hesitate.
“I’m not sure,” you admit. “But he will later.”
She nods slowly, like she’s trying to accept it even if she doesn’t like it.
Dinner feels quieter than usual. She glances at the door a few times, like she’s half expecting him to walk in anyway.
He doesn’t.
Later, you go through the routine; bath, pajamas, story.
She curls into you as you read, her small body warm and relaxed, but quieter than usual. When you finish and close the book, she looks up at you again.
“…Papa come home?”
“Yes,” you say softly. “Later.”
She holds your hand for a second longer.
“…I wait.”
Your heart tightens.
“You should sleep,” you tell her gently. “He’ll come home anyway.”
She thinks about it.
Then nods, even if it looks like she doesn’t fully agree.
“Okay…”
You tuck her in, brush her hair back, kiss her forehead, and turn off the light.
The house settles after that.
You clean up, change, and eventually lie down in bed alone. The space beside you feels too empty, the quiet stretching longer than usual.
At some point, you fall asleep.
When Michael finally gets home, it’s late enough that the entire house feels still.
He steps inside carefully, closing the door behind him with more control than usual, like he doesn’t trust his own energy right now.
His body feels heavy.
Not just tired, but weighed down.
His shoulders ache, his hands still carry that faint sterile smell mixed with something sharper that soap never fully gets rid of. His head is loud with everything that happened of too many voices, too many decisions, too many moments where things could’ve gone wrong.
He drops his keys onto the table, the sound sharper than he intends in the silence.
“Shit…” he mutters under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.
He leans forward slightly, both palms pressing against the edge of the table as he tries to steady himself.
There’s still a tightness in his chest that hasn’t gone away since earlier.
The chaos keeps replaying in pieces when someone screaming for help, a patient going limp for a second too long, the resident freezing beside him, and the way he snapped.
Too harsh.
Too fast.
“Focus,” he had said back then. “Don’t bring your personal crap in here.”
He squeezes his eyes shut briefly now, jaw tightening.
“…Shouldn’t have said that,” he mutters to himself.
Everything just stacked up.
Too many things at once.
Too much pressure with no pause in between.
He straightens slowly, exhaling through his nose, forcing himself to move.
The house is quiet. You’re probably asleep. Aria too.
He turns toward the hallway, already thinking about just getting to bed, maybe standing under the shower for a few minutes first, then he stops.
Aria is standing there.
At the end of the hallway.
Small. Barefoot. Her oversized pajama shirt slipping slightly off one shoulder, her stuffed bunny clutched against her chest.
For a second, he just stares.
“…Aria?” he says, his voice immediately softer, confusion mixing in. “What are you doing up?”
She doesn’t answer right away.
She just looks at him.
Not scared.
Not confused.
Just… looking.
Like she’s trying to understand something.
Then she starts walking toward him.
Slow, small steps, her grip tightening slightly on her bunny.
Michael stays where he is, his chest tightening again, but this time for a completely different reason.
When she reaches him, she doesn’t say anything.
She just leans forward and wraps her arms around him.
It’s not a perfect hug because she’s too small for that, but she presses herself against him anyway, cheek resting against his stomach.
Michael exhales, a little unsteady.
“…Hey, baby,” he murmurs, his hands coming down to rest on her back.
She shifts slightly, one of her small hands letting go of the bunny just enough to reach behind him.
And then, she starts patting his back.
Slow. Gentle.
Up and down in a rhythm that’s not random.
It’s familiar.
Exactly the way you do it when Aria cries. When she gets overwhelmed. When she clings to you and needs to calm down.
Michael freezes for a second when he realizes it.
Then her voice comes, soft and a little sleepy, right against him.
“It’s okay, Papa…”
Her hand keeps moving, steady and careful.
“I hate it too… when it feels too much.”
His throat tightens.
The words don’t sound like something a five-year-old fully understands, but the feeling behind them is clear. She’s not trying to explain anything.
She’s just… helping.
The only way she knows how.
Michael’s arms tighten around her, pulling her closer without thinking.
“…Yeah,” he says quietly, his voice rougher now. “Yeah, it does.”
She presses her face a little more into him, still rubbing his back like she’s making sure it works.
“You came home,” she adds softly.
“I did,” he replies, his hand moving up to cradle the back of her head gently.
“Mama and me will hugging you.”
Something in his chest gives a little at that.
Not breaking, but shifting.
Softening.
He lets out a slow breath, his chin resting lightly against the top of her head.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
She doesn’t respond with words this time, just a small hum, still holding onto him, still doing that gentle, repetitive motion on his back like she’s determined to make him feel better.
And standing there in the quiet hallway, with the house asleep around them and the chaos of the day still lingering faintly in his mind. Michael stays exactly where he is, holding his daughter, letting her comfort him in the simplest way she knows.
Please do not copy my work. If you enjoy it, I’d really appreciate your support by liking and reblogging instead of reposting or copying. Thank you for respecting my writing and giving proper credit. 🤍 xoxo, offthepitt.
warning: night shift doctor bf, soft + clingy cuddles, mild injury (forehead cut), lots of domestic fluff, teasing about marriage & kids, and dangerously high comfort levels :P
Flashback
You didn’t mean to meet him like that.
Not with your hair tied in a messy, uneven bun that was already slipping apart. Not with flour dusting the front of your oversized shirt, and definitely not with a bleeding forehead and the kind of exhaustion that made your whole body feel hollow.
But life had a way of not asking what you preferred.
It had been one of those days.
The kind that started too early and ended too late, yet somehow still wasn’t finished. Closing month at your company always meant chaos numbers that didn’t add up, emails that multiplied the second you replied to one, and a boss who hovered like your life depended on every decimal point.
By the time you finally left the office, your eyes burned from staring at a screen, your shoulders ached from tension, and your head felt too heavy for your neck.
All you wanted, all you wanted was your bed.
Soft blanket. Quiet room. No responsibilities.
But then your stomach growled.
Loud. Insistent. Almost offended.
You sighed the moment you stepped into your apartment, kicking the door shut behind you and leaning against it for a second longer than necessary.
“Please don’t do this tonight…” you mumbled to your own body.
Another growl.
You closed your eyes.
Because of course.
Of course, tonight of all nights, you weren’t just hungry you were craving something specific. Something warm. Something comforting. Something that tasted like home.
And the worst part?
You were the only one who could make it.
You let out a long, dramatic groan, dragging yourself toward the kitchen like a soldier heading into battle.
“Just… quick. I’ll make it quick.”
It didn’t start off so bad.
The moment you began, muscle memory took over. Your hands moved on their own washing, chopping, stirring. The familiar rhythm wrapped around you like a quiet kind of therapy.
The soft clink of utensils. The gentle simmer of heat. The comforting smell slowly filling the kitchen.
It worked.
Little by little, the sharp edge of exhaustion dulled. Your shoulders loosened. Your breathing steadied. You even found yourself humming under your breath, swaying slightly as you moved.
“See?” you muttered. “Worth it.”
You reached for another ingredient, something you’d placed on the higher shelf earlier without thinking.
You stretched on your toes, fingers brushing the edge of the container...
And then,
Thunk.
A sharp, solid impact against your forehead.
You froze.
For a split second, there was nothing.
No sound. No thought.
Then,
Pain.
“Oh shit!”
You stumbled back, hand flying to your forehead instinctively. The sting was immediate, sharp and blooming, and when you pulled your hand away,
Blood.
A thin line at first. Then more.
“…you’ve got to be kidding me.”
You laughed once, breathless and disbelieving, because really? After everything today?
“Really? This is how we’re ending it?”
You pressed a towel to your forehead, wincing as the pressure made the pain spike.
It wasn’t just a small bump. You could feel it the cut, the warmth, the way it refused to stop bleeding properly.
“…okay,” you sighed, already defeated. “Hospital it is.”
The ER at that hour had a strange atmosphere.
Quiet, but not peaceful. Still, but not calm.
A few patients scattered around, the low murmur of voices, the distant sound of something mechanical humming. Fluorescent lights casting everything in a pale glow that made time feel… off.
“Hi,” you said at the front desk, trying to sound more put-together than you looked. “I think I need stitches.”
The nurse glanced up, eyes immediately landing on your forehead.
“Yeah, I’d say so.”
That’s when you saw him.
He was standing a little off to the side at first, flipping through a chart. His posture relaxed but focused, like someone who had done this so many times it was second nature.
But the moment your name was called and you stepped forward. He looked up. And something about the way his attention locked onto you felt… different.
Not rushed. Not distracted.
Present.
“Let’s take a look,” he said, voice low and steady.
Jack Abbot.
You didn’t know his name yet. Not then.
But you noticed everything else.
The slight furrow in his brows as he examined your forehead. The careful way he reached out, not touching you right away, giving you a second to adjust.
“Head versus cabinet?” he guessed.
“…shelf,” you corrected weakly.
He hummed softly. “Ah. Those are dangerous.”
Despite everything, you huffed a small laugh.
“Yeah. Learned that the hard way.”
He gently tilted your chin up, his fingers warm but light, barely there.
“Does it hurt a lot?”
“Only when I exist,” you muttered.
That earned you the faintest curve of a smile.
“I’ll try to minimize that,” he said.
And somehow, you believed him.
The whole process should have been uncomfortable.
Cold antiseptic. The sting of cleaning the wound. The unfamiliar environment.
But with him, it wasn’t.
He worked with quiet efficiency, explaining things as he went without overwhelming you.
“This might sting a bit.”
“Okay.”
“Let me know if it’s too much.”
“It’s fine.”
And when you flinched just slightly, he paused immediately.
“Too much?”
“No, just... unexpected.”
He nodded, adjusting his touch, slower this time.
“There. Better?”
“…yeah.”
You weren’t sure when you started watching him instead of focusing on the pain.
Maybe it was the way he stayed calm. Or how his voice never wavered, even in the silence. Or how he didn’t treat you like just another patient passing through.
“Late night cooking accident?” he asked casually.
“Yeah,” you sighed. “Craving something. Couldn’t sleep without it.”
“Worth it?”
“…jury’s still out.”
Another small smile.
By the time he finished, placing the last stitch carefully, you almost forgot why you were there in the first place.
“All done,” he said.
You blinked. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
He stepped back slightly, giving you space, but his gaze lingered just a second longer than necessary.
“Try to avoid… fighting furniture in the future.”
You rolled your eyes. “No promises.”
“Fair enough.”
There was a pause.
Not awkward.
Just… unfinished.
And then,
“Take care of it,” he added, softer this time.
“I will.”
But somehow, you knew,
This wouldn’t be the last time you saw him.
And yeah, it wasn’t. One visit turned into another. Then conversations. Then coffee. And then nights that stretched longer than they should, filled with laughter that came easier than expected.
And somewhere in between, Jack Abbot became yours.
End of Flashback.
The front door clicked open quietly.
Jack stepped inside, the weight of another long night shift clinging to him like a second skin. He didn’t bother turning on the lights. Didn’t need to.
He knew this place.
Knew home.
Keys dropped onto the table with a soft clatter. Shoes kicked off near the door. Hoodie shrugged off and abandoned somewhere along the way.
He rolled his shoulders back, letting out a slow breath, before dragging a hand through his hair.
Exhausted.
Completely.
But then,
He glanced toward the bedroom.
And everything softened.
You were there.
Curled up under the blanket, one arm tucked under your pillow, the other loosely hugging it. Your breathing slow and even, completely unaware of the world outside.
His world, though?
Right there.
He didn’t hesitate.
Scrubs came off in a tired, careless motion, left wherever they landed. By the time he reached the bed, he was down to his boxers, slipping under the covers with a quiet familiarity.
His arms wrapped around you instantly, pulling you back against his chest like he’d done it a thousand times before.
Because he had.
You stirred, brows knitting slightly before relaxing again.
“…Jack?” you murmured, voice thick with sleep.
“Hey,” he whispered, pressing his face into your hair.
You shifted immediately, turning in his arms like it was instinct, your body fitting against his like it belonged there.
Because it did.
“You’re home…” you breathed.
“Yeah.”
Your fingers curled into his chest lightly, grounding yourself in him.
God, you missed him.
Lately, it felt like you were living in different worlds. Your work pulling you earlier and earlier, his shifts stretching longer into the night.
Passing each other instead of being together.
It was exhausting in a different way.
“Don't wanna go to work today,” you mumbled.
He huffed a quiet laugh, eyes closing as he pulled you closer.
“That’s… tempting.”
“I’m serious,” you insisted softly. “Let’s just stay. All day. Do nothing.”
He tilted his head slightly, brushing his lips against your forehead, right over the faint scar that started it all.
“And when your boss fires you?”
You frowned, barely awake but immediately offended.
“They won’t.”
“Mm,” he hummed. “I doubt that.”
Before you could think, you bit his shoulder.
“Hey!” he groaned, then chuckled. “Violence? First thing in the morning?”
“You started it.”
He grinned against your skin, tightening his hold on you.
“I don’t mind, you know.”
You blinked up at him. “What?”
“You getting fired,” he said casually.
Your eyes narrowed. “Jack.”
“You stay home,” he continued, clearly enjoying this. “Play the little housewife.”
“Excuse me?”
“We’ll have a bunch of kids,” he added, like he was discussing the weather. “But I’ll marry you first, obviously.”
Your entire face burned.
“You’re insane.”
“Mm,” he agreed easily. “But you love me.”
You buried your face in his chest, hiding your smile.
“…unfortunately.”
He laughed softly, the sound warm and full despite his exhaustion.
And then, quieter...
“I wanna stay today with you,” you whispered.
He didn’t answer right away.
Just held you.
Tighter.
“Yeah,” he finally said. “We’ll stay.”
No alarms. No rushing. No schedules.
Just this.
Just you.
Just him.
And the quiet, steady truth that from one messy, accidental night. You found something neither of you ever planned for.
Something worth staying for. It's him.
Please do not copy my work. If you enjoy it, I’d really appreciate your support by liking and reblogging instead of reposting or copying. Thank you for respecting my writing and giving proper credit. 🤍 xoxo, offthepitt.
Warning: This post contains one (1) unfairly charming doctor husband on his lunch break, one (1) wife who thought she was just dropping off food but ended up getting kissed in public, and one (1) poor, unsuspecting resident who accidentally confessed her admiration to said wife. Expect awkward silence, internal screaming, a very smug husband, and one (1) reality check delivered with a casual “meet my wife.” Proceed with caution. 😆😆😆
The sun sits high, warming the concrete outside PTMC, where the usual row of chairs lines the wall near the entrance.
You sit there comfortably, a paper bag of lunch resting beside you and two iced coffees sweating gently in your hands the exact order you and Michael always share. It’s quiet, calm… a rare slow moment in your day.
Aria is off at her friend’s house, happily choosing playtime over tagging along with you. You smiled when she left, but now… you kind of miss her.
Still, this... seeing Michael during his lunch break like this is your your favorite break time for lunch and from Aria little chaos.
You take a small sip of your drink, glancing toward the doors.
Then-
“Hi!”
You turn slightly.
A young woman in scrubs drops into the seat beside you, a little breathless, a little too energetic for someone clearly mid-shift. She smiles politely.
“Sorry, do you mind if I sit here?”
You shake your head softly. “Not at all.”
“Thanks,” she exhales, relaxing. “It’s chaos inside today.”
You chuckle lightly. “Busy?”
“Always,” she says, rolling her eyes, but there’s excitement there. “I’m new, so it’s like… ten times more intense.”
Ah.
That explains it.
She starts talking and she really doesn’t stop. About the patients, the pace, the pressure, the way PTMC works, the hierarchy, the cases, the late nights…
You nod along, humming here and there.
Because… well.
You already know all of it.
Your husband practically lives in that building.
“And the doctors here?” she continues, leaning a little closer like she’s about to share a secret. “Some of them are terrifying. Like, actually terrifying.”
You smile faintly. “I can imagine.”
“But...” she brightens instantly, “there’s one that’s not.”
Oh?
You already know where this is going.
“Dr. Robinavitch,” she says, and there it is that soft shift in her tone. Slightly shy. Slightly flustered. “He’s… really amazing.”
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too much.
“Is he?” you ask casually.
She nods quickly. “Yeah! He’s kinda calm, even when things get really bad he can managed it. And he explains things without making you feel stupid, well sometimes.... depends with who he talked with... you know? Like, he actually teaches.”
You hum, pretending to consider. “That’s rare.”
“Right?” she laughs, then lowers her voice again. “And he’s really cool under pressure. There was this one time a patient crashed, and everything just went...” she gestures dramatically, “so crazy. I almost got hit trying to move around, and he just pulled me back so fast.”
Her cheeks flush a little.
“He basically saved me,” she adds, softer now.
You glance down at your coffee, hiding your smile.
“Oh,” you murmur. “Sounds like a good doctor.”
“He really is,” she says, then after a tiny pause “And, um… yeah. He’s kind of…”
She trails off, clearly embarrassed.
You decide to be nice.
“…kind of?” you prompt gently.
She groans, covering her face briefly. “Okay, fine. Maybe I have a tiny crush. But don’t tell anyone, oh my
God.”
You laugh softly. “Your secret’s safe.”
This is… entertaining, you have to admit.
Before you can say anything else,
The doors open.
You don’t even need to look immediately.
You feel it.
But the resident does.
Her entire posture straightens. “Oh my God! He’s here.”
You glance up just as she leans closer, whispering quickly, “He probably noticed I wasn’t inside. Maybe he came looking for me...”
You almost choke on your drink.
Because there he is.
Michael steps out, eyes scanning briefly until they land on you.
And just like that…
Everything else disappears.
His expression softens instantly, a quiet warmth replacing the clinical focus he carries inside. He walks straight toward you, not even glancing at the girl beside you.
“Hey,” he says, voice low, familiar.
Before you can even respond, he leans down and kisses you.
Soft. Natural. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“Hi, baby.”
Silence.
You can feel the shock radiating from beside you.
You smile up at him. “Hi. I brought lunch.”
“I figured,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to the bag, then back to you.
Only then does he seem to register the presence next to you.
He turns slightly.
The resident looks like she’s just seen her entire reality collapse.
“Oh,” Michael says easily, one hand settling at your shoulder. “You’ve met my wife?”
The girl’s mouth opens.
Closes.
Opens again.
“…your-your wife?”
You finally let yourself smile properly now, offering her a small, friendly nod.
“Hi.”
Her face goes completely red.
“I- oh my God- I didn’t... I mean... I was just-”
Michael raises a brow slightly, clearly amused now, but says nothing.
You gently rescue her.
“She was just telling me how great you are,” you say sweetly.
Michael hums. “Smart.”
You nudge him lightly. “Don’t start.”
The resident looks like she wants the ground to swallow her whole.
“I’m so sorry,” she blurts out. “I didn’t know-”
“It’s okay,” you reassure her. “Really.”
She nods rapidly, already halfway standing. “I should- I have to go back inside... ”
“Yeah,” Michael says casually. “Probably a good idea.”
She practically flees.
The moment she’s gone
You turn to him, raising a brow.
“Really popular, huh?”
He smirks faintly. “I don’t pay attention.”
“Mhm,” you hum. “She said you saved her.”
“I did my job.”
You tilt your head. “She also said you’re really cool.”
He leans closer, voice dropping. “You think so?”
You smile, just a little.
“I married you, didn’t I?”
You watch her go, then look back at Michael.
“…You’re someone’s workplace crush.”
He sighs, already opening the food container. “Tragic.”
You laugh. “She said you saved her.”
He shrugs. “Part of the job.”
You nudge him lightly. “Hero.”
He glances at you, something softer in his eyes now.
“Only for you.”
Please do not copy my work. If you enjoy it, I’d really appreciate your support by liking and reblogging instead of reposting or copying. Thank you for respecting my writing and giving proper credit. 🤍 xoxo, offthepitt.
Warning: Brief mention of mommy issues / parental trauma, emotional confrontation, and sensitive family dynamics. Please read with care if topics related to complicated parent-child relationships are difficult for you. This scene includes a moment where the term is used during a tense situation and may feel uncomfortable for some readers.
Author Note: This is so funny because Michael literally got a lot of hate from people in my country... well, from those who watched The Pitt here, especially because of that scene with Mohan. 😭 I can’t deal with it. I seriously can’t deal with it. The comments are absolutely hilarious because everyone is just dragging him for it. Like, people were not holding back at all. The way they were calling him out and roasting him in the replies had me laughing so hard. Honestly, the reaction from viewers here is almost as entertaining as the scene itself. 🤣😂👌
The call came in the middle of the afternoon while you were in the kitchen, rinsing strawberries for Aria’s snack.
You almost ignored it at first, thinking it was just another unknown number or some automated reminder. But when you glanced at the screen and saw Dana’s name, you answered immediately.
“Hey, Dana.”
Her voice came through a little hesitant, which was unusual for her.
“Hey… um. Quick question.”
You frowned slightly, leaning your hip against the counter.
“Okay?”
There was a small pause.
“Did you and Michael have a fight recently?”
Your brows knit together instantly.
“No,” you answered without hesitation. “Why?”
Another pause.
Then Dana sighed quietly.
“That’s what I thought.”
Now the uneasiness crept into your chest.
“What happened?”
Dana sounded careful now, like she was choosing her words.
“There was… a situation at the hospital earlier.”
You turned the water off, fully paying attention.
“What kind of situation?”
“Well,” Dana started, “Dr. Mohan had a patient crash unexpectedly during a procedure earlier. It got a little chaotic and she panicked for a second.”
You listened closely.
“Michael stepped in and helped stabilize the situation,” Dana continued. “But afterward… things got tense.”
Your stomach sank a little.
“Tense how?”
Dana exhaled slowly.
“He snapped at her.”
You blinked.
Michael do snapped at people at work, but never make Dana called you in the middle of their work hours. Never.
“What did he say?”
Another short pause.
Dana sounded slightly uncomfortable when she finally answered.
“He told her she needed to get a grip and stop projecting her… ‘mommy issues’ onto every stressful moment.”
Your entire body went still.
“…He said what?”
“I know,” Dana said quickly. “I know. That’s why I called.”
You set the phone down on the counter speaker so you could press your fingers to your temple.
“He actually said that to her?”
“Yes.”
You closed your eyes for a second.
Because that wasn’t just harsh.
That was cruel.
And the worst part was… Michael knew exactly what those words meant.
You swallowed slowly.
“Was Samira okay?”
“She held it together,” Dana replied. “But you could tell it hit a nerve.”
Of course it did.
Dana hesitated again before adding quietly, “It wasn’t like him.”
You rubbed your forehead.
“No. It wasn’t.”
“Anyway,” Dana continued gently, “I just wanted to check if something was going on at home.”
You sighed.
“No. We’re good. We didn’t fight or anything.”
“Okay.”
You stayed quiet for a moment before saying, “Thanks for telling me.”
“Someone needed to,” Dana replied softly.
After you hung up, you stood there in the kitchen for a long moment, staring at the counter.
Aria was in the living room watching cartoons, humming to herself.
And suddenly Dana’s words replayed in your head.
Mommy issues.
The anger came slowly.
Because Michael wasn’t just some random doctor throwing out careless words.
He was a father.
A father to a little girl who adored her mother more than anything.
A father who knew exactly how sensitive those kinds of wounds could be.
And yet he still said it.
That night, the house settled into its usual quiet rhythm.
Aria went to bed after her usual bedtime story and a dramatic negotiation about needing “just one more hug.”
You finished cleaning the kitchen while Michael showered upstairs.
Neither of you had talked much during dinner. He seemed tired, a little distant, but you didn’t bring it up yet.
Not in front of Aria.
But once the house went quiet and the two of you were finally in your bedroom, you closed the door behind you and turned toward him.
Michael was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on a clean shirt.
“Dana called me today.”
He looked up immediately.
“Dana?”
Your arms crossed instinctively.
“She told me what happened at the hospital.”
Michael froze slightly.
You watched the exact moment he realized what you meant.
His shoulders sank a little.
“…She told you.”
“Yes.”
Silence filled the room for a few seconds.
Then you stepped closer.
“You told Dr. Mohan she had mommy issues.”
It wasn’t a question.
Michael rubbed the back of his neck.
“I shouldn’t have said it like that.”
“No,” you replied sharply. “You shouldn’t have said it at all.”
He didn’t argue.
Which somehow made it worse.
“You have a daughter, Michael,” you continued, your voice tightening. “A daughter who worships the ground I walk on.”
His eyes lifted to yours.
“And you know exactly what it means when someone throws around something like that,” you added.
Michael sighed heavily, looking down at his hands.
“I know.”
“Then why would you say it?”
He stayed quiet for a moment.
When he finally spoke, his voice was lower.
“It was a bad moment.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
You watched him carefully, waiting.
Finally he admitted quietly, “It was a stressful case. She froze up and the patient almost coded.”
Your jaw tightened.
“So you humiliated her.”
Michael closed his eyes briefly.
“I shouldn’t have.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
The anger in your chest softened slightly when you saw the guilt written clearly across his face.
You exhaled slowly.
“You need to apologize,” you said firmly.
“I will.”
“Not one of your quick professional apologies,” you added. “A real one.”
Michael nodded immediately.
“I will.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
You studied him for another moment before your shoulders finally relaxed a little.
“You’re better than that,” you said quietly.
Michael looked at you again.
“I know.”
The room went quiet.
Then he stood up slowly and stepped closer.
“You’re mad at me,” he said gently.
“Yes.”
He nodded like he deserved it.
Then, carefully, he wrapped his arms around you. You didn’t resist. Your forehead rested against his chest while his arms held you close.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
Finally he murmured softly, “Thanks for calling me out.”
You huffed quietly.
“Someone has to.”
His hand rubbed slowly up and down your back.
“I’ll fix it tomorrow,” he promised.
You leaned into the hug a little more.
“Good.”
And after a moment, the tension slowly faded as the two of you stood there together in the quiet bedroom, holding each other until the anger softened into something calmer.
Please do not copy my work. If you enjoy it, I’d really appreciate your support by liking and reblogging instead of reposting or copying. Thank you for respecting my writing and giving proper credit. 🤍 xoxo, offthepitt.
can I request an aria fic where she gets injured and needs to go to PTMC or mama robinavitch gets injured and aria helped her call help but either way, papa Robby gets so nervous about it
BABEEEEEE, I’ve actually had this type of scenario sitting in my drafts for a long time. There are three different versions of it, but I haven’t posted any of them yet. <///3
Let me do a little revision and polishing first before I post it, okay?! I want to make sure it’s just right before sharing it with you all. 🤗🫶🏻
Daily life in Michael Robinavitch’s little family is simple and warm. At five years old, Aria Robinavitch is his perfect copy-paste; observing, supervising, and following his habits with serious focus. She mirrors the way he moves, reacts, and cares, like a tiny version of him. And just like Michael, Aria is a total simp for her mama soft, clingy, and full of admiration. She learned love by watching her father first.
GUYSSSS!!! Since Michael is leaving for his sabbatical, I’m also working on a few chapters of the Mini-Me series featuring Sabbatical Michael! It’s going to focus on Michael spending more time at home, helping his wife aka mama and dealing with his little menace, Aria Robinavitch. 🤗 Just imagine him trying to keep up with Aria all day while also being the most devoted husband ever… chaos, softness, and lots of family moments incoming. SO JUST WAITTtttt 😝 More is coming! 🫶🏻
Oh I just know Aria has the best parents and she feels so loved by them 🥹
Obviously! Both papa and mama love her so much. She’s the daughter who made them parents in a whole new way. Well, Michael already had Jake as his first, of course, but Aria is the one who let them experience becoming parents together.
Because of that, she’s incredibly special to both of them. They pour so much love into her, making sure she grows up surrounded by warmth, patience, and care. Every little thing they do is with the hope that Aria will grow up feeling safe, cherished, and deeply loved. 🥹🤍
