When your new neighbor, Jack Abbot, moves in, you do what you always do, introduce yourself, apologize in advance, and brace for the look people get when they meet your nonverbal autistic son. But Jack doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t adjust. He just… stays. Through storms, routines, and the nights that get loud, he learns in your world the only way that matters: by showing up, again and again.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5
Small Is Still Forward
When you stop answering your phone, Jack tells himself you’re just tired. But the silence stretches too long. He finds you in bed, unmoving, exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. Instead of panic, instead of anger, he chooses patience. One glass of water. One shower. One steady breath at a time. A story about being seen at your lowest and loved there anyway.
Permission to Fall Apart
When your anxiety spikes and your brain tells you to run, you reach for the door before you can think. Jack doesn’t stop you. He just holds the moment steady, long enough for you to come back to yourself. No fixing. No shame. Just a quiet kind of care, and permission to fall apart.
Back on His Feet
After losing his leg in the war, Jack Abbot begins the long work of learning to walk again. The only problem is that somewhere between the bad days, the victories, and the parallel bars, he falls in love with the one person helping him stand.
Micheal ‘Robby’ Robinavitch:
The Things That Stay
You’ve been coming to the ED long enough that everyone jokes you’re VIP. Dana knows exactly how to take care of you and Robby always makes sure he’s your doctor. Through pain, fear, and a quiet kind of love neither of you fully say out loud, you keep finding small pieces of beauty in the world. Long after you’re gone, Robby is left trying to believe you.
Part 1, Part 2
Is it Still Casual Now?
After months of pretending this is casual, one quiet morning changes everything when Robby finally stays. What starts as coffee in the kitchen becomes the confession neither of you has been brave enough to say out loud.
Don’t Date the Three P’s
There’s an unofficial rule in the Pitt emergency department: don’t date the three P’s. But after one too many handoffs and one shift that leaves you both lingering a little longer than usual, Robby decides breaking the rule might be worth it.
What Happens in Vegas Never Stays in Vegas
After a drunken Vegas wedding, Robby disappears by morning, leaving you with nothing but a ring and a mistake that was supposed to stay in Vegas. But when a pregnancy and state paperwork force you to track down the husband who vanished, Robby learns the truth and this time, walking away isn’t so easy.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7
Paper Rings
You thought the paper rings were just a joke. Robby, apparently, did not.
Liability
Alternate Ending Here
After Pittfest, everyone at The Pitt changes, but Robby changes the most. He used to be the mentor who could catch you before you fell. Now he’s colder, sharper, and crueler, acting like cruelty is the same thing as teaching. But on the Fourth of July, when Robby uses the part of you he once helped save against you, you end up on the wrong side of the hospital roof railing, and he’s forced to see just how far he pushed you.
You & I
After Pittfest, you notice Robby quietly slipping away from the others and ask to walk him home. What starts as a silent walk becomes one night of shared grief, small comforts, and the fragile promise that neither of you has to survive it alone.
Animal Kingdom
Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody:
He Would Be There
At a party at Smurf’s house, one bad drink changes everything. Pope notices before anyone else does and once he does, he doesn’t leave your side.
peace
Would it be enough if he could never give you peace?
Summary: Would it be enough he if could never give you peace?
WC: 7K
Tags: Animal Shelter Volunteer Pope, One Shot, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fear of Being Loved, Romantic Angst with Happy Ending, Inspired by peace by Taylor Swift
Andrew learned the names of the difficult dogs first.
Not the puppies. Not the friendly ones that bounced against kennel doors with wagging tails and hopeful eyes. Not the dogs volunteers fought over during walks.
The difficult ones.
The biters. The barkers. The ones who flattened themselves into corners and growled at anyone who got too close.
You noticed that before you noticed anything else.
Andrew Cody had been volunteering at the shelter for nearly three weeks before either of you exchanged more than ten words. Every Tuesday. Every Thursday. Two o’clock sharp.
He’d sign his name on the volunteer sheet, grab a bucket and cleaning supplies, and disappear into the kennel rows. No small talk. No introductions. No standing around the coffee station discussing weekend plans like the other volunteers.
Just work.
At first, you barely paid attention to him.
The shelter always had volunteers coming and going. College students looking for hours. Retirees looking for purpose. People who stayed a month and disappeared. You assumed Andrew would be the same. Then one afternoon, a German shepherd named Tank proved you wrong.
Tank had been returned three times. The first family said he was too anxious. The second said he was destructive. The third brought him back after he snapped at their teenage son. By the time Tank arrived at your shelter, he had a bright red warning sticker on his kennel file and a reputation that followed him into every room.
Nobody liked walking him. Nobody volunteered for his kennel. Nobody expected much from him. Including Tank.
You were carrying fresh water bowls down the kennel row when barking erupted from the far end. Loud. Aggressive. The kind that made visitors jump. Tank. Again.
A new volunteer, a teenager completing community service hours, stood frozen outside the kennel door.
“He’s gonna bite me,” the kid said.
“You don’t have to take him,” you replied.
The teenager looked relieved.
Tank kept barking. Throwing himself against the chain-link door. You were already reaching for the clipboard to mark him as skipped when another voice spoke.
“I’ll take him.”
You looked up. Andrew stood a few feet away, holding a leash.
The teenager handed it over immediately.
“You sure?” you asked.
Andrew nodded once. That was it. No bravado. No speech. Just a nod.
You expected a struggle. Expected barking. Expected chaos. Instead, Andrew crouched outside the kennel. Not opening the door. Not reaching inside. Just sitting.
Tank barked himself hoarse for nearly five minutes. Andrew waited. The dog barked. Andrew waited. The dog paced. Andrew waited. Finally, Tank stopped. Not because he’d calmed down. Because he got tired. For the first time, silence settled between them.
Andrew looked at him. Tank looked back.
And then Andrew said, “Yeah.”
Nothing else. Just that. Yeah.
Like Tank had told him something. Like he’d understood it. You frowned. The dog blinked. Andrew held out the leash. Another minute passed. Then another. Eventually, Tank stepped forward. Not much. Just enough.
Andrew clipped the leash on. No struggle. No drama. No barking. Then he stood and walked away with eighty pounds of formerly impossible German shepherd trotting quietly beside him.
You stared after them.
“What the hell?” muttered another volunteer.
You didn’t have an answer. Neither did Tank. But after that day, Andrew became harder to ignore.
You started noticing things. The way he always arrived early. The way broken things somehow stopped being broken after he touched them. The way he remembered every dog’s name after hearing it once. The way frightened animals followed him around the yard like he carried some invisible signal only they could hear.
Mostly, though, you noticed the patience.
Everybody talked about patience like it was kindness. With Andrew, it felt different. It felt like recognition. Like he understood fear because he’d lived with it long enough to recognize it in someone else. Or something else.
One Thursday afternoon, that understanding got him bitten. Hard.
You were restocking food bins when shouting erupted near the intake kennels. Not panicked shouting. Surprised shouting. You rounded the corner to find three volunteers standing around Daisy’s kennel. Daisy had arrived that morning. Three-legged pit bull. Recently rescued. Terrified of everyone. Especially men.
Andrew stood outside the kennel holding a leash. Blood ran down the back of his hand. A bite. Not severe. But enough.
“Oh my God,” one volunteer said.
“Jesus—”
“Get the first-aid kit.”
The room filled with voices. Questions. Concern. Noise. Andrew ignored all of it. His eyes remained fixed on Daisy.
The dog had retreated to the far corner of the kennel. Trembling. Ears pinned back. Terrified. Not of what she’d done. Of what might happen next.
Andrew noticed immediately. “Don’t.”
The word cut through the room. Everyone stopped.
“Don’t what?” asked a volunteer.
Andrew nodded toward Daisy. “Don’t yell at her.”
Nobody had been. But somehow the entire room understood what he meant. Don’t be angry. Don’t punish her. Don’t make this worse.
Blood dripped from his hand onto the concrete. Andrew barely looked at it.
“She’s scared.” His voice softened. Directed entirely at the dog. “That’s all.”
The kennel fell quiet.
You looked at Daisy. Then at Andrew. Then back again. For a strange moment, neither of them seemed dangerous. Just frightened. And somehow that realization stayed with you long after the bite healed.
—
The bite should have healed quickly. It probably did. The mark disappeared from the back of Andrew’s hand within a couple of weeks. The impression it left behind lasted much longer.
After that day, you started paying attention. Not intentionally. At least that’s what you told yourself. You weren’t watching for him when you arrived each morning. You weren’t checking the volunteer sheet to see if his name was signed in. You weren’t noticing when the parking space near the maintenance shed was empty.
Except you were. A little. Enough that on Tuesdays and Thursdays, your eyes automatically drifted toward the front desk around two o’clock. Enough that you noticed if he was late. Enough that you knew he was never late.
The shelter ran on routines. Feeding schedules. Medication charts. Walking rotations. People were harder. Volunteers came and went. Staff burned out. Life happened.
Andrew stayed.
Every Tuesday. Every Thursday. Two o’clock sharp. Like clockwork. And somehow, things worked better when he was there.
You’d spend twenty minutes fighting with a jammed kennel latch. Turn around to grab a tool. Turn back. And it would be fixed. A leaking faucet that maintenance hadn’t gotten to yet would suddenly stop dripping. A broken gate would swing smoothly again. A stubborn printer would start working after Andrew wandered past it.
Half the time you never even saw him do it. You’d just notice the problem had disappeared. He never mentioned it. Never waited for thanks. He just noticed things and fixed them, like it was as natural as breathing.
One afternoon, nearly two months after the bite incident, you found him sitting on the floor in the storage room. At first, you thought he was hurt. The sight was strange enough to stop you in the doorway. Andrew sat cross-legged beside a stack of donated blankets, staring at something in his lap.
You stepped closer. Then laughed. A tiny gray kitten glared back at you. The kitten couldn’t have been more than six weeks old. One ear flopped sideways. Its eyes were too big for its face. Its entire body fit comfortably in Andrew’s hands. And it looked furious about it.
“What are you doing?”
Andrew looked up. Then down at the kitten. Then back at you.
“He doesn’t like anybody.”
The kitten immediately hissed.
You snorted. “Clearly.”
Andrew nodded.
The kitten hissed again.
“He’s been doing that for twenty minutes.”
“Why are you sitting here with him?”
Another shrug. Like the answer was obvious.
“Nobody else would.”
The kitten attempted to climb onto his shoulder. Failed spectacularly. Slid into his lap. Andrew steadied him with one careful hand. You felt something strange settle in your chest. Not romance. Just curiosity. Because most people would have laughed. Most people would have walked away. Andrew had apparently devoted half an hour of his afternoon to keeping an angry kitten company.
“You know he hates you, right?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah.”
The kitten hissed again.
Andrew nodded toward him. “See?”
You laughed.
This time Andrew actually smiled. Small. Brief. Gone almost immediately. But real. It was the first genuine smile you’d seen from him. For some reason, it felt like discovering a secret.
—
The first real conversation happened because of rain.
Southern California rarely got enough of it to cause problems. When it did, everything stopped functioning properly. The shelter parking lot flooded. The roof leaked near the laundry room. Half the volunteers called out. By six o’clock, only three people remained. You. Andrew. And Ruth. Ruth left at six-thirty.
The storm got worse. You were balancing paperwork, medication records, and tomorrow’s intake forms when the lights flickered.
“Don’t,” you said.
Andrew stood on a ladder near the electrical panel.
“What?”
“The lights.”
The lights flickered again. You pointed your pen at the ceiling.
“If the power goes out, that’s fate telling me the paperwork can wait until tomorrow.”
Andrew looked down from the ladder. “No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“No chance.”
You narrowed your eyes.
He went back to the electrical panel. “You’d stay.”
“I absolutely would not.”
“You would.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You always finish the paperwork.”
“I could leave it.”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
Andrew glanced down at the clipboard in your arms. “You brought two pens.”
You looked at the pens clipped to the top of the clipboard. Then back at him. “One could die.”
His mouth twitched. “There’s another one behind your ear.”
You froze. Then slowly reached up. Your fingers brushed the pen tucked there.
Andrew turned back to the panel like knowing you that well meant nothing.
You laughed hard enough to nearly drop your clipboard. The sound surprised both of you. Because Andrew immediately looked away. Not uncomfortable. Just… startled. Like he wasn’t used to being the reason someone laughed.
The realization made your chest ache unexpectedly.
—
The friendship happened so slowly neither of you noticed it.
One day he was a volunteer. Then he was Andrew. Then he was somehow part of your routine.
You started saving him coffee if you stopped before work. He always pretended he didn’t expect it. The lie got less convincing every week.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“You say that every time.”
“I mean it every time.”
“You drank half of it before I sat down.”
He paused. “That’s unrelated.”
You laughed.
Andrew looked pleased with himself. Not enough to smile. But close. Very close.
The more time you spent around him, the more you noticed other things too. Not just what he fixed. What he remembered.
Andrew remembered everything.
Which dogs hated thunder. Which ones needed their bowls lifted higher. Which volunteers forgot to latch the side gate. Which brand of creamer you pretended not to care about.
Andrew collected details quietly. And somehow, without meaning to, you started wanting to be one of them.
—
The first time he walked you to your car, you didn’t think much of it.
The shelter closed late. You grabbed your keys. Andrew happened to be heading outside too. The parking lot was mostly empty.
You chatted about a dog adoption event scheduled for the weekend. Normal conversation. Nothing special.
At your car, you unlocked the door. Andrew stopped behind you, hands in his pockets.
“You don’t have to wait.”
“I know.”
“You’re waiting.”
“Yeah.”
You turned, confused. “For what?”
His gaze moved to the empty parking lot, then back to you. “For you to be okay.”
You blinked.
Andrew nodded. Then turned and walked toward his truck.
You stood there staring after him. Nobody had ever made your safety sound so matter-of-fact.
The next week, it happened again. And the week after that. Eventually you realized he wasn’t walking himself to the parking lot. He was walking you.
Not making a big deal out of it. Not asking permission. Not expecting thanks. Just making sure you got there safely. Like he’d decided you mattered.
And once Andrew Cody decided something mattered, he tended to stick with it.
—
The first time you saw him angry, it wasn’t directed at you.
A woman stormed into the shelter carrying a small terrier mix. She was already yelling before she reached the desk. Complaining about the dog. Complaining about the shelter. Complaining about how nobody wanted to help her.
Every answer you gave seemed to make her louder.
You tried to explain the surrender process. Tried to stay polite. Tried to de-escalate. Nothing worked.
The woman leaned across the counter. Voice rising. Finger pointed directly at your face. For a moment you weren’t sure what to do.
Then the room went quiet.
Not because she stopped. Because Andrew had appeared beside you. You hadn’t even seen him walk over. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t threaten her. Didn’t posture.
He simply looked at her. And said, very calmly, “You’re done yelling at her.”
The woman froze. The entire room froze. Andrew wasn’t loud. That somehow made it worse.
There was something in his expression. Something absolute. The kind of certainty that made people rethink their decisions.
The woman sputtered another complaint.
Andrew didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “Either surrender the dog respectfully or leave.”
Silence. A long silence. Then the woman sat down. Just like that. The fight drained out of her.
You stared.
Andrew turned back toward you. Asked if you were okay. Then immediately started helping with paperwork as though nothing unusual had happened.
No victory lap. No smugness. No acknowledgment that he’d just shut down a situation everyone else had been struggling with for ten minutes.
That was the first time you started understanding the rumors.
Because there were rumors. You’d heard them in pieces. Whispers from longtime volunteers. Comments that stopped when you walked into a room.
You hadn’t grown up here. Hadn’t lived in the area long enough to know the history everyone else seemed to share. All you knew was that Andrew Cody had a past. People talked about his family in lowered voices. There were stories. Some true. Some exaggerated. Most of them impossible to piece together.
But standing beside him that day, watching an angry stranger back down without another word, you understood why those stories survived.
Not because he was cruel. Not because he was violent. Because there was something undeniably dangerous beneath the surface. Something controlled. Something restrained. Something that chose, every single day, not to be what people expected.
Later that same week, a man arrived looking to surrender a dog.
An elderly lab mix. Gray around the muzzle. Arthritis in both hips.
The owner complained about vet bills the entire intake process. Complained about medication costs. Complained about the dog’s accidents. Complained about how much work he was.
The dog sat quietly beside him. Tail wagging. Still trying to be good.
You saw Andrew standing across the room. Silent. Still. Listening.
The owner finally left. The dog watched the door close behind him. Waited. Waited some more. Then slowly sat down. The room fell quiet. Andrew walked over. Knelt beside the dog. Rested one hand against his neck.
The dog leaned immediately into the contact. Trusting. Hopeful. Heartbroken.
Andrew’s jaw tightened. You saw it. Not the sharp, controlled anger from earlier. Something quieter this time. Older. Grief, maybe. Or recognition.
Then the old lab rested his head in Andrew’s lap. And just like that, the anger disappeared. Gone beneath grief. Beneath tenderness. Beneath something so heartbreakingly gentle it made your throat tighten.
That was the day you started wondering if the world had ever bothered to learn the difference. Between what Andrew was capable of and who he chose to be.
—
The first text arrived on a Sunday.
Your phone buzzed while you were grocery shopping. A picture message. No words. Just an image.
Daisy. Covered in mud. Holding a tennis ball twice the size of her head.
You laughed immediately.
A second message appeared.
Andrew: Found contraband.
You stared at the screen. Then at the grocery store aisle. Then back at the screen.
Before you could stop yourself, you smiled.
You typed back before you could think better of it.
You: Armed and dangerous.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Then Andrew replied:
Andrew: Very.
You laughed alone in the grocery aisle.
And somehow, without either of you noticing when it happened, Andrew Cody had become someone you were always willing to answer.
—
The texts did not become constant.
They became familiar. That was different. A photo from Andrew every now and then. Daisy muddy. Tank asleep against the fence. The old lab stealing treats with no remorse.
A reply from you. A dry answer from him. Sometimes nothing for hours. Sometimes nothing until the next day, when he’d walk into the shelter and continue the conversation like time had simply paused between you.
It should have been awkward. It wasn’t. By then, you had learned that Andrew did not move through closeness the way other people did.
He did not rush toward it. He circled it. Tested it. Stepped close enough to feel the warmth, then back again before it could burn him.
So you let him. You didn’t chase. You didn’t push. You only stayed steady enough that, eventually, he started trusting the space beside you.
The first time he touched you on purpose, it was barely anything.
You were both in the yard after closing, trying to convince Daisy to come inside. She had decided the patch of dirt beneath the eucalyptus tree belonged to her now and no amount of calling, bribing, or dignity seemed likely to change her mind.
“She’s ignoring us,” you said.
Andrew stood beside you, leash in hand. “She’s ignoring you.”
You looked at him. “She’s ignoring both of us.”
“No.”
“Andrew.”
“She looked at me.”
“She looked at you because you have turkey in your pocket.”
His eyes flicked to yours. “That counts.”
You laughed.
Daisy, unimpressed by your laughter, rolled onto her side in the dirt.
You sighed and stepped forward. “Fine. I’ll get her.”
“She’ll run.”
“She has three legs.”
“She’s fast.”
“She is not faster than me.”
Andrew looked at you for a long second.
Then, dryly, “She might be.”
You turned to glare at him, and your foot slipped in the damp grass. Not badly. Not enough to fall. But enough that his hand closed around your elbow before you could catch yourself.
Quick.
Firm.
Warm.
You froze.
So did he.
His fingers stayed there for one second longer than necessary. Then two.
Daisy barked once from under the tree, like she had opinions about the tension.
Andrew let go first. “Careful,” he said. His voice had gone low.
You looked at the place his hand had been. Then at him.
“I thought I was slower than the dog.”
His mouth twitched. “You are.”
But he didn’t move away. Neither did you. And for the first time, the silence between you felt less like comfort and more like something waiting to happen.
—
After that, touching became dangerous.
Not because either of you did much of it. Because you didn’t. Because every small contact started to matter more than it should.
His shoulder brushing yours in the storage room. Your fingers grazing when you passed him a leash.
His hand at the small of your back once, guiding you around a puddle near the intake gate before he seemed to realize what he’d done and dropped it immediately.
You never called attention to it. Neither did he. But something changed.
Andrew started standing closer. You started letting him.
On slow evenings, after the dogs were fed and the last volunteers had gone home, the two of you sat outside on the bench near the exercise yard.
Not every night. Never planned. It happened naturally, which somehow made it more intimate.
You’d finish locking up. Andrew would still be there, wiping down tools or checking the back gate. You’d sit for a minute because the night air felt good after hours of kennel noise. He’d sit too.
At first with a careful distance between you. Then less. Then none at all.
One night, your knees touched. Neither of you moved. The yard was quiet except for Tank pacing along the fence, ears perked toward the street.
Andrew sat with his elbows on his thighs, hands loose between his knees.
“You okay?” you asked.
He glanced over. “Yeah.”
“You got quiet.”
“I’m always quiet.”
“Quieter.”
He considered that. Then looked back toward the yard.
“Didn’t know if I should move.”
Your heart gave a soft, painful twist. You looked down. Your knee was still pressed against his.
“Do you want to?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately. Too honest to be casual.
Andrew’s jaw tightened after he said it, like he wished he could drag the word back and inspect it before handing it to you.
You kept your voice gentle. “Then don’t.”
He didn’t.
Andrew looked back toward the yard. Tank had finally settled near the fence. For a long moment neither of you spoke. But the tension didn’t leave.
The two of you sat like that for twenty minutes. Knees touching. Hands separate. Neither of you brave enough to reach further. Neither of you wanting to leave.
—
The first time you went somewhere together that had nothing to do with the shelter, Andrew looked like he expected to be caught doing something wrong.
It was your idea. Technically. The shelter had closed early for fumigation, and you’d both ended up standing beside your cars in broad daylight with nowhere you were required to be.
It felt strange. Seeing him outside the routine. No kennels. No barking. No clipboard. Just Andrew in the parking lot with his keys in his hand and uncertainty written all over him.
You could have said goodnight. He probably expected you to.
Instead you said, “Have you eaten?”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “No.”
“Do you want to?”
“With you?”
The question came out so bluntly that you almost smiled.
You didn’t, because he looked like the answer mattered more than he wanted it to.
“Yes,” you said. “With me.”
Andrew looked toward the road. Then back at you.
“Okay.”
You picked a diner ten minutes away because it was quiet and familiar and unlikely to ask anything from either of you.
Andrew sat across from you in the booth, shoulders tight, hands wrapped around a glass of water he hadn’t touched.
“You don’t have to look so suspicious,” you said.
“I don’t.”
You smiled.
He looked at you then. Really looked. And something in his face shifted. Not a smile. Something softer. Like he was pleased he’d made you do that.
The waitress came by. You ordered first. Andrew ordered second, short and simple.
When she left, he looked relieved.
“You okay?” you asked.
He nodded. Then, after a moment, shook his head.
“I don’t do this much.”
“Eat?”
His mouth twitched. “Go places.”
“With people?”
“Yeah.”
You leaned your arms on the table. “That’s okay.”
He studied you for a long second. “Is it?”
The question had weight under it. Too much weight for pancakes and bad diner coffee.
You answered carefully. “Yes.”
His thumb moved once against the side of the glass.
“I don’t always know what I’m supposed to do.”
“You don’t have to perform dinner correctly, Andrew.”
He looked down. “People notice.”
“People notice a lot of things.”
“I notice when they notice.”
That hurt. Quietly. You imagined him moving through the world collecting every glance, every pause, every shift in tone. Filing them away as proof.
You softened your voice. “I’ll tell you if something matters.”
His eyes lifted. “What?”
“If you say something that hurts me, I’ll tell you. If I need something, I’ll tell you. If I’m uncomfortable, I’ll tell you.”
He stared at you.
You shrugged. “I’m not going to make you guess.”
For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then his shoulders lowered by maybe half an inch. Not much. Enough.
“Okay,” he said.
And this time, okay sounded like relief.
—
Dinner became another thing neither of you named.
Not dating. Not officially. Just sometimes, after late shifts or early closings, you ended up somewhere together. A diner. A taco stand. The beach parking lot with takeout balanced between you on the hood of his truck.
You learned that Andrew ate slowly unless he was nervous. That he hated cilantro but would forget to ask for no cilantro unless you reminded him. That he always sat facing the door. That he noticed exits without seeming to. That he didn’t like crowded places, but tolerated them longer when you sat beside him instead of across from him.
He learned things about you too. How you picked onions off everything but pretended you weren’t picky. How you got quiet when you were tired. How you always said “I’m fine” too quickly when you weren’t. How you hated asking for help but accepted it better if he didn’t make a production out of offering.
The first time his hand found yours, you were sitting in his truck after dinner, watching the ocean move black and silver under the moon.
Neither of you had meant to stay that long. The food was gone. The windows were fogged slightly at the edges. The radio was on low, more static than song. Your hand rested on the seat between you. So did his.
Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. For a long time, neither of you moved. Then his pinky brushed yours. Accidentally. Maybe.
You turned your hand over. Open. Waiting.
Andrew stared at it.
“You don’t have to,” you said.
“I know.” His voice was rough.
A moment passed. Then his hand slid into yours. Slowly. Carefully. Like there were rules he didn’t know and he was terrified of breaking them.
His palm was warm. Calloused. His grip loose at first. Testing. When your fingers curled around his, he inhaled quietly. Not sharply. Just enough for you to hear.
You looked over.
His eyes stayed fixed on the windshield.
“You okay?”
He nodded.
Then, after a second, “Yeah.”
You believed him.
So you looked back at the ocean and let him hold your hand until his grip finally stopped feeling like a question.
—
The first kiss almost happened three weeks before it actually did.
Rain again. Because apparently the universe had a sense of humor.
You had both gotten caught in it while bringing dogs in from the yard, and by the time the last kennel was latched, your shirt clung damply to your skin and Andrew’s hair was wet enough to drip onto the concrete.
You were laughing. He wasn’t. Not exactly. But he was watching you laugh. That had become its own kind of tenderness.
Andrew watched joy like it was something he did not fully understand but wanted to learn.
“You’re soaked,” he said.
“So are you.”
“You should change.”
“I don’t keep spare clothes here.”
He looked away. Then back.
“I have a hoodie in my truck.”
Something about the offer made the air shift. Maybe it was the way he said it. Quiet. Careful. Like he knew a hoodie was not just a hoodie if it came from him.
“Okay,” you said.
He brought it to you without meeting your eyes. Dark gray. Worn soft. Too big. Still warm from the cab of his truck.
You slipped it on in the staff bathroom, then came back out with the sleeves covering half your hands.
Andrew looked at you. Stopped. The expression on his face made your breath catch. Not hunger. Not exactly. Something more vulnerable. Like seeing you in something of his had touched a place in him he had not expected anyone to reach.
“What?” you asked softly.
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Andrew.”
His eyes moved to the sleeves. Then to your face.
“It looks…” He stopped.
You waited.
He swallowed. “Good.”
That one word landed harder than it should have. You stepped closer. Not much. Just enough.
His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then lifted quickly, almost guilty.
You could have kissed him then. You wanted to. God, you wanted to. Instead, you touched his wrist. A small mercy. A smaller promise.
“Thank you.”
His fingers flexed once under yours.
“Yeah.”
The kiss waited. Neither of you was ready. Not yet.
—
After the hoodie, something shifted.
Not between you. Inside Andrew.
At first, it was subtle. The sort of thing you could explain away if you wanted to. He left a little sooner after closing. Stopped lingering outside your car. Answered questions with less than before.
Not cold. Never cold. Just measured. And somehow that felt worse.
You spent nearly two weeks convincing yourself it meant nothing. Then one Thursday you found him sitting alone behind the shelter. The sun had already gone down. The exercise yard sat empty. Most of the dogs were asleep.
Andrew sat on an overturned bucket near the fence, staring into the darkness beyond the lot. Not occupied with anything. Just sitting. And that, more than anything, felt wrong.
You approached quietly. “Hey.”
His shoulders tightened before he looked up. “Hey.”
You leaned against the fence beside him. For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once and fell quiet.
Andrew rubbed a thumb along the rim of the bucket.
You watched the motion repeat. “Did I do something?”
His hand stilled. “No.”
“Then what’s going on?”
A muscle jumped in his cheek. He turned toward the field.
You waited.
He let the silence stand. “You should probably stop.”
You blinked. “What?”
He bent forward, forearms resting on his knees. “This.”
Your fingers tightened around the fence wire. “Andrew—”
“You should.” He exhaled through his nose and shook his head once. “You should stop before it gets worse.”
For a moment, the words didn’t land. Then they did. You stared at him. Andrew kept his gaze fixed ahead, jaw locked hard enough to show in the fading light.
“Before what gets worse?”
His tongue pressed briefly against the inside of his cheek. The answer took its time. When it came, it was barely audible.
“Before you start wanting things I can’t give you.”
The fence creaked softly under your grip.
Andrew looked down at the dirt between his boots and dragged the toe of one shoe through it.
Neither of you spoke.
Then he stood. The bucket scraped hard against the ground.
“You don’t know me.”
You looked up at him. “I know you here.”
His mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something worse.
“Yeah.” He nodded toward the shelter. “That’s the problem.”
You frowned. “Why?”
For a moment he didn’t answer. He looked away, toward the kennels, toward the rows of chain-link fencing and concrete runs. Anywhere but at you.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter.
“Because this place is easy.”
You waited.
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “The dogs make sense.” A moment passed. “They need something. You give it to them.” His gaze dropped to the bucket at his feet. “Food. Water. A clean kennel.”
You watched him carefully. “And people?”
A humorless smile touched his mouth. “People aren’t like that.”
The silence stretched between you. You let it. Andrew shifted his weight. Like he was deciding whether to keep talking. Like every word cost him something.
“You see me here,” he said at last. “You see me doing this.” His hand gestured vaguely toward the shelter. “The work. The routine.” His eyes lifted to yours. “You see the version of me that knows what he’s supposed to do.”
You opened your mouth, but he shook his head. Not angry. Just asking you to let him finish. So you did.
“You know what time I show up. You know I bring coffee.” His jaw tightened. “You know I remember things.” He paused. “You know the parts that fit.”
The words hung there.
You took a slow breath. “And the parts that don’t?”
His expression hardened. “There you go.”
“What?”
“That.” He looked away again. “You hear something bad and immediately start trying to understand it.”
“I am trying to understand it.”
“I know.”
The answer came tired rather than sharp. For the first time, he sounded exhausted. Not angry. Just worn down.
Andrew stared at the ground for a long moment before speaking again.
“You ever meet someone and know exactly what they think you are?”
You blinked. “Sometimes.”
He nodded once. “Most people look at me and decide pretty fast.” His fingers tightened around the bucket handle. “Quiet. Weird. Difficult.”
You didn’t interrupt.
“Sometimes useful.” A bitter edge slipped into his voice. “People like useful.” His gaze dropped. “Useful’s easy.”
You took a step closer. Only one.
“Andrew.”
This time he looked at you. Really looked. And for a second he seemed surprised that you were still standing there listening. A bitter laugh escaped him.
“You know this version. The guy who shows up, does the work, remembers your coffee order.” His eyes met yours. “But you don’t know me.”
“Andrew—”
“No.” His voice sharpened. “You keep acting like if you care enough, you’ll find something worth saving.” He hit a hand against his chest. “What if there isn’t?”
Silence stretched.
“I’ve hurt people.”
Silence.
“Bad.”
His jaw worked.
“Not by accident.”
Another pause.
“Sometimes by accident.”
His eyes squeezed shut.
“I don’t know.”
Your grip tightened on the fence.
“Still looking for the good?” he asked.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Try to make me afraid of you.”
His eyes flashed. “You should be.” He turned away, then back again. Restless. “You think feeding dogs and fixing things makes me safe?”
“No.”
“You think because I haven’t hurt you yet, I won’t?”
The word hung between you. Ugly. Intentional. A flicker of regret crossed his face before he buried it.
“You should go.”
“No.”
His hands curled at his sides. “Why?”
“Because you’re trying to scare me.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“You’re telling me part of it.”
His laugh was harsh. “You don’t want the rest.”
“Then don’t give me the rest. But don’t stand here and pretend cruelty is honesty.”
That stopped him. Briefly.
“I’m not cruel?”
“I said you’re choosing it right now.”
His jaw worked.
You stepped closer. “I think you’re choosing it because it’s easier than letting me choose you.”
Andrew stared at you. His breathing changed. A dog barked inside the shelter.
Then, low and rough he spoke again, “I don’t want you to love me.”
Your heart twisted. “Why?”
“Because I’ll ruin it.” The answer came too fast. “I ruin everything I care about.” He dragged both hands over his neck. Frustrated.
“Take your time,” you said.
“I don’t know how.” The words cracked out of him. He looked at you helplessly. “You. Me. All of it.”
“Okay.”
“It’s not okay.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
He shook his head. “You keep making it not bad.”
“What’s bad?”
“All of it.”
You held his gaze. He wanted fear. Disgust. Something simple. You gave him none of it.
“I’m trying to tell you something,” he said.
“You are.”
“No. That’s the problem.”
His hand pressed against his forehead.
“The thing in my head—it doesn’t come out right.”
“I’m listening.”
His eyes dropped. “I’m not good.” The words were quiet. Simple. “I mean it. There’s something wrong.”
“Andrew—”
“Don’t make it soft.” His voice cracked. “You take everything and make it into something I can live with.”
The anger slipped for a moment. Underneath it was fear. Raw and exposed.
“I don’t know what to do with that.”
You swallowed.
He looked away. “I did everything they wanted. I tried.” His hands opened helplessly. “Useful,” he said finally. “That was the good one.”
Your heart ached.
“I wasn’t easy.”
“You don’t have to be.”
His face tightened. “You say that because you don’t know what it means.”
“Then tell me.”
He hesitated.
“I get stuck.”
He looked away.
“I miss things. I watch people, try to figure them out, and sometimes I still get it wrong.” His jaw tightened. “That’s not okay.”
“It is with me.”
“You say that now.”
“I mean it now.”
“You’ll get tired.”
“Maybe.”
He froze.
So you kept your voice steady.
“Maybe some days. People get tired, Andrew. That doesn’t mean they leave.”
His mouth parted slightly. “You don’t know that.”
“I know I’m still here.”
For a second he looked almost young. Lost. Then he stepped back.
“That’s not enough.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know why you’re still here.”
The words escaped him before he could stop them. You didn’t move.
His face twisted. “I don’t know why.”
“Because I want to be.”
He shook his head. “There are people who don’t do this.”
“What?”
He gestured helplessly between you. “All of it.”
You understood. The anger. The confusion. The sharp edges he couldn’t smooth down.
“There are people who can just be,” he said bitterly. “People who can be loved and not turn it into—” The sentence broke apart. “You should’ve picked somebody else.”
“I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want somebody else.”
His eyes snapped to yours. Hope flashed there. Small and terrifying.
“You don’t know.”
“I do.”
His voice cracked. “You like the coffee. The dogs. The hoodie.”
A faint smile touched your mouth. “Yes.”
“That’s not me.”
“It is.”
“It’s not enough.”
“I didn’t say it was everything.”
His eyes were wet now. “You keep finding pieces. Like that makes a whole person.”
“It can.”
He shook his head. “There are other pieces.”
“I know.”
“Bad ones.”
“I know enough to know they’re there.”
For once, he had no answer. You stepped closer. He didn’t move away.
“I’m not asking for every bad thing you’ve ever done. I’m not asking you to explain your whole life so I can decide if you’re worth loving.”
He flinched.
“I already decided.”
Andrew stared at you. His breath shook.
“You can’t.”
“I can.”
“I don’t deserve it.”
“Love isn’t a prize for people who make it through life untouched.”
His brow furrowed.
You swallowed. “You’ve done terrible things.”
Pain crossed his face. You let the truth stand.
“But monsters don’t worry about the damage they leave behind.”
His breathing caught.
“Monsters don’t sit outside kennels because a dog is scared.”
His eyes closed.
“Monsters don’t bring coffee and pretend they didn’t.”
His mouth trembled.
“Monsters don’t stand in front of someone they want and try to protect them from the worst parts of themselves.”
Andrew opened his eyes. They were wet. “I’m not good.”
“I’m not asking you to be perfect.”
“I’m not peaceful.”
“I’m not asking for a life without pain.”
He shook his head, searching for words. Finally, barely above a whisper:
“Would it be enough if I could never give you peace?”
There it was. The real question.
You lifted your hand but stopped short of touching him.
“I think peace is something people build,” you said softly. “Not something one person hands over finished.”
He stared at you.
“I think it’s telling the truth when it’s ugly. Staying when leaving would be easier.”
His throat worked.
“I think it’s this.”
“This isn’t peace.”
“No,” you said. “But it could be the beginning of it.”
For a long moment he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he leaned into your palm. His eyes closed. The breath that left him was unsteady. You stepped closer. His hand caught your wrist. Not to pull you away. To keep you there.
“You’re still scared,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
His eyes opened.
“But I’m not leaving because you’re scared too.”
Something in his face folded. Not dramatically. Just enough to reveal the wound underneath.
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Then don’t do anything yet.”
He swallowed.
“Just stay.”
His fingers tightened around your wrist. Not hard. Enough.
“I can do that.”
The words were rough. Fragile. A promise small enough to carry.
You smiled through the ache in your chest. “Okay.”
The shelter was quiet behind you. Dogs sleeping. The world holding still. Then Andrew glanced at your mouth. Back to your eyes. The question was there. Terrified. Hopeful.
You answered by moving closer. Slowly enough that he could stop you. He didn’t.
The kiss was barely a kiss at first. A brush of mouths. A question. His lips trembled against yours, and your heart broke all over again because even this felt like something he was afraid to want.
You kissed him back. Softly. Clearly. Your hand stayed against his cheek. His hand stayed around your wrist. Then his other hand rose, hesitant, settling at your waist like he was asking permission.
You leaned into him. He made a small, wrecked sound. The sound seemed to surprise him. Like he hadn’t meant to let you hear it. His fingers tightened at your waist. Not possessive. Just desperate. Just real.
The kiss deepened by a fraction. Enough to stop feeling like a question. Enough to feel like an answer.
Andrew’s forehead furrowed as if he was fighting something even now, the instinct to pull away, to apologize, to ruin the moment before it could matter. Instead he stayed. And when your thumb brushed his cheek, he broke. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a soft exhale against your mouth that sounded painfully close to relief.
His hand left your wrist. For one terrifying second you thought he was retreating. Then he cupped the back of your neck. Careful. Reverent. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were there. The gesture stole your breath. Because Andrew never reached for things he wanted.
He held himself back. Made himself smaller. But not now. Not this time. When he kissed you again, it was still gentle, still uncertain, but there was want in it now. Trust. The beginning of belief. And that felt bigger than passion ever could.
When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His eyes stayed closed. His breath shook. A faint, disbelieving laugh escaped him. Not happy. Not sad. Just overwhelmed.
“You’re still here,” he whispered.
Like he was testing the fact. Like he needed to hear it out loud.
You brushed your nose against his.
“Yeah.”
His eyes opened. Red-rimmed. Vulnerable. And for the first time since you’d met him, he didn’t look away.
You stayed there with him. Not fixing. Not saving. Just holding the moment steady until he could breathe inside it. Nothing was solved. Nothing was erased.
But Andrew Cody, who had spent his whole life being told he was too much and never enough, stood beneath the dim shelter light with your hand against his face and let himself believe, for one impossible second, that maybe love did not have to be earned by becoming someone else.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7
Summary: After a drunken Vegas wedding, Robby disappears by morning, leaving you with nothing but a ring and a mistake that was supposed to stay in Vegas. But when a pregnancy and state paperwork force you to track down the husband who vanished, Robby learns the truth and this time, walking away isn’t so easy.
WC: 13K
Tags: Drunken Vegas Wedding, Runaway Husband, Unexpected Pregnancy, Forced Reunion, Second Chance Romance, Robby Wants to Stay, Romantic Comedy vibes with some Angst, No use of Y/N
A/N: I would like to apologize. I’ve come to the realization that I can only write one shots or lengthy chapter stories. I can’t write anything in between. With that saying I don’t know how long this story will be but it will definitely be more than the 10 chapter goal I had… sorry 🫥
The movie had been on for almost forty minutes.
You knew that because you’d checked the clock three times in the last ten minutes. Not because you were waiting for Robby. Because you were watching the movie. Obviously.
You shifted deeper into the corner of the couch, blanket tucked over your legs. Rain tapped softly against the windows. The dishwasher hummed in the kitchen, and a covered plate waited in the microwave. Robby’s dinner.
Somehow, that had become normal too. Not just making it. Not just leaving it covered in the microwave. The expectation that eventually the front door would open, his boots would hit the floor, and another day would end the way most of them ended now. Together.
Not always in the same room. Not always talking. Just existing in the same space. Some mornings, you woke up to a travel mug waiting beside the coffee maker because he’d left before sunrise and knew nausea hit hardest before breakfast. Some nights, he came home to dinner already made because cooking for one felt ridiculous when there were two people living in the house.
You texted him when you couldn’t find something. He texted when he was running late. Neither of you had discussed when that started. It just had. A routine forming quietly around the edges of everything neither of you knew how to name. The strangest part was the evenings.
At first, Robby disappeared into his room after work. You understood why. The hospital took pieces out of him some days. Nothing dramatic or visible. Just enough that by the time he got home, he looked like a man whose battery had hit the blinking red line.
Then one night, he wandered into the living room carrying a glass of whiskey and sat in the armchair without explanation. You had been reading. Neither of you said much. An hour later, he finished the drink, said goodnight, and went to bed. The next day, it happened again. And again. Until sitting in the same room became another habit.
Sometimes, he talked. About the elderly patient who finally agreed to use a walker. About a diabetic whose numbers looked better for the first time in months. About a resident who finally got a difficult procedure right after struggling with it for weeks. Little victories most people would never think twice about.
Other nights, he barely said a word. He sat in the chair with his whiskey while you read, watched television, or pretended to understand whatever movie was playing. The silence never felt awkward. Just shared.
You still weren’t entirely sure what that made the two of you. Friends felt wrong. It wasn’t the coffee or the groceries or the dinners. It was the assumption underneath them. The quiet certainty that tomorrow would probably look much the same. Him leaving for work. You being here when he came home. But more than friends felt wrong too.
Neither of you had said anything like that out loud. Neither of you had crossed any lines. You weren’t dating. You weren’t together. You weren’t even sure what pretending would look like. Most days, you weren’t sure what word belonged here.
The father of your child? Technically true.
Except that sounded like somebody you exchanged custody schedules with. Not the man who left coffee beside the machine before work because he knew mornings were rough lately. Not the man who listened to you complain about grocery-store strangers with the same attention he gave trauma reports. Not the man who sat in the living room after impossible shifts because somewhere along the way being alone had stopped feeling preferable.
So maybe there wasn’t a word for it. Maybe that was why it felt so strange. Maybe that was why you kept checking the clock. Because whatever Robby was now, his coming home had quietly become part of your day.
The lock turned.
Your head lifted before you could stop it. A second later, the front door opened and Robby stepped inside, bringing the damp smell of rain and hospital air with him. His helmet hung from one hand. His bag was slung over one shoulder. His jacket was unzipped over rumpled scrubs, and his hair was flattened in the back like he had dragged his hand through it too many times before getting on the bike.
One look was enough. He didn’t have to say anything. You knew. A normal day came through the door talking. Usually with some dry observation about the least catastrophic part of his day. Tonight was not that. His shoulders sat lower than usual. The crease between his brows was faint but familiar now. Not angry. Not frustrated. Tired. The kind that lived deeper than sleep.
He closed the door behind him and stood there for a second, staring at nothing in particular before his eyes finally found you on the couch.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
His gaze lingered briefly, checking. You were starting to realize he always did that. A quick inventory.
Are you in any pain?
Need anything?
Still awake?
Still here?
The usual.
Somewhere along the way, his check-ins had stopped feeling like a doctor assessing symptoms and started feeling like someone coming home.
You lifted your phone slightly. “Dinner’s in the microwave.”
Something softened in his expression. Not enough to erase the day. Enough to acknowledge the gesture.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
That earned the smallest hint of a smile.
“Thanks.”
You nodded, but your attention had already dropped back to the phone in your hand.
The notification was still there.
Women’s Health Associates, Appointment Reminder: Wednesday – 10:00 AM Ultrasound Appointment
You stared at it. Then locked the screen. Then unlocked it thirty seconds later. Tomorrow. The word felt heavier than it should have. You were having an ultrasound.
Not the first one. Planned Parenthood in Nevada had done one early on, enough to confirm what the test and your body had already told you. Enough to give you a grainy picture you’d barely been able to look at for more than a few seconds at a time.
This one was different. It was mostly for the new doctor. Baseline measurements. Dating. Making sure the records started somewhere solid now that you were transferring care. Practical. Routine. Except now Robby was here.
Now he was ten feet away, exhausted from a bad shift, with dinner waiting in the microwave and no idea you were sitting on his couch trying to decide whether to ask him to come. And somehow, telling him about it felt less like sharing information and more like giving him a place beside you. It should have made you feel safer. Mostly, it made everything feel harder to pretend away.
Robby shifted near the door, and you looked up again. He was still watching you. Not obviously. Not in a way that demanded anything from you. Just enough to tell you he had noticed your attention kept falling back to your phone.
“You okay?” he asked.
You closed your fingers around it. “Yeah.”
He did not look like he believed you. He also did not push.
Another thing you were learning about him. Robby brought bad days home with him. He just didn’t open them where anyone else could see. You could feel them anyway. In his face. In the set of his shoulders. In the quiet that entered the room before he said a word.
Mostly, he locked it down. He didn’t unload it onto whoever happened to be nearby or spend hours dragging every terrible thing back into the light. He just carried it until it changed the air around him. You were still learning how to tell the difference between wanting to be left alone and not wanting to be alone.
He rubbed one hand over the back of his neck and glanced toward the hallway.
“I’m gonna shower.”
“Probably for the best.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
“You smell like hospital,” you added.
He glanced down at himself, then back at you. “That bad?”
“You’re not a biohazard, but you are giving strong antiseptic-and-regret energy.”
This time, he almost smiled. Almost. “Fair.”
He set his helmet on the small table by the door, dropped his bag beside it, and headed down the hall. A minute later, the shower turned on.
You looked back at your phone. The appointment reminder still waited on the screen. You chewed lightly on the inside of your cheek. Maybe you’d bring it up after he ate dinner. Maybe when the movie ended. Maybe tomorrow morning.
The fact that you were strategizing a simple conversation like it required a full operational briefing probably wasn’t a great sign. Neither was the fact that part of you already knew you wanted him there. You just had not figured out how to say it yet.
The shower shut off. You looked toward the hallway before you could stop yourself. A few seconds later, cabinets opened in the kitchen. The microwave beeped. A fork scraped lightly against a plate. Small sounds. Familiar sounds. The kind you were starting to recognize without meaning to.
When Robby came back into the living room, his hair was still damp, his T-shirt clinging slightly at the collar. He carried the plate you had left him in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. He paused at the edge of the couch, just long enough to ask without asking.
You shifted your legs under the blanket, making room. “You can sit.”
His mouth moved faintly. “Good to know.”
“Don’t get sentimental.”
“I’ll try to control myself.”
He sat beside you, not close enough to touch, but closer than he would have two weeks ago. The couch dipped under his weight. The movie kept playing, ignored by both of you.
For a while, he ate in silence. You tried not to watch him too obviously. He was quieter than usual. Even for a bad day. His fork moved slowly. His eyes stayed on the television without following any of it. Every so often, his jaw shifted like he was holding a thought in place with his teeth.
You waited until he set the plate down on the coffee table.
“Bad?”
His eyes flicked toward you. He understood you weren’t asking about the shift. Not really. He seemed to understand that, because he didn’t answer right away.
Then he leaned back against the couch and let out a slow breath through his nose.
“Yeah,” he said. Simple. Flat. Honest.
Your fingers tightened once in the blanket.
He looked back at the television. “Just one of those days.”
You nodded. No questions. No digging. No careful attempt to pull the story out of him and make it smaller. You were learning that pushing Robby rarely opened anything. Usually, it only made him seal the door tighter. So you let it go.
The movie filled the space between you badly. Someone on-screen shouted a name into the rain. Neither of you reacted. After a minute, you looked down at your phone again. Locked. Unlocked. The appointment reminder waited there like it had patience.
You swallowed once. “Are you working tomorrow?”
Robby’s attention shifted to you. “No.”
You kept your eyes on the screen. “No?”
“I’m off.”
“Rare.”
“Try not to sound too impressed.”
“I’m overwhelmed.”
That earned the smallest breath of amusement from him.
He picked up his beer, then set it down without drinking. “I was probably going to stop by Duke’s for a bit.”
“The shop?”
“Yeah. Bike needs looking at.”
You glanced over. “That’s usually what people say right before they spend a thousand dollars.”
“Hopefully I’m lucky and it’s something cheap.”
You snorted softly. “That is not how bikes work.”
Robby looked over. “You suddenly an expert?”
“No,” you said, too quickly. “I just know ‘something cheap’ usually means ‘I haven’t found the expensive part yet.’”
His eyes stayed on you for half a second longer.
“What kind of sound?” you asked.
His brow lifted. “What?”
“The bike,” you said, nodding toward him. “What kind of sound is it making?”
For the first time since he’d come home, his attention sharpened for a reason that had nothing to do with the hospital.
“A rattle,” he said.
“When?”
He blinked. “When?”
“Cold start? Idle? When you throttle? Under load?”
Robby stared at you.
You stared back. “What?”
“You know what under load means?”
“Michael.”
“No, seriously.”
You looked back at the television. “If it rattles cold and settles once it warms up, check the cam chain tensioner.”
The room went quiet. Not the heavy kind this time. The surprised kind.
Robby slowly set his fork down. “You know what a cam chain tensioner is.”
“I know lots of things.”
“No normal person knows that.”
“Maybe I’m secretly fascinating.”
“I already knew that,” he said, then seemed to realize he’d said it.
Your eyes flicked toward him. His jaw shifted once.
You looked away first. “My dad rides.”
“Rides?”
“A lot.”
His expression changed slightly. Not teasing now. Careful. “How much is a lot?”
You adjusted the blanket over your legs. “Enough that I spent half my childhood holding flashlights and being told I was pointing them wrong.”
That got a quiet laugh out of him. “Universal childhood experience.”
“Yeah, well, most kids weren’t learning the difference between primary chain noise and valve train tick before they learned long division.”
Robby’s eyes stayed on you long enough that you felt yourself trying to make the story smaller.
“He tried to teach me to ride when I was six.”
“Six?”
“Dad of the year. My feet didn’t even reach anything. Obviously, it was a very professional operation.”
“Obviously.”
“My grandma chased him with a broom. Called him every name in the book.” You smiled despite yourself. “He laughed the whole time.”
The memory settled over you before you could shove it back. Hot pavement outside an open garage bay. Bikes lined up in crooked rows, chrome flashing under the sun, engines ticking as they cooled. Men in worn leather vests and oil-stained jeans stood around with paper coffee cups, cigarette smoke, and too many opinions.
Someone laughed loudly near a toolbox. Someone else was already arguing about the right way to fix a problem that had probably been solved twenty minutes ago. Your dad crouched beside a bike with grease on his hands, grinning like trouble was a language he spoke fluently. You loved that part. You didn’t always like admitting it.
There had been something satisfying about the noise and the order hidden underneath it. About listening closely enough to tell the difference between a healthy engine and one begging for attention. About watching your dad take something rough and stubborn and coax it back into smoothness with patience, profanity, and the absolute confidence of a man who believed every machine owed him an explanation.
You used to like riding too. Not the reckless parts. Not the stupid parts. Not the nights when the whole crowd rolled out together and your grandmother watched from the porch with her mouth pressed into a thin line.
But the quieter parts. The hum under your ribs. The wind pulling the world open around you. The feeling of everything narrowing to road, sound, balance.
You glanced down at your stomach and let out a small, dry laugh. “Obviously not doing that anytime soon.”
“No,” Robby said, a little too fast.
You looked over.
He exhaled. “That was a doctor answer.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I have a license. I feel obligated to use it.”
“Even off the clock?”
“Especially off the clock. Nobody can stop me.”
His mouth twitched when you laughed.
Robby picked his fork back up, but he didn’t interrupt. Just kept eating slowly, like he had nowhere else to be and nothing better to do than listen to whatever pieces of yourself you were accidentally handing over.
That made the joke fade a little.
“My dad had friends,” you said. The words came out lighter than they felt. “Bike friends.”
Robby’s gaze lifted.
“He had a very committed group of biker friends,” you said lightly.
Robby took a sip of his beer. “Biker friends?”
“They had matching jackets and everything.” Your mouth pulled into a small smile before you could stop it. “Very organized. Charity rides during the day, questionable decisions after dark.”
Robby looked over. “Questionable decisions?”
“I’m being generous.”
“That bad?”
“I said questionable, not the kind of story that starts with, ‘Allegedly.’”
His mouth twitched.
You almost smiled too, but it faded before it fully formed. “Sometimes both.”
The room quieted. Robby didn’t make you explain. He just nodded once, slow and understanding.
“Duke was part of a biker club. He’s told me a story or two,” he said.
You looked at him. “Then you get it.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I get it.”
You looked back at the television. “My grandmother actually liked most of his friends.”
Robby glanced over. “Most?”
“She said they were perfectly nice right up until they all got together.” A smile tugged at your mouth. “Then suddenly everybody started having terrible ideas.”
“Group effort.”
“Exactly.”
He took another bite of dinner. “And your dad?”
A laugh escaped before you could stop it. “Usually the one suggesting them.”
That earned a real laugh. Not a polite one. A genuine one.
“That sounds suspiciously specific.”
“Because it is.” You shook your head. “My grandmother used to swear there was a direct correlation between the number of motorcycles in the driveway and the likelihood somebody was about to make a terrible life choice.”
“Solid research.”
“Peer reviewed.”
“Naturally.”
The smile lingered a second longer this time. “She loved him, though.” The words came quieter. Easier somehow now that you weren’t looking at him. “Drove her absolutely insane. But she loved him.”
Robby nodded, not because he knew your grandmother, but because he understood loving somebody who wasn’t easy.
You looked down at the blanket gathered in your lap. “He really was a good dad. Not perfect.” A short laugh escaped you. “Obviously.”
Robby smiled faintly.
“But he never missed birthdays. Never forgot Christmas. Never made me wonder if he loved me.” Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “A lot of things in his life were a mess. His temper. His choices. The people he scared when he decided they weren’t his people.” You shrugged. “But me? That wasn’t one of them.”
The room settled around the confession. Robby nodded once, quiet and certain.
“My dad would’ve liked your bike,” you said after a moment, trying to pull the conversation back into safer territory.
Robby glanced over. “Yeah?”
“Oh, absolutely. She’s a pretty thing. He would’ve pretended not to. Walked around it twice, made some deeply insulting comment, then asked for the keys.”
“That does sound like a healthy level of respect.”
“Very traditional.”
His mouth twitched. “Would he have diagnosed it?”
“Immediately. Then he would’ve been unbearable about it.”
“Naturally.”
“That was kind of his brand.”
Robby looked down at his plate, the faintest smile still there. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You should. He’ll judge your maintenance.”
“Good to know I have supervision.”
You smiled, smaller this time, then let the blanket slide between your fingers. For a few seconds, neither of you said anything. The movie kept going. The rain kept tapping against the glass.
Then Robby said, quiet and almost casual, “I’d like to meet him someday.”
You looked over before you could stop yourself. He was still looking at his plate, like the comment hadn’t cost him anything. Like it was simple. Like meeting your father was a normal thing to want.
It should have made you nervous. Maybe it did. But underneath that, something in your chest softened. Because you had just handed him one of the messier pieces of your life, and he hadn’t stepped back from it. Hadn’t made your father smaller. Hadn’t made you explain why you still loved him. He just wanted to know him.
“You say that now,” you said.
Robby’s mouth shifted faintly. “That bad?”
“He once inspected a bike so silently the owner apologized.”
“For what?”
“Existing near him, I think.”
A small laugh slipped out before you could stop it. And somehow, after giving him a piece of your past you hadn’t meant to hand over, the next part felt a little easier. Not easy. Just possible.
You looked down at your phone again. The reminder waited there. Wednesday. Ten o’clock. Ultrasound. Your stomach tightened, but not as sharply this time.
“Michael?”
He looked over.
You kept your eyes on the phone. “I called that OB you recommended.”
His attention shifted immediately. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just completely.
“Yeah?”
“They got me in tomorrow.”
Robby’s fork stilled near his plate. “Tomorrow?”
“Ten.”
He nodded once, carefully. “Okay. That’s good.”
You turned the phone over in your hands, then back again. “She wants to do another ultrasound.”
His expression changed. Barely. But you saw it.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” you said quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah, it’s routine. Since I’m transferring care, she wants her own measurements and scans and all that. Dating. Records. Making sure everything lines up.”
“Okay.”
“It’s mostly for the new doctor,” you added. “Planned Parenthood already did one early on. You saw that one.”
“I remember.”
His voice was quiet enough that something in your chest pulled tight.
You looked down at the phone again. Your thumb rubbed nervously along the edge of the case. This was the part. Not telling him. That was information. This was asking.
“You can come,” you said quickly. “If you want. I mean, you obviously don’t have to. It’s your day off, and you said you were going to Duke’s, and it’s mostly routine anyway. It’s not some huge dramatic first ultrasound moment or anything. They just want their own scan because I’m switching doctors, and I didn’t want you to think I was making it a thing, because I’m not. I mean, it is a thing, obviously, because there’s a baby, but it’s not—”
“Hey.”
Your mouth closed.
Robby was looking at you now, careful and quiet, one hand still wrapped loosely around his fork.
“Breathe,” he said softly.
Heat rushed into your face. “Right.”
You looked back at your phone. “I just didn’t want you to feel obligated.” The words came out smaller than everything before.
Robby’s expression shifted. Not hurt. Not exactly. Something quieter than that.
“I know.”
For a second, neither of you said anything.
Then he asked, voice low, “Do you want me there?”
Your fingers tightened around the phone. That was the question, wasn’t it? Not whether he could come. Not whether he had a right to know. Whether you wanted him beside you.
You swallowed. “Yeah,” you admitted. “I think I do.”
Robby looked down for half a second, jaw shifting once like he was trying not to let too much show.
Then he nodded. “Then I’m coming.”
Simple. Immediate. Like there had never been another answer.
Something loosened in your chest so suddenly it almost hurt.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
The movie kept playing.
Neither of you watched it anymore.
—
Something had changed on the couch the night before. Not enough to name. Not enough to touch. But enough that when Robby woke up the next morning, the house felt a little less unfamiliar than it had before.
At 8:03, he knocked softly against her bedroom door.
“You awake?”
His voice came out low. Careful. Like he wasn’t entirely sure what the rules were now either.
Silence from inside.
Then her voice, still rough with sleep.
“Unfortunately.”
Robby’s mouth twitched.
“You need coffee?”
Another stretch of silence.
“Maybe.”
Robby stood on the other side of the door with one hand still raised near the frame. He had already made the coffee.
The smell of it still lingered through the house along with butter warming in the pan and the faint sweetness of cinnamon. He’d gone to the grocery store the night before after she’d gone to bed, because somewhere between ultrasound and I think I do want you there, his brain had apparently decided French toast was a reasonable response.
He stared at the door another second anyway. She was awake. She was still there. That thought had started happening before he could stop it. Not in words at first. More like instinct. A glance toward the her room—no, guest room—when he woke up. Relief when he heard cabinets opening in the kitchen. The automatic habit of checking whether her shoes were still by the door before leaving for work. Still here.
He lowered his hand from the frame.
“I made breakfast,” he said instead.
“What kind?”
“Depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“It depends on whether you’re pretending to hate French toast this morning.”
Silence. Then, through the door, “I have never pretended to hate French toast.”
“Good. Because I already committed.”
A soft laugh came from inside the room. Small. Sleep-roughened. It did something unfortunate to his chest.
Robby leaned back against the hallway wall for a second, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. The appointment wasn’t until ten. He had been awake since six anyway.
He had checked the time three times. Not because they were late. They were aggressively not late. He had just apparently become the kind of man who made French toast at eight in the morning and knew exactly how long it took to get to an OB appointment with traffic. Which was fine. Normal. Fine.
Robby went back into the kitchen mostly so he had something to do with his hands. The French toast was already done. The coffee was already done. He had run out of practical tasks twenty minutes ago. Which was unfortunate timing.
He leaned against the counter and stared into his coffee for a second. Ultrasound. The word still did something strange to his chest. Not panic. Not exactly. Just pressure.
Like his brain had not fully caught up to the fact that this was real enough now to have appointments and doctors and blurry black-and-white pictures taped to refrigerators someday.
He exhaled slowly and stared into his coffee. The first ultrasound had happened in the middle of chaos. Shock. Paperwork. Vegas hanging over both of them like a bad decision neither of them knew what to do with. He remembered looking at the photo in her hand and feeling the floor tilt beneath him.
This one felt different. Quieter. Worse, somehow. Because now there was routine wrapped around it. Coffee mugs in the sink. Her blanket on the couch. Dinner in the microwave waiting for him after shifts. Her toothbrush beside his.
Things that made it dangerously easy to picture more. Things he had no business picturing yet. Things he pictured anyway. Robby had wanted this. That was the ugly part. The dangerous part.
The part he never said out loud because wanting made people stupid, and he had spent too many years being practical to start being stupid now.
He had wanted a kitchen that smelled like coffee and breakfast. Someone half-asleep at the counter. Someone to ask if they were nervous before an appointment. A life that didn’t end at his front door every night with silence and takeout containers.
He had wanted it for years. Longer than he cared to admit. When he was younger, before life had gotten sharp around the edges, the dream had been simple enough to embarrass him now.
Two kids. A house near a pond. A woman who loved him enough to stay. That was it. Not impressive. Not complicated. Not some grand ambition. Just a life. The kind other people seemed to stumble into without realizing they had been handed something holy.
Robby had stopped saying it out loud somewhere along the way. Then he had stopped thinking about it. Or he had tried to. Because at some point, wanting started to feel less like hope and more like setting himself up for disappointment. Now the dream felt impossible and close enough to touch at the same time. That was the problem. Because he didn’t know what she wanted.
He knew what she needed right now. Safety. Insurance. A stable doctor. A room with a bed that belonged to her. Breakfast before appointments. Someone who would show up when asked. But need was not the same thing as wanting. And as far as Robby knew, she had never planned on staying.
Not after the baby came. Not after the dust settled. Not once she figured out what her life was supposed to look like without Vegas, without panic, without him as the emergency option.
Maybe she would want to go back. Back to her own life. Back to something that had existed before he had the nerve to imagine himself inside it. The thought sat under his ribs, sharp and quiet. Because he had no idea how to change her mind. Worse, he didn’t know if he had the right to try.
The bedroom door opened down the hall. Robby looked up before he could stop himself. She wandered into the kitchen slowly, still heavy with sleep, hair twisted up lazily like she had only halfway committed to getting ready for the day. One of his old T-shirts hung loose over leggings, the fabric shifting softly around the small curve of her stomach as she walked.
Not big yet. Still enough to change the shape of her.
Her hand rested there absently for a second before dropping again. Robby’s chest tightened so fast it almost annoyed him. Because she looked comfortable here. Not settled. Not permanent. He knew better than to let himself believe that. But comfortable enough to move through his kitchen half-asleep, reaching for the coffee mug he’d set out like she was starting to know where mornings lived in this house.
The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and coffee and butter warming in the pan. Morning light spilled through the windows over the sink, soft against the countertops, against her face, against the quiet way she moved through the room like she had already learned its rhythms.
Home.
The thought landed hard enough that he had to look back at the stove before his face betrayed him.
She stopped beside the island and blinked slowly at the counter.
“You actually cooked.”
Robby glanced over. “I can cook.”
“I know. I just didn’t expect…” She trailed off, smiling a little to herself.
“Didn’t expect what?”
Her fingers curled loosely around the coffee mug.
“I don’t know.” Her voice softened. “This.”
The kitchen. The breakfast. Him standing at the stove in sweatpants looking half nervous and half determined to pretend he wasn’t. Home, some dangerous part of him thought immediately.
The realization hit hard enough that he had to look back at the stove. Because this was exactly the kind of thing he had spent years convincing himself he was too old, too tired, too late for. And somehow she had walked into his house and made it feel possible again without even trying.
He picked up the plate and set it carefully in front of her. Ridiculously careful. Like French toast required precision.
She noticed.
“You’re acting weird.”
“I’m always weird.”
“No. This is… specific.”
Robby leaned against the counter and crossed his arms loosely.
“Maybe I just want today to go okay.”
Her expression softened instantly.
“Don’t worry,” she said quietly. “It will.”
The confidence in her voice sounded fragile around the edges. Like she was trying to convince herself too.
Robby swallowed once and nodded. “Okay.” It came out softer than he intended.
She smiled at him over the rim of her coffee mug. Sleepy. Nervous. Warm in the morning light. The thought surfaced again, unhelpfully. Temporary, he reminded himself.
Robby reached for the syrup before the thought could get worse.
She watched him move around the kitchen for a second before smiling faintly down at the plate. “You even made it look nice.”
“That was accidental.”
“Mm.” She didn’t sound convinced.
He set the syrup beside her and leaned back against the counter with his coffee.
“Eat,” he said gently.
Her eyes lifted to his for a second before she nodded.
“Yes, doctor.”
The quiet that settled afterward felt warm around the edges.
She took another bite, then glanced up at him carefully.
“You know you don’t have to look this stressed about it.”
“I don’t look stressed.”
“Michael.”
“Okay,” he admitted, “maybe a little stressed.”
“It’s just an ultrasound.”
“You say that like there isn’t an entire tiny human involved.”
Her expression changed at that. Softer. Quieter. Like hearing him say tiny human did something to her too.
She looked down at her plate. “Tiny human,” she repeated softly.
Robby’s mouth moved like he might take it back. He didn’t.
“Yeah,” he said. “Tiny human.”
The kitchen went quiet again. Not uncomfortable. Just careful.
She set her fork down and rested one hand lightly against her stomach, almost without meaning to.
Robby noticed. His gaze dropped for half a second, then lifted again quickly, because the last thing he wanted was to make her feel watched.
She smiled faintly. “You’re doing the doctor face again.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He looked down into his coffee. “Different face.”
“Oh?”
The answer left his mouth before he could stop it. “Father face.”
The words landed between them. Soft. Awkward. Too honest. Robby froze like he hadn’t meant to say them out loud.
She stared at him. For a second, he thought he had ruined it. Then her expression softened.
“Okay,” she said quietly.
His chest tightened. “Okay?”
The corner of her mouth lifted. “But maybe save the father face for the appointment.”
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. Small. Relieved. Real.
The tension eased after that. Not completely. Just enough for breakfast to finish without either of them saying anything else that might change the shape of the morning.
By the time the plates were empty, the appointment had started creeping back into the room. Neither of them mentioned it. The clock did enough of that on its own.
Robby loaded the dishwasher while she rinsed mugs at the sink. A normal chore. A normal morning. The kind people did every day. The fact that it felt so normal was probably the problem. When the last dish disappeared into the dishwasher, she dried her hands on a towel and glanced toward the clock.
9:02.
Her shoulders shifted slightly. Robby noticed. His eyes flicked toward the clock too. Then away. Then back again.
“You’ve looked at that thing six times,” she said.
“I have not.”
Her mouth curved faintly. “You absolutely have.”
“Five.”
She rolled her eyes.
The corner of his mouth twitched. Neither of them moved.
Then she pushed away from the counter. “I should probably get dressed.”
Robby nodded once. “Probably.”
She took three steps toward the hallway before stopping. Turning back. “Michael?”
“Yeah?”
Her fingers twisted together briefly. Just once. “I’m glad you’re coming.”
Robby went still. Not dramatically. Just enough. His gaze lifted to hers.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. Then, because he couldn’t help himself, “Me too.”
Something crossed her face. Soft. Scared. Almost gone before he could name it.
Then she pointed at him. “Don’t make this weird.”
His laugh followed her down the hallway. Then the house went quiet again. Robby stood in the kitchen for a second longer, one hand braced against the counter, listening to the soft sounds of her moving around in the guest room.
A drawer opened. A closet door shifted. The old floorboards creaked beneath her feet. Normal sounds. Temporary sounds, he reminded himself.
He looked down at the mug she had left beside the sink. Then at the hallway. Then back at the clock.
9:06.
Plenty of time, which somehow made it worse.
Robby pushed away from the counter and headed for his own room to change, telling himself he was not the kind of man who cared what shirt he wore to an ultrasound appointment. Five minutes later, standing in front of his closet, he realized that was apparently a lie.
He had rejected one T-shirt for looking too much like sleepwear. Then a button-down for looking like he was trying too hard. Now he was holding a plain dark shirt and wondering when clothing had become complicated.
“It’s an ultrasound,” he muttered.
The shirt remained unhelpful.
Robby pulled it on anyway. By the time he stepped back into the hallway, her bedroom door had opened again. He heard her footsteps pause near the entryway mirror.
Then she came into view, smoothing the front of her sweater with one hand, her bag already hooked over her shoulder. Her hair was neater now, though a few loose strands had escaped around her face.
She looked like herself. Nervous. Still a little sleepy. Standing in his hallway before a doctor’s appointment she had asked him to come to.
Dangerous, his brain supplied. Because he was starting to like that far too much.
She caught him looking. “What?”
Robby glanced down at his keys. “Nothing.”
“That was definitely a something.”
“I changed my shirt three times for a doctor’s appointment.”
She blinked. “Three?”
“We’re not discussing it.”
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. “Oh my God.”
Her mouth twitched, but the nerves were still there. He could see them in the way she adjusted the strap of her bag twice.
“You ready?” he asked.
“Define ready.”
“Shoes on. Purse. Phone. Willingness to enter a medical building.”
“Three out of four.”
“Good enough.”
That got a small laugh out of her.
Robby opened the door, then paused. “Do you want me to drive?”
She looked at him. The question hung there, gentle and practical. Not because she couldn’t. Because he was offering one less thing for her to carry.
After a second, she nodded. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “If you don’t mind.”
He shook his head. “I don’t.”
And somehow, when she handed him the keys, it felt like more than driving.
Robby closed his fingers around them before he could examine that thought too closely.
The morning air was cool when they stepped outside. The driveway still glistened from the rain.
She started toward the truck while he locked the front door behind them. By the time he caught up, she was reaching for the passenger handle. Robby stepped around her automatically and pulled the door open first.
She stopped. So did he. For half a second, they just looked at each other.
“Sorry,” he said immediately.
Her eyebrows lifted. “For opening a door?”
“It was a reflex.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. “What a monster.”
“I know.”
“Someone should probably stop you.”
“Probably.”
She shook her head and climbed into the truck.
Robby shut the door gently behind her. Then stood there for a second longer than necessary. Because somewhere between Vegas and now, little things had started mattering. And that was becoming a problem.
The drive took twenty minutes. Twenty minutes Robby had made a thousand times before. He knew every turn. Every traffic light. Every shortcut.
Usually, he drove toward the hospital thinking about patients. Charts. Residents. Coffee. Today, he spent most of the drive trying not to think about the fact that there was a baby waiting at the end of it.
Beside him, she stared out the window. Quiet. Her fingers twisted once around the strap of her bag. Then stopped. Nervous. He recognized it immediately. Because he wasn’t exactly calm himself. The hospital came into view. And for the first time in years, walking into Pittsburgh Trauma didn’t feel routine. Usually, the hospital put him on autopilot. Badge. Waiting room. Coffee. Floor.
Today, he found himself checking whether she was keeping up. Which was ridiculous. She was walking directly beside him. Still, every few steps, his attention drifted back anyway. Not because she needed help. Just because she was here. Beside him. At his hospital. For his baby.
That familiarity usually made him comfortable. Today, it mostly made him aware of where they were going. Women’s Health. Ultrasound. Baby.
Beside him, she adjusted the strap of her bag again. Nervous. Somehow reassuring. At least one of them was behaving normally.
They rode the elevator up in silence. Not awkward silence. Elevator silence. The kind everyone fell into when trapped in a metal box with strangers. A woman carrying a toddler got off on the third floor. An older man with a cane got on. The doors opened and closed.
The hospital moved around them in its usual rhythm, which made it stranger when the Women’s Health waiting room appeared around the corner and his stomach immediately tightened.
A receptionist looked up from behind the desk.
“Good morning.”
She stepped forward before he could. Which was probably better for everyone involved. He had already caught himself reaching for her paperwork twice in the parking garage.
She handled the check-in while he stood beside her pretending not to notice that he was suddenly very interested in a framed poster about prenatal nutrition.
A few minutes later they were sitting side by side in the waiting room. Not touching. Not talking much. Just waiting. Across from them, a couple flipped through a baby name book. Somebody’s phone played a lullaby from across the room trying to soothe their baby. A nurse appeared in the doorway and called another patient’s name. The room settled again.
Robby looked over. She was staring at a spot on the floor. Thinking. Worrying. Probably both.
“Hey.”
Her eyes lifted. “Yeah?”
“You okay?”
She exhaled through her nose. “Ask me again in an hour.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Fair.”
For a while, neither of them spoke. Somehow, sitting beside her made all of it feel different. The appointment sat only a few doors away now. No longer tomorrow. No longer later. Just waiting.
The waiting room door opened. A nurse stepped out with a tablet in one hand, glanced down at the screen, then looked up.
“Robinavitch?”
Robby’s chest tightened before he could stop it. Strange. Almost nobody called him Robinavitch.
He was Robby. To patients. To nurses. To friends. Hell, half the hospital probably wasn’t entirely sure Robinavitch was his actual last name. Usually when he heard it, it meant paperwork. Administration. Somebody looking for a signature. Something official.
Beside him, she looked up too.
Robinavitch.
Her name now. Technically. Legally. Temporarily, he reminded himself. Except it didn’t sound temporary coming from someone else’s mouth. It sounded real. Like the world had decided what they were before either of them had figured it out themselves.
The nurse glanced between them.
“Robinavitch?”
She stood first. “That’s us.”
Us.
The word shouldn’t have done anything. Casual. Harmless. Meant to answer a nurse’s question and nothing more. Instead it landed somewhere behind his ribs and stayed there. Because first it had been the house. Then breakfast. Then the drive. Then walking through the hospital together. And now a waiting room full of strangers hearing a name neither of them quite knew what to do with.
Robby stood a second after her. The roller coaster had officially left the station.
The nurse smiled politely, either not noticing or choosing not to.
“This way.”
Robby stepped beside her as they followed the nurse through the door. The hallway beyond was quiet. That was the first thing that threw him. Not hospital quiet. Outpatient quiet. No alarms. No trauma pagers. No shouted orders. No wheels rattling too fast over tile.
Just muted voices behind closed doors, posters about prenatal vitamins, and the soft click of the nurse’s shoes ahead of them.
Robby knew the ER. He knew the route from ambulance bay to trauma room half-asleep. This side of the hospital was different. Not foreign exactly. Just not his. Not in the way the ER was his. And this was her first time here with this office. Her first visit with the new doctor. Her first step into the version of care he had helped point her toward. That realization made him keep his hands in his pockets.
The nurse glanced over her shoulder. “Any changes since you scheduled?”
She answered before Robby could even think about helping.
“No. Everything’s the same.”
Robby kept his hands in his pockets. Better. Because every instinct he had was already leaning too far forward. She didn’t need him to take control. She just needed him here.
The nurse pushed open the exam room door.
“You can go ahead in. The sonographer will be with you in a few minutes.”
She stepped inside first. Robby followed. The room was smaller than he expected. Not cramped. Just close. The exam table sat against one wall, covered in fresh white paper. Cabinets lined the other. A large monitor screen hung opposite the bed, dark and waiting.
Robby’s eyes immediately landed on it and stayed there.
“Well.”
She glanced over. “What?”
He pointed at the screen.
“I see where the hospital budget went.”
Her eyes followed his. The corner of her mouth twitched. “The monitor?”
“That thing is bigger than the TV at the house.”
“That seems like a very specific complaint.”
“It is.”
She shook her head.
Robby nodded toward the screen.
“Meanwhile, there’s a supply cart downstairs that only turns left.”
A small laugh escaped her. It wasn’t much. But he’d take it.
The paper crinkled softly as she sat on the edge of the table. Robby looked away before his brain could do anything stupid like offer a hand she didn’t need.
Instead he dropped into the chair beside the wall. Not too close. Not too far. Close enough that if she wanted him there, he was there.
The room settled around them. Quiet. The kind of quiet that made every thought louder.
His gaze drifted back to the screen. Still dark. Still waiting. Because the second that screen turned on, this stopped being an appointment. It became a baby. Her baby. His baby. Their baby. The thought hit harder than he expected.
He cleared his throat.
“So,” he said, because apparently silence was no longer an option, “what are we hoping for today?”
She looked over. “A healthy baby?”
“Good answer.”
“I feel like there was a right answer and I missed it.”
“There wasn’t.”
Her smile softened. “Then healthy baby.”
Robby nodded once. Healthy baby. Simple enough. The problem was that his chest had already moved several steps beyond simple. And judging by the way his eyes kept drifting back to the dark screen, it wasn’t slowing down anytime soon.
The room settled into silence again. Not awkward. Just waiting. Somewhere down the hall, a door opened and closed. Voices drifted briefly through the wall before fading again. The hospital carried on around them. Appointments. Lab work. Routine. Ordinary.
Robby had spent years watching people walk into rooms like this. Nervous. Excited. Terrified. Sometimes all three at once. Then they came back out carrying grainy black-and-white photos like they had been handed proof of magic. He understood it in theory. He wasn’t sure he understood it in practice.
Beside him, she adjusted the hem of her sweater. A small movement. Restless. His eyes dropped automatically. Seventeen weeks. Still early enough that most people probably wouldn’t notice. Early enough that she could still hide it beneath loose clothes if she wanted. Not that she had been trying lately.
His throat tightened unexpectedly. Because there was a baby in there. An actual baby. Not paperwork. Not a Vegas mistake. Not an abstract future problem for Responsible Future Robby to figure out. A baby. Their baby.
The exam room door opened before his brain could make the situation worse. A woman in navy scrubs stepped inside carrying a tablet. Smiling.
“Good morning.”
Robby immediately sat up straighter. The sonographer looked between them and smiled.
“I’m Melissa. How are we doing today?”
Robby opened his mouth. Then immediately closed it. Because the question wasn’t for him.
Beside him, she let out a breath. “Nervous.”
Melissa laughed softly. “Good. That means you’re normal.”
Robby glanced toward the giant screen. Melissa followed his gaze, amusement softening her face.
“First ultrasound together?” Melissa asked.
Robby cleared his throat. “You can tell?”
“Little bit.”
Beside him, a quiet laugh escaped her too. “We’re being subtle.”
“Extremely,” Melissa agreed.
“Good,” Robby said. “That was the goal.”
The smile stayed on Melissa’s face. “Trust me. You wouldn’t be the first nervous parents I’ve seen.”
Parents. There it was again. Another word that should have felt simple. Another word that somehow didn’t. Beside him, the mother of his child shifted slightly on the table.
Melissa picked up the ultrasound wand. “Alright,” she said gently. “Let’s meet this little person.”
And just like that, every thought in Robby’s head disappeared. The room got very quiet.
Melissa dimmed the lights. The screen glowed softly against the wall. The sonographer rolled the stool closer and pulled the machine beside the table. Routine. Efficient. Movements they probably performed thousands of times.
Robby watched every single one.
“Alright,” Melissa said gently. “This gel is going to be a little cold.”
“I’ve been warned.”
Melissa laughed. “Good.”
The bottle clicked softly against the counter.
A second later, a sharp breath escaped from the table.
Melissa smiled. “Cold?”
“I feel like that question answers itself.”
Melissa picked up the probe and turned toward the monitor.
Robby’s gaze followed automatically. Nothing. Gray static. Shadows. Shapes he couldn’t make sense of. His heart started pounding anyway.
Beside him, the tension coming from the exam table matched his own. The room seemed to shrink. Melissa moved the probe slightly. The image shifted. Then shifted again. Melissa’s smile softened.
“There we go.”
Robby leaned forward before he realized he’d moved. On the screen, something appeared. Not a blob. Not this time. A baby. Small. Curled. Unmistakably a baby.
Robby’s breath caught. Seventeen weeks. He knew what seventeen weeks looked like. He knew the developmental milestones. He knew the anatomy. He knew all the medical facts. None of them prepared him for seeing it.
Seeing them. Tiny arms. Tiny legs. A head. A spine. A whole person where his brain had apparently still been expecting an idea.
“Wow,” came the soft whisper from the table.
The word barely made it out.
Melissa smiled at the screen. “Baby’s moving all over the place today.”
As if on cue, one little arm jerked upward.
Robby stared. Then stared harder. Because the baby had moved. Actually moved. Not in theory. Not in a textbook. Not on someone else’s ultrasound.
Hers.
His.
Their.
The realization hit so hard it left him momentarily speechless. Which, judging by the way she immediately looked over from the table, was unusual enough to be concerning.
“You okay?” came the soft question from the table.
Robby didn’t answer right away. His eyes never left the screen.
“That’s a baby.”
Melissa laughed. “That is generally what we’re hoping for.”
He heard the joke. He even understood the joke. But he couldn’t stop staring.
Because somehow, somewhere between Vegas and this room, a future he’d spent months trying not to imagine had just waved at him from a television screen.
Melissa clicked another measurement, then another. “Growth looks right on track.”
From the table beside him, a breath slipped out like it had been held too long. Robby looked toward her, but her eyes stayed fixed on the screen. So did his.
“Everything looks good so far,” Melissa said gently.
Good. The word should have helped. It did. It also made something in him worse. Because now there was room for the feelings he had been keeping behind locked doors.
Melissa adjusted the angle again. “Have you heard the heartbeat yet?”
Robby’s eyes lifted.
Beside him, the question seemed to freezed the room for a second.
“No,” came the quiet answer.
Melissa smiled. “Want to?”
The answer was obvious.
Still, Robby couldn’t seem to find his voice.
Beside him, she nodded first. “Yeah.”
Melissa adjusted something on the machine. For a second, there was only static. A rushing sound filled the room.
Then—
Fast. Steady. Unmistakable. The heartbeat filled the small room.
Robby froze. Completely. His eyes stayed on the screen, but the sound moved through him before he could do anything to stop it.
That wasn’t a possibility. That wasn’t paperwork. That wasn’t Vegas. That wasn’t a mistake he could organize into something manageable. That was a heartbeat. His child had a heartbeat. The sound kept going. Rapid and strong and real.
And Robby felt something inside him give way. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just enough that the breath left his chest and did not come back right. He blinked once. Then again. It didn’t help. From the table, a small sound slipped out, barely more than a breath. He still couldn’t look at her. If he looked at her, he was done. So he stared at the screen. At the tiny shape. At the flicker of movement. At proof.
Melissa kept talking softly, explaining the rate, explaining that everything sounded good, but Robby barely heard the sonographer.
The heartbeat was too loud.
Not in the room.
In him.
It filled every place he had tried to keep empty. Every careful corner he had used for logic. Insurance. Appointments. Schedules. The guest room. The car seat he had not let himself think about yet. The crib he had refused to picture. The future he had kept folded up small enough to pretend he wasn’t holding it.
There was no folding this.
No making it manageable.
No pretending this was still an abstract problem two adults could calmly solve if they just stayed reasonable enough.
That sound was not reasonable. It was alive. Fast and steady and stubborn.
His child. His child was real.
Not someday. Not later. Not after they figured out what they were, where she would live, whether she would stay, what name would go on the forms, how much of this life he was allowed to want.
Now. Right now.
On a screen in front of him. Inside her. Beside him.
Every thought Robby had been using to hold himself together split clean down the middle.
He blinked once. Then again. It didn’t help. The heartbeat kept going. Rapid. Relentless. Beautiful. And somewhere between one beat and the next, he realized he was crying.
Quietly. Completely. Without any ability to stop it.
He tried to look away. Couldn’t. Tried to breathe through it. Couldn’t do that right either. The tears slipped down before he could stop them, hot and quiet against his face.
Robby lifted one hand, like maybe he could wipe them away quickly enough that no one would notice. Too late. From the table, movement shifted. Then her hand found his. Not careful. Not pitying. Just there. Warm fingers sliding into his like she had decided, in the middle of all that sound, that he didn’t have to stand outside it alone.
Robby looked down at their hands. At first, he didn’t move. Then his fingers closed around hers. The heartbeat kept going. Fast. Steady. Alive.
Melissa said something about the rate being strong, but Robby barely heard it.
Robby looked back at the screen, heart cracked wide open, and thought helplessly that if this was what temporary felt like, he was in serious trouble.
He still didn’t fully trust his voice. On the monitor, the baby shifted again, one tiny leg kicking out before disappearing into gray.
A breathless laugh slipped from the table. “That’s so weird.”
Robby looked down. Her bright eyes stayed fixed on the screen.
“Yeah,” he said roughly. “A little.”
Melissa smiled. “I can print some pictures for you.”
Robby’s chest tightened all over again. Pictures. Something real. Something to take home. He glanced over before he could stop himself. This time, he wasn’t the only one looking.
Neither of them spoke. Then the hand in his squeezed once.
“Yeah,” came the soft answer. “We’d like that.”
We.
Robby looked back at the screen before his face could do anything else stupid.
Melissa printed the pictures before they left.
Robby accepted them like he knew how to hold trauma shears, scalpels, a whole human life in his hands, but not this. Not paper. Not proof.
—
The drive home was quieter than the drive there.
She rested her head against the window, one hand curled loosely over the folded strip of ultrasound photos in her lap. Robby kept both hands on the wheel and did not look at the pictures again.
Not because he didn’t want to. Because he wanted to too much.
Back at the house, she made it halfway through lunch before the exhaustion caught up to her. He noticed the yawn. Then the second one.
By the third, he said, “Go lie down.”
She argued on principle. Badly. Ten minutes later, her bedroom door clicked shut. Her room. Robby stopped with one hand on the counter. No—guest room—Temporary. The correction sat badly in his chest. Then the house went quiet.
Robby stood in the kitchen. The ultrasound pictures sat on the counter. Her mug sat beside the sink. Her shoes were by the door. The house looked exactly the same as it had that morning. It felt completely different.
He looked at the pictures. Then away. Then back again. One small strip of glossy paper, and somehow it made the whole house feel rearranged. He picked one up carefully, thumb resting against the white edge so he wouldn’t smudge the image. Tiny profile. Tiny spine. A shape he could recognize now.
His throat tightened. “Jesus,” he muttered.
The picture did not answer. Probably for the best. He set it down. Then immediately picked it back up. Worse. Definitely worse. The baby was real.
Not that the baby hadn’t been real before. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew how biology worked. He had known since she came to Pittsburgh, since the first ultrasound photo she’d shown him, and every insurance form and practical conversation after.
But there was knowing. And then there was hearing. There was seeing movement on a screen. Hearing a heartbeat fill a room. Bringing home proof in glossy black and white and setting it on his counter beside her half-finished glass of water.
That was different. Worse. His gaze drifted toward the hallway. Nothing moved. She was asleep. As she should be. She needed it. He told himself he was checking. Not lingering. There was a difference. Probably.
The house pressed in around him. Not unpleasantly. That was the problem. It was warm. Lived in. Quiet in a way that had started meaning something else now. Her mug. Her shoes. Her room. No. Guest room.
Robby exhaled sharply and set the ultrasound picture back on the counter like it had personally complicated his life. He grabbed his keys before his brain could start another argument. He needed air before the house started feeling any more like something he could lose.
Twenty minutes later, he was on the bike. The city moved around him in familiar pieces. Wet pavement. Traffic lights. A delivery truck double-parked in a lane it had no business occupying. Construction cones that had apparently become permanent residents of the street.
Usually, riding helped. Usually, the engine gave his brain something simple to hold onto. Throttle. Brake. Lean. Balance. Road. Today, all it did was make the quiet inside his helmet louder. He stopped at a red light and looked straight ahead. A woman crossed the street pushing a stroller with one hand and holding a toddler’s raincoat hood with the other.
Robby stared. The light turned green. Someone honked behind him. He rolled forward.
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered.
That was the problem, apparently. Three weeks ago, he would not have noticed the stroller. Or maybe he would have noticed it, because he noticed everything, but it wouldn’t have landed. It would have been a detail. A scene. Somebody else’s life happening at the edge of his.
Now everything had hooks. A car seat in the back of a minivan. A man carrying a diaper bag over one shoulder with the stunned expression of someone who had not slept since 2005. A kid in yellow boots stomping deliberately through a puddle while his father pretended not to see it.
The bike turned onto Duke’s street almost by habit. Robby didn’t remember deciding to go there. Which was probably telling. He pulled into the lot and cut the engine. The silence after the engine died felt too sudden.
For a moment, he stayed there, helmet still on, both hands wrapped around the handlebars, staring at the shop doors. Temporary. The word surfaced again. He hated it more every time. Finally, he climbed off the bike and headed inside.
Duke was bent under the hood of an old truck when Robby walked in, one arm buried elbow-deep in an engine bay, a rag hanging out of his back pocket. The radio played low from somewhere near the workbench.
He didn’t look up right away.
“You’re late,” Duke said. “I was starting to think the bike fixed itself.”
“It didn’t.”
“Good.”
Robby frowned. “Good?”
“If it fixed itself, I’d be out of a job. What took so long?”
“Got distracted.”
“By what?”
“Life.”
Duke stared at him. “That’s usually a bad sign.”
“Hasn’t killed me yet.”
“Give it time.”
Robby snorted.
Duke tossed the rag onto the workbench.
“So,” he said, turning toward the bike. “You gonna tell me what it’s doing, or am I supposed to commune with it spiritually?”
“It’s got a rattle.”
“Beautiful. Very descriptive.”
“Cold start mostly.”
Duke’s expression shifted slightly. Not much. Just enough to show the mechanic in him had taken over.
“Idle?”
“Yeah.”
“Settles once she warms up?”
“Usually.”
Duke crouched beside the bike and tilted his head like he was listening to something that wasn’t there yet.
“Mileage?”
Robby told him.
Duke made a face.
“That your professional opinion?”
“My professional opinion is that you should’ve brought her in sooner.”
“Helpful.”
“I try.”
Duke reached for a flashlight from the rolling cart and angled it toward the engine. “Could be a couple things.”
“Such as?”
“Cam chain tensioner’s high on the list.”
Robby looked down at the bike. “That’s what she thought.”
Duke paused just long enough for Robby to notice.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“She heard it?”
“No.”
Duke blinked. “No?”
“I described it.”
Duke stared at him for another second, then slowly looked back at the bike. “You described a noise.”
“Yes.”
“And she landed on cam chain tensioner?”
“Apparently.”
Duke was quiet and crouched again, flashlight sweeping along the bike. “She ride?”
“Not really. Her dad does.”
“Worked on his own bikes?”
“Yeah, taught her how to fix them and everything.”
Duke nodded slowly. “Sounds like it.”
Robby watched him work a little longer.
The shop smelled like oil, metal, rubber, and old coffee. Familiar. Easier than the house had been. Easier than the hospital room. Easier than the strip of ultrasound pictures still sitting on his kitchen counter.
Duke stood and stretched his back.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s right.”
Robby looked away too fast.
Duke saw it. “Well.”
Robby immediately frowned. “What?”
“Now I’m curious.”
“About what?”
Duke looked at him like the answer should have been obvious. “The woman you’ve got hiding in your house.”
“She’s not hiding.”
“Living in your house.”
“Temporarily.”
Duke’s eyebrows lifted. “Sure.”
Robby sighed. “Don’t.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“You’re about to.”
“Probably.” Duke grinned. “I’m just saying, most people describe a motorcycle noise with words like weird.”
“Fair.”
“They don’t usually jump straight to possible causes.”
“Like I said, her dad taught her.”
“Apparently he knew what he was doing.”
Robby shrugged, but it came out too small to mean much. “Apparently.”
Duke looked at him for half a second longer, then seemed to decide something. He reached for a wrench and tossed it toward him.
Robby caught it automatically.
“You helping or standing there looking tragic?”
“I don’t look tragic.”
“You look like a man who lost a fight with his own face.” Duke pointed toward the side panel. “Take that off.”
Robby crouched beside the bike without arguing. That was easier. Tools were easier. Metal was easier. Engines made sense. A rattle meant something was loose, worn, tired, misaligned. There was always a reason. Always a source. Always something to tighten, replace, adjust, or take apart until the problem finally admitted what it was. People were worse.
He loosened the first bolt. Duke worked on the other side of the bike, quiet now. Not ignoring him. Just waiting. That was the thing about Duke. He acted like a pain in the ass, and usually was, but he knew when to shut up better than most people Robby knew.
The ratchet clicked between them. Once. Twice. Three times.
Then Duke said, not looking up, “Ultrasound today?”
Robby’s hand stopped. Only for a second. Then he kept working.
“Yeah.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah.”
Duke nodded once. “Good.”
Robby loosened another bolt. The word sat there. Good. Simple. Too simple.
He stared down at the bike. “We heard the heartbeat.”
Duke didn’t look up right away. Just handed him another tool.
“That’s a hell of a thing,” he said.
Robby swallowed. “Yeah,” he said, voice rougher than he wanted. “It is.”
Duke kept the flashlight steady.
Robby stared at the bike. “I’ve heard thousands of heartbeats.”
Duke glanced over.
Robby kept his eyes on the engine. “Probably tens of thousands at this point.” His fingers tightened around the wrench. “Trauma bays. Exam rooms. ICU monitors. Ultrasounds.” He shrugged. “It’s just physiology.”
Duke’s mouth twitched. “Just physiology.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
Robby looked down. “Heart’s supposed to be beating at seventeen weeks.”
“That’s generally the goal.”
“Everything looked normal.”
“Good.”
“Yeah.”
Duke adjusted the flashlight.
“And that’s not what’s bothering you.”
Robby stared at the bike.
“No.”
Duke nodded like he’d expected that answer.
“Didn’t think so.”
Normal didn’t settle. Because normal wasn’t the problem. That’s what he’d been trying to explain to himself all day. Nothing was wrong. Nothing. Healthy pregnancy. Healthy baby. Appropriate development. Appropriate heart rate. Every box checked. Every milestone exactly where it was supposed to be. And somehow that had made it worse.
Robby stared at the bike for a long moment. “I spent weeks thinking about this like it was a problem to solve.”
Duke stayed quiet.
“Insurance. Housing. Appointments. Logistics.” Another turn of the wrench. “Action items.”
“You like action items.”
Robby exhaled. “Then today happened.”
The words hung there.
“And?”
Robby laughed once. Short. Disbelieving.
“And apparently that’s not an action item.”
Duke’s eyebrows lifted. “Hearing your kid’s heartbeat isn’t a problem you can solve.”
Robby’s jaw tightened. “No.”
Because that was the thing. He couldn’t organize it. Couldn’t schedule it. Couldn’t chart it. Couldn’t put it in a folder and come back to it later. It had simply happened. One second there was a monitor. The next there was a person. And Robby had not been prepared for the difference.
Duke didn’t answer right away. He just shifted the flashlight slightly and let Robby sit with it. That was worse, somehow.
The shop sounds filled in around them. The low radio. A socket rolling somewhere on the workbench. Traffic hissing past outside on wet pavement.
Robby turned the wrench again. Too tight. He stopped before he stripped the bolt.
Duke noticed.
“Careful,” Duke said.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Robby shot him a look.
Duke only lifted his brows and held the flashlight steady.
For a while, neither of them said anything.
Then Robby looked back at the engine and said, quieter, “I thought the baby was what scared me.”
Duke stayed still. “Isn’t it?”
Robby’s jaw shifted once. “No,” he said. “Not anymore.”
The admission sat between them, small and ugly and too honest for the middle of a mechanic’s shop.
Duke waited. Robby hated that too. He loosened another bolt. Set it carefully on the floor beside him.
“I can handle being a father,” he said, like he was trying the words out for size. “I mean, I’ll screw things up. Everybody does. But I can show up. I can learn. I can be there.”
Duke nodded once. “Yeah.”
Robby stared down at the bike. The next part got caught somewhere behind his ribs. He almost swallowed it. Almost.
“She’s probably going back to Nevada.”
Duke’s hand stilled around the flashlight. Not much. Just enough.
“There it is,” he said quietly.
Robby’s mouth tightened. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said ‘there it is.’ That’s something.”
“Barely.”
Robby exhaled through his nose and looked toward the open garage door. “She has a life there.”
“Does she?”
“I don’t know.” The answer came too fast. Too sharp. He forced his voice flatter. “Friends. Work. History. A place that isn’t here.”
Duke was quiet.
Robby kept going, because apparently the damage had already started.
“This was never supposed to be permanent. The house. The room. Any of it.” He glanced down at the wrench in his hand. “She needed somewhere safe. I had somewhere safe. That’s all it was.”
“Was?”
Robby closed his eyes for half a second. Damn it. Duke didn’t even sound smug. That made it worse.
Robby opened his eyes and looked back at the bike. “I don’t know what it is now.”
Duke nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “That sounds about right.” Duke shifted the flashlight again. “Sounds like you’re waiting for her to decide what your life looks like.”
Robby’s head snapped up. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“No?”
“No.”
Duke gave him a look.
Robby hated the look.
“I’m trying not to decide it for her,” he said.
Robby looked back at the bike. “She didn’t ask for this. Any of it. Vegas happened. The baby happened. Then Pittsburgh happened because it was the practical choice.”
“Practical,” Duke repeated.
“Yes.”
“You hate that word right now.”
Robby tightened his grip on the wrench.
Duke leaned back against the workbench. “You want her to stay.”
Robby didn’t answer. The silence did it for him.
Duke nodded once, like that was all the confirmation he needed.
Robby stared at the engine. “I want the baby to have both of us.”
“Sure.”
His jaw flexed. “That’s a good reason.”
“It is.”
“And the house has room.”
“Also true.”
“And it would make appointments easier. Schedules. Work. Childcare.”
Duke’s mouth twitched faintly. “Lot of action items.”
Robby looked at him.
Duke lifted both hands. “Just saying.”
Robby exhaled hard and looked away. Because Duke was right. Those were reasons. Real ones. Good ones. They just weren’t the whole truth. The whole truth was quieter. More selfish. More dangerous.
The whole truth was that Robby had come home too many times to her dinner in the microwave. Her blanket on the couch. Her voice from the kitchen asking if he wanted coffee. Her shoes by the door. And now he knew what the house sounded like with her in it. Which meant he knew exactly what it would sound like without her.
“I don’t know how to ask,” he said finally.
Duke’s expression softened, but only barely. He wasn’t cruel enough to joke there.
“Then don’t ask yet.”
Robby frowned. “That your advice?”
“That’s my advice.”
“That’s terrible advice.”
“No,” Duke said. “Terrible advice would be telling a pregnant woman who just moved her whole life across the country that you’ve decided she should stay because your house feels less depressing with her in it.”
Robby winced.
“Yeah,” Duke said. “See? Bad pitch.”
“Glad you’re enjoying this.”
“I’m enjoying you finally having a problem you can’t organize into a spreadsheet.”
“I don’t use spreadsheets.”
“You know what I mean.”
Robby rolled his eyes.
Duke leaned back against the workbench.
“Besides, you’re looking at this wrong.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
Duke shrugged. “You’re acting like she’s already got one foot out the door.”
“She does.”
“Does she?”
“Nevada’s home.”
“Nevada’s where she used to live.”
Robby frowned.
Duke pointed a wrench at him. “Not the same thing.”
“That’s a stretch.”
“Is it?”
Duke walked back toward the bike. “Let me ask you something.”
“You’re talking about Nevada like she’s sitting around homesick all day.”
“Maybe she is.”
“Maybe.”
Duke set a socket on the workbench. “Or maybe she’s bored.”
Robby looked at him. “What?”
“She’s a nurse, right?”
“Was. Then a bartender.”
“Still has the brain.”
“Fair.”
Duke pointed toward the shop. “Girl diagnoses a motorcycle from your description and you’re telling me she’s happy sitting around a house waiting for the next appointment?”
Robby opened his mouth. Closed it.
Duke's mouth twitched. “Thought so.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is she sounds like she’s got a brain that doesn’t do well sitting still.” Duke folded his arms. “Half the reason this place still exists is because people smarter than me occasionally stop me from doing something stupid.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“What I’m saying,” Duke continued, ignoring him completely, “is maybe she needs something that’s hers.”
Robby’s eyebrows pulled together.
Duke gestured around the garage. “I’m not talking about a job.”
“Then what?”
“Somewhere to go. Something to do. A reason to leave your house that isn’t an appointment.”
Robby didn’t answer.
Duke shrugged. “I hate answering phones.”
Despite himself, Robby laughed. “You do.”
“I hate ordering parts.”
“You definitely do.”
“I hate customers describing noises.”
“Nobody likes that.”
Duke pointed at him. “Exactly. And apparently she’s better at it than half the people who walk in here.”
“So your solution is to put a pregnant woman in a garage?”
“My solution is giving a smart woman somewhere she can be useful without feeling trapped.”
Robby looked away.
Duke’s voice softened just a little. “There’s a difference.”
And the worst part was, Robby could actually picture it.
Her sitting behind the counter. Arguing with Duke. Rolling her eyes at customers. Calling him an idiot when he ignored obvious advice. Laughing. Comfortable. Like she belonged there. The image settled somewhere dangerous in his chest.
Duke caught the look on his face. “See?”
“Don’t.”
Duke grinned. “Didn’t even have to say anything.”
Robby looked down at the wrench in his hand. “You’re making it sound simple.”
“It’s simple.”
“It’s not.”
“No,” Duke agreed. “But it’s less complicated than whatever you’re doing in your head.”
Robby huffed a humorless laugh.
Duke picked up the flashlight again and angled it toward the engine. “You don’t have to ask her to stay forever tomorrow.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
Robby shot him a look.
Duke ignored it. “You know, this isn’t really about her.”
“Here we go.”
“No, hear me out.”
Robby immediately regretted staying.
Duke pointed between them. “You need other people involved.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means right now her entire Pittsburgh social circle is you.”
Robby stopped.
Duke shrugged. “That’s a lot of pressure for two people who are still figuring out what the hell this is.”
“That’s annoyingly reasonable.”
“I know.”
“I hate it.”
“Also know that.”
Duke pointed toward the office. “Bring her by sometime.”
“Terrible plan.”
“Best I’ve got.”
Robby looked toward the open garage door. The idea sat there. Small. Practical. Dangerous. Not asking her to stay. Not asking her to choose Pittsburgh. Just giving her one more place where she could breathe. One more person who might know her as something other than pregnant, displaced, temporarily living in his house. One more root. The word made his chest tighten.
Something in Duke’s face softened.
“You want her to stay?” he asked.
Robby didn’t answer.
Duke nodded once, like the silence had done the work for him.
“Then don’t build a cage,” he said. “Build a place she might actually want to come back to.”
Robby looked at him then.
Duke shrugged and turned back to the bike. “And maybe start with the shop. Low stakes. Worst case, she hates me.”
“She probably will.”
“Perfect. Common ground.” Duke snorted and ducked back toward the bike.
After that, they worked in silence. Real silence this time. Not empty. Just easier.
Robby loosened bolts. Duke muttered insults at the engine. Somewhere outside, tires hissed over wet pavement. The radio kept playing low, some old rock song neither of them commented on.
The conversation didn’t fix anything. That was the annoying part. The baby was still real. The house still felt different. Nevada still sat somewhere in the back of Robby’s mind like a door he couldn’t lock. But the panic had shifted shape. Not gone. Just smaller. Something he could hold without bleeding all over it.
Duke tapped the side of the bike with the wrench. “Yeah. I’m gonna need to get in there properly.”
“Expensive?”
“Emotionally or financially?”
“Duke.”
“Probably both.”
Robby sighed.
Duke grinned. “Tell the motorcycle whisperer she may have been right.”
Robby looked down despite himself, mouth twitching. “I’ll mention it.”
By the time Robby left the shop, the sky had started clearing. The streets were still damp, but the clouds had thinned enough for late afternoon light to catch in the puddles along the curb. He pulled his helmet on and stood beside the bike for a second longer than necessary.
The shop. Low stakes. A place that wasn’t his house. A person who wasn’t him. One small root. Robby swung onto the bike and started the engine. This time, when the rattle caught beneath the idle, he heard her voice in his head before Duke’s.
Summary: You're the closest thing that J has as a friend, and after a fight with your parents, Smurf lets you stay at the house. The last thing that you expect from that is ending up in a deep conversation with J’s only uncle that you've heard say at least two words since you've been in the house. And Pope doesn't expect that you, of all people, would lead him into an existential crisis.
Disclaimer: English is not my first language, so I apologize if there are any spelling or grammatical errors.
You always fight with your parents, it wasn't something rare, you could spend more days mad and giving them the silent treatment than talking to them. You don't even remember how the fight started, just that you were too stubborn to give up your posture, and they were too. So it all ended with you being kicked out of the house. As usual, you would go to J’s apartment, he’ll give you a space on his bed because it wasn't a big place and the couch was shit. But now he lives with his grandma in a nice house that was frequented by his hot as hell uncles.
You didn't want to step into a place you didn't know, even if you had already met his grandma. You wandered all over Oceanside before the night hit, leaving you without an option, so you knocked on the door of the Cody's house and Smurf —J’s grandma— welcomed you with her arms open. She assured you that there was enough space for you to crash in until your parents welcomed you again. You thanked her, and it didn't take you too much time to know that it was better to stay on Smurf's good side than her bad side. You didn't really want to know what happened to the people that were on her bad side, but you knew it wasn't something good.
You shared a room with J, like old times, you denied Smurf’s offer to take one of her oldest son's rooms. You were used to sharing with J, hell, you would spend more time in J’s apartment than in your own house, and you didn't want to be a burden on everybody, and also J’s bed was much bigger than the one in his old apartment so you two were good.
But sharing a room means respecting the other person's sleep schedule, that's why you were on the couch with your laptop on your legs and a lot of textbooks and notebooks from school. You didn't want to wake up J so when he went to sleep you took all your things and moved to the living room. It is also where you were being watched by one of his uncles, the eldest one you believe, and also the one that you have heard say a total of two words since you have stayed at the place. You know he also watches J, but the way he watched you was different, not in the creepy way he does with your friend, it doesn't make you feel uncomfortable, all the contrary, it makes you feel safe.
That's why you didn't mind it, but it started to annoy you, he watches you but never approaches you.
“You know I don't bite, right?” you speak up towards him but still very focused on your homework.
He didn't say a thing, so you finally looked at him, standing too straight, too tense, and too deep in thought.
“You could sit down,” you offer, pointing at the largest couch, you just take a little corner, the rest of it —which was a lot— was free for him to sit. “If you want to stare it doesn't have to be from that far,” you add playfully.
When he didn't make a move you shrugged your shoulders and came back to your studies and you didn't catch his eye even though you heard him slump to the other end of the sofa. But a little smile grew on your face.
After some time and deep silence you speak again, without looking at him.
“So… should I call you Pope or Andrew?”
Silence… until.
“I don't care,” it was a low mumble combined with his deep voice, you could have barely heard him if it wasn't because the house was in complete silence.
“You don't care if I call you Andrew?” you ask again and when he doesn't reply you take it like a no.
Silence grows back, you focus on those chemistry problems that you can barely think of something to say, and he was too comfortable to say something and ruin it.
Until a loud growl comes from your stomach, you ignore it, but Andrew didn't.
“Are you hungry?” That was the first time he began a conversation with you.
“Yes, but before I go and eat something I have to finish this stupid chemistry problem that has been kicking my ass,” you muttered back with a frown looking between your textbooks and your notebook.
He just stood up and left, that kind of disappointed you, because you liked his company even if it was all silence and that deep stare that would have scared anyone but not you.
You didn't notice when he came back and stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room looking at you.
“Do you prefer it cut horizontally or vertically?”
You look at him confused.
“What?”
He didn't look at you, like suddenly your eyes on him made him shy.
“Your sandwich. Do you prefer it cut horizontally or vertically?” he clarifies, clearing his throat.
That makes you want to hug him, and say aww, but you control yourself and tell him how you prefer it. He nods and goes back to the kitchen. When he comes back it is with a plate with a sandwich on it and a glass of orange juice. He leaves it on the coffee table and sits down closer to you.
“Thank you, I really appreciate it, Andrew,” you said, taking the sandwich and starting to eat it.
He just nodded and watched you and he wandered his eyes into your textbooks realizing that they were not just chemistry, but also math and biology. You eat the whole sandwich and drink the juice before continuing with your studies.
But now that little gesture from him makes you feel too confident with him, so you start talking.
Too much.
“You know, I don't go that much to school, not because I don't like it, but because I can't wake up in the morning. I'll just go back to sleep and wake up too late for me to dress and go. It's kinda like a curse. That's why I repeated the same school year twice. A long time ago though.”
You get more comfortable in your place moving the pages of your textbooks while you talk and move your hand by force of habit.
“I want to leave Oceanside, I want to go to a cold place, I mean I like the beach but not the heat or the sand, it just sticks everywhere, but I like the sea. I just wish it would be just the sea and no sand.” You start to ramble about how you hate sand and hot days until you remember the point of your conversation. “Anyway, I just want to go to another place, but for that I have to graduate and for that I have to get good grades. That's why I pay for being so lazy, not going to school means studying double at home. And here I am.”
You start to ramble about wanting a big house one day, but not one of those big houses with modern architecture, you want something rural, in your words “something that you look at and say that's home, or that it's a cozy house” you also say that you want to go and live in a place that snows on Christmas so you could make snowmen or angels, get a big tree and decorate the whole house —something you apparently never had—. Andrew listens to everything you say, memorizing all of it, and the more he listens to you the more he realizes that all you want are clichés from typical movies, romantic movies.
“I want to be a mom one day, but I don't know if I'd be a good one.”
By that time your studies have been forgotten, your laptop set on the coffee table and your textbooks and notebooks set aside for you to be free and look at Andrew, that you could tell was really interested in all you were saying. Even if he hasn't said a word.
“Anyway, my final decision is that if one day I get married, and decide that my future husband would be a good father, I'll have children, but if not I won't. Because there are people that are good couples but won't be good fathers, and that's okay… I think so.”
After that it all gets quiet, he's not looking at you anymore, he's looking at his hands like he's thinking about your words, considering them. You don't know if you hit a sensitive nerve or if he just got bored of your yapping.
“You… you'll be a good mom, you should get somebody that'll be a good dad,” he mumbled, finding your eyes and you can see how sincere they are.
You give him a big smile that hits him hard because nobody has ever given him a smile like that with such a shine in your eyes that is not terror or something similar, like you're scared of him. You actually like when he speaks to you and he likes listening to your rambling, and he doesn't even know why.
“Thanks Andrew, I think you'll be a good father in the future. Would you like to be a father?” you asked, curious about it.
He didn't answer, he just looked at the floor as if your question had never been something to consider to him. And that makes another question pop up in your mind.
“Have you ever had dreams like mine? Leave? Have your own house? I don't know, something like that.”
Complete silence is what you get, but you can see on his face how his mood changes, he thinks about it and seems really confused when he doesn't find something to answer your question. And you understand that because you're no fool, you have seen how Smurf treats him, how Baz does. He can't answer because he doesn't have one, he hasn't let himself dream of being independent because that's the last thing Smurf wants for him, she has occupied his life and mind for him to never even think about leaving her, without dreams to pursue, the only thing he'll do is follow Smurf.
And realizing that makes your heart ache.
“Would you ever want to do something more? Finish school? Go to college?” you insist, approaching him without even noticing.
He still looks at the floor like a kid that has been caught stealing something.
He sighs. “I’m too old for that,” he mumbled.
By that time you are already side by side and you're looking directly at his profile. You liked Andrew and now you want to help him, there is something in you that tells you not to let him go, to help him realize.
“I don't think anyone is too old for something; finish school, get a degree. But no one is too old to have dreams.” you're sincere, placing your hand delicately on his back, you make him tense up under your touch, but after a few minutes you feel him relax and let go.
“Have you ever thought about leaving? Leave everything behind, have a new life, start from zero” you don't say leave Smurf, but you imply it. “You are an adult, a grown man, you get to decide what you want for your life, what you don't. Nobody should do that for you, never, no matter who that is. It's your choice.”
He doesn't answer, because you know he doesn't think like that, he has been raised to be how he is, loyal to the end to Smurf. And maybe you are the first person in his life to bring the possibility to him about leaving, to do what he wants. And you know it won't be easy to make him understand but you are willing to be the person to open his eyes and show him the world and choices that he has been losing all his life because of his mom, because of his family.
You lie down, letting your head fall on his lap and again you feel how tense he is before relaxing, you take both his hands and place them delicately on your hair. He tries to move his hands “massaging” your hair but they are just robotic moves, he doesn't know what to do but you don't tell him how to do it, you let him discover it by himself and after a few minutes he starts to play with your hair actually relaxing you and him, he's being so delicate towards you like if he touched you the wrong way he'll hurt you.
Sleep starts to hit you, you can barely keep your eyes open, but you don't want to sleep because you know that tomorrow all that moment would be in the past and you don't know how much time will pass before you are able to talk to him like this again. So you dig in your mind to find something more to say, anything.
“You know,” you mumble and he mumbles a small “what?” to let you know he's listening. “I know how to play the guitar, and I love it. I had a really old one but I dunno how my dad sold it. I thought of buying one and I found one from a really good brand, it was pink, like Barbie pink. It was expensive but I was saving to buy it. But my dad found my savings and used them to buy drugs.” You end the story like it has been just a bad joke.
It only makes Andrew hate your parents, especially your dad.
“Maybe one day I could buy one,” you mumbled before letting yourself fall asleep.
“Maybe,” he whispered, gently stroking your hair.
He stays awake too much in his mind to even think about sleep. Every word that you said has stuck in his mind, he rewinds them, sometimes thinking you're right, sometimes you're not, he tries to get to the conclusion that you don't know anything about life, you're just a naive young woman, a dreamer.
But is that bad, being a dreamer?
He doesn't know.
He is still wondering. Leave, where would he leave to? What would he do without his family? Without Smurf? He can't think, he doesn't have an answer and it starts to make him feel nauseated. Because maybe you're right. His head spins hearing the words coming from your mouth even if you're passed out on his lap for a solid four hours. But he can hear them clearly like you're repeating them right then and there.
He tries to clear his mind, takes you in his arms and lays you down in what was once his bed, now his nephew's, and which he shares with you even if it makes him feel a burning in his chest and stomach every time he sees you go to bed together, even though he knows you're not into him and he's not into you. It doesn't feel right.
Andrew leaves you behind even if his whole body screams at him to hold you until you wake up. But he feels so confused and it is so overwhelming to him that he has to go, he goes to his jeep and starts driving to his motel room that Smurf is paying for him and the words and possibilities that you have opened in his mind never leave him.
He eventually would go back to you. Because he wants more, he just has to realize that before.
This is the first time I've written about Pope, and I've actually had this idea saved in drafts since I finished the first season of Animal Kingdom.
Btw, I haven't finished the show, I'm just in season three and I don't know if I want to watch the last season. 😭
Tags: ex!reader, injuries (reader has a fractured rib), unresolved tension, probable medical inaccuracies (i tried my best), v brief non sexual nudity, mild angst, softness (it’s there, trust), they're still in love your honor!
Summary: You end up in the ED with none other than your ex-wife as your physician. It goes about as well as you'd expect.
Word count: 2.9k
It seemed inevitable. Not because you're particularly accident-prone, but because you're not usually in the universe's good graces, and if your ex-wife happened to be working at the closest emergency department to your home—well, then, you'll just so happen to be delivered right to her doorstep. That's the way of things. Distance tries to separate you—it puts up a mighty fight—but eventually, one way or another, you'll chase Baran. Baran will chase you.
It's a loop you've come to rely on.
You sit yourself in the seventh circle of hell, get your vitals checked, get sent back to the waiting room, follow a young nurse into a fluorescent-lighted maze, behind a curtain, and onto a bed—all without seeing her. But you know you will, sure as the sharp throb that echoes in your chest. Some delusional part of you thinks you can feel her, distantly, moving from room to room, skirting the space around you without her feeling it.
"A doctor will be with you in a minute." The nurse tells you. She props up the gurney so you can sit upright.
You nod as you lean back into it, managing a smile through the pain. It's already hard enough to breathe without the uncomfortably sharp smell of disinfectant, just barely blanketing the rusty scent of blood underneath.
You've always hated that smell. Hated how it clung to her curls, how you'd find it burrowed deep under her skin long after she'd leave the wretched place.
Really, you hated all of it. But mostly how it called to her. How she couldn't stop herself from answering.
The curtains swish open, stirring air. You lift your head, unable to stop the twitch in your mouth when your eyes find hers.
Bingo.
Baran's eyes widen, just the smallest bit, then dip down to comb over you. You feel every inch of her assessment as if her hands were prodding here and there, searching for wrongness she could fix.
"This is Y/N L/N." The nurse announces. "Came in for pain at the ribs, some trouble breathing."
Baran's gaze snaps back to yours. She blinks. You blink back.
The doctor beside her gives her a sideways glance before she steps up to your bedside. "Hi, Miss L/N." She smiles. "This is my attending, Doctor Al-Hashimi. I'm Student Doctor Javadi. We'll need to take a look at your lungs, if that's okay."
You nod, pulling yourself straighter as she unwinds the stethoscope from around her neck. Discomfort prickles your skin, the kind that follows a heavy, prolonged stare. Your eyes dart to the figure still looming at the foot of your bed.
Baran clears her throat. You just barely catch the short breath she takes in, steadying herself. "Have you suffered a blow to the chest? A fall, maybe, or an—"
"I fell." You say shortly. Her head tilts, eyes sharpening.
The silence grows. You reluctantly go on.
"I was going down the stairs, my son's toys were everywhere. I slipped. Landed on my chest."
"Take a deep breath for me, please."
You take one and wince, the inhale cutting off midway through. Pain flares in your side, a sharp throb that lingers even after you breathe out. It beats white-hot. The med student apologizes, but she prods for another one, the metal of her stethoscope cold as she shifts its position on your chest. Your fingers curl into a fist.
"Anything to break the fall?"
You shake your head, your voice coming out wheezy. "It happened fast."
"No absent breath sounds." She says, leaning back. Baran's nod is stiff.
"You'll need to check the area."
The med student turns to you. "Can I lift up your shirt?"
You do it yourself. The cold air of the ED is a small relief against your skin.
"Where does it hurt?"
You don't know if it's the roaring in your ears, but Baran's voice is dulled. Softened. You don't look at her as you gesture to your side, careful not to touch the sore area. It doesn't matter anyway. The girl does it for you, feeling gently along your abdomen until her fingers find the spot.
Your breath hitches. "Faint swelling," she murmurs, "…around the seventh rib… Let me know if you feel any tenderness." She hardly presses, but the pain responds anyway, too loud, too hot.
You inhale sharply.
"Stop." Baran's voice rings out. The girl snaps back on her heels, her hands raised. You sag back onto the gurney, letting your shirt down as Baran clears her throat and nods at the med student. "That's enough for us to know it's at least fractured." Her gaze shifts to you, not unkind. "We'll need to take you for an X-ray."
"Fun," you rasp. "Lead the way."
"I'll get you a gown." The nurse pipes up. The med student follows her out, saying something about coming back when the scan is done.
The curtain swishes closed around them, leaving you alone with your ex-wife. She hasn't moved from her spot—still rooted to the foot of your bed with her arms crossed, like she's standing guard. There's tension along her shoulders. The familiar glaze of concern in her eyes.
Silence crowds, but you don't have the stomach for it.
"Hello." You say tiredly, a headache starting to pulse at your temples. This is not how you wanted today to go.
She seems to unfreeze with that one word. Arms dropping, she clasps them behind her back and takes two steps closer to your bedside. Her voice loses its edge. "How bad is the pain?"
"It's fine." You mumble.
She gives you a look.
"A seven," you relent. "…and a half."
A small fissure blooms on her face, faint cracks rippling through her composure. She sucks in a deep breath—quite mean to do in front of you, if you're honest—and swallows, her mouth set.
"Usually, for rib fractures, there's nothing we can do except prescribe medication. Your scan will tell us more, however the fracture will likely heal on its own. Extreme cases require surgery, but otherwise it's ice packs and rest—no heavy lifting, no lying down."
"Okay." You say blankly. "Good to know."
She continues as if you haven't spoken. "I can have them give you a shot of—"
"No." You shake your head. "No shots."
You have too much shit to do already. You'd planned on making use of your son's absence by getting the house in order, running the errands you've been putting off for weeks—but of course, of course, you had to end up here. The last thing you need is to have some medication messing with your head, slowing you down further.
Baran lets out a breath, her hands curling around the rails of the gurney. "The effect won't last long. Clearly, you're uncomfortable. You might as well take something while you're here." You stay silent, and she pushes, knuckles poking sharp through her skin. "Karim is with my parents, there's no reason why you should be refusing—"
The sigh is out of your mouth before you can stop it. "I have shit to do, Baran." You snap.
"How exactly do you suppose you're going to do anything if you can't even take a full breath on your own? What's so important, anyway?" Her eyes blaze. "Laundry?"
The curtain swishes open.
"Oh—" The nurse shrinks back. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"
Baran lets go of your bed as if she'd been burned. Her eyes are still blazing as she turns and forces a smile, stiffer than the hand she lays on the nurse's shoulder. "Thank you, Emma." She says, deliberately even. "Please let me know when you get the result back."
She leaves without sparing you a glance.
-
You know the Pitt is notorious for its horrendous waiting times, but you still hadn't expected to wait an entire hour for the result of a simple X-ray. Hell, the actual scan itself had taken mere minutes.
You perk up when the curtain swishes open again, but Baran doesn't make for the laptop screen against the wall. Instead she approaches your bedside, a glass jar in one hand and a cup of tea in another.
"I don't suppose you've eaten." It's not phrased as a question. You hate that it's not, because she knows, and she's right. "The cafeteria food is terrible." She continues without waiting for your answer, her tone peevish. "Here."
You're not above accepting her offerings. The tea smells like the kind she used to make at home, minted and sweet. Its steam works up a lump in your throat.
It hurts, seeing her. It always does. Whether you've fought or not, whether you're civil or not. Just her presence is hard to swallow down. You still haven't gotten used to the distance, miles of oceans between you, no matter how physically close you are.
It's ridiculous. You've lived most of your life without her, and yet a decade and some have ruined you for the unforeseeable future.
The tea scalds your tongue. Baran is notably gentler as she sets the jar down on the bed along with a tissue-wrapped spoon. Overnight oats, if you had to guess.
"Thanks," you mutter.
She inclines her head in a nod and perches on the arm of the chair next to your bed. "I'm sorry you've had to wait so long. There's a holdup with the X-rays."
"I didn't expect to get special treatment." You give her a tight-lipped smile. She doesn't return it until you say, "This place seriously sucks, though."
"Yes, well." Her laugh is more of a huffed breath. "We're unfortunately not the most punctual." She frowns down at her hands for just a second before she looks back up at you. Her eyes dip to your gown.
"Do you need help getting that off?"
"I'm good."
Not.
She stands. "Baran."
"Button downs will be easier to wear," she says, reaching for your folded clothes. You'd managed your pants on your own, but you couldn't untie the gown without your vision flashing white. "Anything you don't have to pull over your head. At least for the first two weeks."
"Noted," you say, "but I can—"
"Can you stop," she breathes, fingers bunched in your shirt, "being so goddamn stubborn?"
Her eyes are always mesmerizing when she's angry. They darken several impossible shades, turn into shards of glassy obsidian.
You drain the last of your tea, hand her the cup, and silently lean forward. Her exhaled breath hits the shell of your ear, low and desperately trying to stay controlled. You feel her finger hook into the messy bow at your back. Feel her tug it loose.
You peel the gown away. It's a scratchy, awful thing; you toss it further down the bed, quietly grateful as you turn back to Baran and take your bra from her.
"This could count as harassment, you know." You meet her eyes, hold the cups to your chest.
She only raises a brow.
It's enough to make you flush, your teeth grazing your bottom lip. Her hands are warm as they fasten your bra. The brush of her fingers nearly makes you shiver, but you hold it, force your shoulders back to keep the tingle from running down your spine.
And if goosebumps rise up on your flesh—well, the ED is cold. Your skin is sensitive. Baran's hands smell like sanitizer, harsh and clinical as she stretches out the collar of your shirt, helps you fit your head in. There's a brief flash of pain when you have to guide your arm through a sleeve, but it dissipates as you fully shrug the shirt on. You don't care to attribute it to the way her fingers linger on your abdomen, gently splayed over your side. They stay there even after you settle, fully clothed.
"Baran." You murmur, your heart kicking faster. Her head is ducked, eyes on your torso where her thumb draws circles.
"It will be…difficult to get around," she says, still looking down, "for a few days. The meds will only get you so far. You shouldn't overexert yourself."
"I won't."
"You could stay." The words are soft from her mouth, nearly mumbled. Baran doesn't mumble. "With me. Until it gets better."
She's looking at you now. You almost wish she isn't.
"Because that won't fuck with Karim's head."
Her lips thin.
"You're hurt."
"I can manage."
"Karim can stay with my parents. They won't mind, they never do—"
"And when do you get home, Baran?" You wonder.
She doesn't shy away from your eyes. "At least you'd have someone."
"I don't need someone." Your throat is unbearably scratchy. Your attempt at a laugh doesn't ease the ache—worsens it, actually, right where your pulse beats. "Jesus, you make it seem like I'm dying. I'll be fine."
Your conviction weakens with that last word, crumbling beneath Baran's gaze. Even years down the line, you could never quite get used to the intensity of it. She has warm, kind eyes—bottomless, all-consuming eyes; you've drowned in their depths, been warmed by their heat and burned from their fire.
Baran is unsmiling as she reaches for your face. She cradles your jaw in her hand—that rough, soft hand, antiseptic and long-washed lotion, cuticle oil rubbed around her short, clean nails, a freckle at the base of her wrist. Your breath hitches, comes out shaky through your nose.
You may be stubborn, but you're also unbearably weak. She's like a big, tender bruise imprinted onto your flesh. Just the press of a thumb—and you give, mouth open, gasping. It's been years, and the bruise hasn't healed. It hasn't shrunk. Sometimes you think it's only gotten bigger.
"Please." She says quietly.
Somewhere, beyond the curtains, you hear someone yell, "I need an attending!"
Relief and dread spread through you in equal measure.
You lean away from your ex-wife, tilt your head to the source of the sound. "That's you."
-
The med student comes back alone. You feel bad for not remembering her name.
"It's just a simple hairline fracture, so you won't be needing surgery or anything. Just ice it a few times a day for twenty minutes or so and make sure to rest, definitely don't lift anything heavy or do hardcore exercises."
You smile. "Got it."
She says a bunch of other things, only a few of which filter through. You thank her, pocket your prescription, and speed-walk out of the emergency room. You really almost make it, only three steps from the door when she calls your name.
And you, stupid you—you turn.
"Oh. Good," you blurt out before she can say anything. You take out her jar from your purse—emptied, the spoon rattling inside—and shove it into her hands. "Thanks for this, by the way. It was good. Didn't expect the chocolate."
"It balances out the acidity of the yogurt," she says, almost automatically as she takes the jar from you. It registers on her too late; she gives her head a small shake, a move that's, unfortunately, never stopped being endearing. "You have your prescription?"
"Yep," you answer, trying not to prickle. "We've got aspirin at home, so." You shrug, making room for a frazzled looking woman to pass through.
Baran nods. "Can I…" She pushes her shoulders back, the slightest bit. "Is it okay if I escort you out?"
You blink. "Sure," you say, too drained to argue.
She nods again. Holds the door open for you. You walk through, and despite your shallower breaths, you still smell the traces of coconut from her curl cream—the same one you'd lathered on your hands, raked through her hair when she'd be too tired to do it herself.
You rub a rough hand into your eyes, pressing hard enough to hurt, and make for the parking lot.
"Wait a minute—" Baran's shoes crunch on the gravel. "Did you drive?" She demands.
You let your hand fall. "Calling an ambulance seemed overkill." You say dryly.
Her face grows disbelieving. God, you wish she wouldn't do that, wish she'd stop caring, just stop it Baran, stop it, stop it, stop—
"I'll—"
"You'll what?" You murmur, pulling out your keys. "Take me home?"
She can't step out. You both know she can't.
"Call someone." She pleads. You can hear the underlying shake in her voice, you can feel it rattling your bones. She takes your hand, traps the car keys in your palm. "As your physician, I can't—Y/N, you shouldn't. You'll hurt yourself."
You let out a throbbing breath. Jesus, you just want it all to end. This day, this stupid distance between you that never seems to lessen, never seems to widen, never does anything but hurt. "There's no one to call, Baran," you say quietly. "I made it here, I can make it back."
She shakes her head. The sun catches in her curls, threads along her highlights and sets them on fire. You want them around your fingers. You want everything to go back to the way it was, but the closest you can do is say okay when she says she'll order you a car, because can you even say no? She's pulling the keys from your grip, her pleas warm against your face; she's saying azizam, azizam, come inside, I'll wait with you, and you feel your bones crumble and your resolve die and you do what you could never stop yourself from doing.
You follow her where she goes.
Hi, thank you so much for your support on my first Baran fic! If you liked this one, please consider leaving a comment or reblogging to lmk!! I'd love to know what you thought <3
summary: one night you listen to jazz, the next you save a life. Somewhere in between, Jack Abbot keeps watching you with quiet tenderness.
tags/warnings: female reader, no use of y/n, no physical description of reader, slow burn, subtle romance, hurt/comfort, medical trauma, pediatric patient, workplace tension, emotional intimacy, post-shift exhaustion, not proofread, let me know if I missed something.
authors note: based on this request. I may have taken the prompt in a slightly more melancholic direction. English isn’t my first language – hope you enjoy reading ♡
word count: 1.6k
Your best friend’s birthday celebration was starting in less than an hour.
A small jazz club downtown. Wine, dim lights, familiar laughter. Exactly what you needed after a shift like this.
Rushing wasn’t exactly typical of you, but you had to stay late for your shift. That meant doing your makeup and changing in the hospital bathroom. And now you were walking quickly toward the park benches near the hospital to tell your colleagues they would be drinking beer without you.
Light makeup accentuating your eyes, and a long pale blue coat wrapped around your figure.
It wasn’t clear who noticed you first. Only that, in the middle of noise and movement, Jack Abbot’s gaze found you – and stayed there, as if it had always known where to go.
Jack couldn’t even explain it himself. After twelve hours in scrubs, seeing you like this felt almost unreal. As if the night had returned something to you that the day kept taking away. You looked so human, so alive.
“And who is this beauty?” Princess exclaimed as you got closer.
You smiled, shaking your head. Feeling everyone’s eyes on you all at once made heat creep up your neck. Especially because one particular person seemed to be staring at you without blinking.
“Oh, come on, pretty girl," Princess said, pointing at the coat, "reveal your secrets.”
“Princess…” But she interrupted you.
“Come on! I know you've been in the bathroom for at least half an hour. I want to see the result.”
“Alright, alright.”
You hesitated only for a second. Then your fingers found the buttons. For a moment, it felt like everyone was holding their breath as they watched you. And when you finally opened the coat, it slipped slightly from your shoulders.
The mustard-colored fabric glowed warmly under the evening lights, elegant without trying too hard. Gray high boots reached the middle of your calves.
It shouldn’t have looked that good after a shift like yours. And yet it did.
For a moment Jack thought he had forgotten how to breathe.
“And you were hiding all this from us?” Princess said, staring at you in delight while someone nearby let out a whistle.
You laughed softly, a little embarrassed, before putting one foot forward and resting your hands on your hips like a model.
“Only the elite get access.”
Dr. Abbott couldn’t stop himself:
“And how exactly do I get into this elite club?”
You just shrugged, smiling meaningfully.
As you put your coat back on, your face suddenly became serious again. That’s how you always got when it came to important things.
"I'm working the night shift tomorrow. I hope you don't mind, Dr. Abbot?"
“You know I’ve been wanting you to join the Night Crawlers for a long time.” Jack smiled warmly. "Of course, I don't mind."
You gave him the same sincere smile. Then, as if waking from a pleasant dream, you hurried to say goodbye to everyone. Just a little more and you would have started running late.
Time, as it often did in this hospital, refused to behave properly. The night shift came without warning, as if it had been waiting in the hallway.
“Good evening. And what’s this lovely outfit we’re being graced with after your shift?”
Oh, you recognized that voice immediately. You turned around, a small smile already tugging at your lips.
“Good evening, Dr. Abbott. Today it’s just jeans and a hoodie. Nothing interesting.”
He gave you a theatrically disappointed look.
“What a shame,” he sighed softly. “I was hoping to admire you in a beautiful dress again.”
You laughed quietly.
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“It’s alright.” His gaze lingered on you for just a second longer before a faint smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. “I suppose twelve hours with you will make up for it, sweetheart.”
Then he winked.
God, what a flirt.
But before you could answer, a sharp voice cut through the corridor.
“Trauma incoming. Pediatric patient. ETA three minutes.”
The moment felt like it cracked in half. You rushed into the operating room side by side, the earlier warmth of your conversation dissolving instantly beneath fluorescent lights and sterile air. Nurses moved around you with practiced urgency. Someone tied the back of your surgical gown while you pulled gloves over trembling fingers.
Pediatric trauma. Eight years old. Internal bleeding after a car accident.
You tried not to think about the tiny sneakers abandoned near the operating table, about the terrified mother crying somewhere outside the OR.
“Focus,” Jack said quietly beside you. Not harsh. Grounding.
Your eyes darted toward the monitor – heart rate unstable, blood pressure dropping.
“Suction.”
Someone placed the instrument into your waiting hand. Then Jack held the scalpel out toward you. And your breath caught. There was no time to think, but you still allowed yourself a moment of doubt.
“You can handle it,” Jack said firmly.
For a second, your eyes widened behind your mask. Every instinct screamed at you not to hesitate. So, you took the scalpel. A deep breath. Your hands trembled only once before steadying under his guidance. Not because the surgery was simple – but because his voice made it feel survivable.
“Good,” Jack murmured quietly beside you. “That’s it.”
The monitor kept beeping. Nurses moved around you in a blur. Sweat gathered at the back of your neck beneath the surgical cap, but you kept going.
Minute after minute.
Stitch after stitch.
Until finally–
“He’s stable.”
Two words. That was all you needed to hear.
The breath left your lungs shakily, much louder than you intended, as the crushing weight on your shoulders finally loosened.
“My God,” Jack murmured beside you, voice rough with exhaustion and something dangerously close to awe. “Sweetheart… you were incredible.”
Before you could answer, he reached for your hands almost absent mindedly – still gloved, still trembling slightly from adrenaline – and pressed a kiss against each knuckle.
The gesture barely registered at first. Not after everything that had just happened. Not after saving a child’s life.
And yet warmth still rushed into your face beneath your surgical mask.
“Thank you,” you whispered softly, eyes still fixed on the child lying stable beneath bright surgical lights. “But we all did.”
The hospital eventually returned to its normal rhythm – but neither of you did.
You didn’t remember going up to the roof. Only the need for air, for something quieter than fluorescent light. He found you there, leaning against the railing and staring out at the city lights below. You were trying to breathe normally again, but your hands still trembled slightly from the adrenaline.
Jack leaned beside you, close enough that your arms almost brushing against the exhaustion you were both still carrying. He reached out without asking and pressed two fingers gently to the spot between your brows – right where tension always seemed to settle.
“You look wrecked,” he said quietly. As if stating a fact that didn’t require fixing.
A tired chuckle slipped from your lips as your eyes fluttered shut at the gesture.
“Not surprising,” you murmured. “I don’t even want to think about tonight yet.”
Silence settled between you for a moment, heavy but not uncomfortable. Somewhere below, ambulances still wailed through the city.
“You did well in there,” Jack said eventually. "Incredible actually."
You shook your head faintly.
“I was terrified.”
“Good,” he replied softly. “The ones who stop being scared are the ones I worry about.”
You stood there in silence for a while, looking out over the city lights. Somewhere below, sirens still echoed through the streets.
Deep down, both of you hoped this would be the worst case of the night. But there were still eleven hours left in the shift. And experience had taught you both not to trust quiet moments too much.
Jack stayed beside you, shoulder nearly brushing yours. Then, after a pause:
“How was last night?”
The sudden question caught you off guard. A small smile appeared on your face despite everything.
“Good,” you admitted softly. “Really good.”
Your fingers curled slightly around the cold railing.
“We listened to jazz all evening. I even danced with one of the musicians.”
Jack glanced at you.
“Took his number?”
You let out a quiet laugh and shook your head.
“No. It was just a dance.”
“Hm.”
The sound was low and thoughtful enough that you almost smiled wider. Almost.
It probably wasn’t quite right or professional. And yet you still found yourself thinking about it – about music, about warmth, about evenings that didn’t end in fluorescent lights.
“Do you want to go sometime?” you asked before you could overthink it. “I mean… listen to jazz.”
For a moment Jack looked genuinely surprised.
Then something softer settled in his expression. Not an answer yet – something quieter, like the idea of it had to arrive before the words did.
“Yeah,” he said finally, almost carefully. “I’d like that.”
The wind moved between you across the rooftop, brushing against the edges of exhaustion you were both still carrying.
Jack didn’t move at first. Then, as if it wasn’t a decision but something his body already knew how to do, he rested a hand on your shoulder.
Not firm. Not possessive. Just steady. A quiet weight, grounding you back into the moment.
He drew you a little closer without even noticing it himself – as if the space between you had simply become unnecessary. And you let it happen.
For a moment, with the city glowing below and the long night finally loosening its grip, even time seemed to forget its urgency.
Thanks for reading. I’d love to hear your feedback ♡
Credits of line dividers chrisssiren and omi-resources.
Do not copy this work.
summary : The PTMC hosts a charity auction, poker night. plus ones are invited, so dr. jack abbot takes his chances to bring you as his. (Inspired by the ep All In from house md)
warnings : fluff, tension, workplace dynamics, age-gap implied, no use of y/n, not really proofread, YEARNING!!, praise, gambling w poker, drinking, medical trauma mention, subtle angst, maybe a kiss oo
words: 5k
“Great. Just when I thought my day was ruined by a patient puking on me, it gets worse.”
Santos strolls over to your side where you’re busy typing up some charts.
You hit the spacebar once and look up at her. “What is it?”
She quirks an eyebrow. Not an unusual sight from her. “Did you not hear? The charity auction? Langdon said he’s going now.”
“The auction” you trail off, mind reaching back to try to remember if you heard anything. “What auction exactly?"
Your fellow resident plops down on a chair that emits an annoying squeak. “You know, the fundraising event. We all got invited. I heard there will be poker too, so that’s the only reason why I’m going.”
Whitaker passes by, in his own little world.
Santos snickers. “I’m gonna get him to bet everything.” She jabs a thumb in Whitaker’s direction.
Javadi chimes in, sounding as tired as she always does at the end of the day shift. “You’re evil.”
“I’m fun.”
You don’t recall seeing anything about this event, however. But you seldom checked your email, and you’re sure it’s somewhere buried in your overflowing digital inbox.
Sure enough, it is. You glance over the flyer that was emailed to you a few hours ago.
PTMC Charity Night
Auction
Poker
Dinner and Cocktail Bar
Formal Dress
Plus ones invited.
It’s tomorrow evening.
“Do I have to go?”
Santos shrugs. “Probably. Hopefully we’ll get more funding for this hellhole. We need more staff.”
Her phrase couldn’t be more perfectly timed.
“Santos! We need you in here,” Dr. Robby barks from across the Pitt.
“Duty calls,” you drawl.
She pops out of her chair with a groan, leaving you to analyze the flyer some more.
Formal dress? You don’t even own any dresses these days. And what would you do at an auction?
Maybe you’ll just join Santos and Whitaker at the poker tables. The thought of Whitaker taking home more than Santos makes you giggle to yourself.
“Are you going?” You turn to Joy. She rolls her eyes.
“Hell no. Those things are all politics. I have better things to do.”
You shrug. Maybe she’s right.
Out of the corner of your eye, Dr. Jack Abbot exits a trauma room and scans around.
You straighten your back instinctively, slipping your phone in your pocket, hands flying back to your keyboard. You were on a mission to prove yourself as a hardworking resident, and you needed to finish these charts before the night shift loads more on you.
The last thing you needed was to be pulled back in with another patient. You were tired, and your bed was calling your name.
Joy continues, ignorant to the fact that you’re furiously typing away on the computer.
“And who knows what they’re auctioning. Makes you wonder who’s gonna show up to buy that crap.”
“I’d like to find out.”
You turn at the sound of Dr. Abbot’s voice, closer than you expected. He looks to Joy, then to you. “Talking about the charity event?”
“I’m not going,” Joy mutters.
“I’m pretty sure it’s mandatory.” Abbot smirks. “You afraid of losing in a round of poker?”
Joy’s face contorts in disgust. “Whatever. My shift is over. Going home. Bye.”
Almost in unison, Abbot and you give each other that look. You stifle a laugh and he grimaces as Joy dramatically storms away.
Once she’s out of earshot, Dr Abbot takes a step closer to you. “She’s allergic to fun.”
You almost snort.
“I assume you’re going?”
Then you get the truth from him. “I’m pretty sure I have to be there. I don’t have a choice. Robby’d kill me if I didn’t show up.”
You nod in agreement. “Probably, he’s always looking for excuses for that.”
This gets a low chuckle out of Dr. Abbot.
Someone calls out an incoming patient, severe blood loss, missing foot.
Abbot takes a quick breath. “Sayonara.” And with that, he’s gone, leaving you to finish charts.
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After another twenty minutes, you finally get to perform the glorious miracle of clicking the log out button.
You gather your items from your locker, and make your way towards the exit. You always liked leaving through the ambulance bay, thankfully only on rare occasions you had to go through the waiting area.
To your surprise, Dr. Abbot stands by the curb, both hands relaxed in his pockets. He’s not facing the doors, just looking out into the distant night sky, back turned against you.
You attempt to move past him quietly, but he hears the rustle of your coat against your backpack, and lowers his head and turns in your direction.
“Hey,” he says softly, seeing it’s you, facing you as you step away from the exit doors.
He’s glad you’re finally heading out. You always spend too long after your shift, but he never says anything. Never tells you to leave when it’s time. Part of him knows you’re trying to prove yourself, and part of him, well, though he’d never say it out loud, just likes your presence.
You’re sparkly, bubbly, smooth, everything he isn’t. You bring in just a little bit of the daytime into his night shift.
“Your patient okay?” You ask, legitimately concerned, because the last you remember, there was a commotion in triage, led by the attending himself.
He runs a weathered hand through his silver curls. “Yeah. He’s okay. Stable now and going up for surgery. I just needed some fresh air.”
“Ah, good to hear.” You grip the strap of your bag tighter.
He clears his throat, looking off to the distance, trying to find the right words. “So, uh, tomorrow night.”
“Mhmm?”
Abbot takes a step closer and his gaze lands back on you, his eyes glimmering from a streetlamp close by. “The invite says plus ones are invited. You can say no, but-”
He pauses. This could cross a line. Not a big one, not technically, but he doesn’t want to have to make things complicated. You’re a resident. He knows how it could look.
He almost drops it. Almost lets you walk past like nothing happened. But it’s too late and you’re giving him an inquisitive look, the same one he sees you do when you’re waiting for instructions on call.
“Will you come with me?”
You stammer before your brain catches up with your mouth. And your response even surprises yourself.
“Yeah! I mean, sure.” You look down at your feet before glancing up at him with a puzzled expression. “I’m already… invited though. You could find someone else to be your plus one…”
He shrugs his broad shoulders. “I know. I’m asking anyway.”
There’s confidence in his tone now. No deflection. Like he’s already made up his mind.
“Oh, okay, yeah, I can be your plus one,” you say back with a timid smile.
Abbot tilts his head, analyzing you for any doubts. “I’ll pick you up around six, that good?”
He wouldn’t push if you didn’t want this. That much is clear in the way he asks.
“Yeah, I’ll be ready then.” You fight the flush creeping up your face.
“Good.” He turns, already heading back inside. “Have a good night.”
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You’ve never been more anxious about shopping. You stopped at maybe four, no, five stores before finding something that wasn’t too revealing. You didn’t mind showing a little extra skin, and the thought of standing close to Dr. Jack Abbot in an open back dress, leaving less to his imagination, did in fact tempt you.
That thought lingered more than you wanted it to.
Show some dignity, geez. He was maybe just being polite, helping you feel included.
No, that wasn’t it. He doesn’t do things just to be polite. Not like that. Not with you. You didn’t just bypass the social norms of an event for someone you felt casual about.
Your fingers wrap around the smooth, silky fabric of a long, black dress. You unhook it from the rack and hold it up against your figure. It’s in your size. The price tag flashes and you bite your lip. It was definitely more expensive than your budget in mind, but it was the first dress where the neckline didn’t drop below your sternum.
And more importantly, it feels like you. Or at least… a version of you, one you don’t let people see often.
You twirl around in the dressing room, admiring how well it fits every curve, every inch of your body. It had a tight bodice that held in your midsection, making your waist appear much smaller than it actually was, and fabric draped over one shoulder, purposely falling off the other shoulder, giving it a more sultry edge that even you couldn’t resist.
You shouldn’t like it this much. You shouldn’t be thinking about how the night shift’s attending physician’s eyes might sweep over you.
The employee helping customers agreed. “You look smokin’.” She had said when you stood in front of the mirror.
Damn it, this was the one.
You have to look away when the cashier rings you up.
Anything to give you a milligram of courage would be necessary. It was worth the sacrifice.
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As you pull on your heels, there’s a loud three knocks at your door.
“Coming!” You yell, but you’re in the furthest room of your apartment. They probably couldn’t hear your voice.
One, no, two sprays of perfume. For good luck.
For him.
You take one last glance into the mirror, and blink when you almost don’t recognize yourself. You can’t remember the last time you looked this put together. You touch your necklace, a dainty chain with a small charm rests on your exposed collarbone. Your pulse thrums faster than normal where it sits against your skin.
The knocks come again. You nearly trip down the stairs rushing to get the door. With one ruffle of your hand, your hair falls neatly into place. It’s usually in some tight style, pulled away from your face, but tonight you let it free. Leaving in its natural state as much as possible.
You tug open the handle, and your heart immediately skips when you see him standing there.
Dr. Jack Abbot has nearly the same reaction that you do, and both of you stand there in silence, taking in each other’s new appearance.
He doesn’t hide it. Not even a little.
His hazel eyes drop and travel from your legs, slowly, deliberately, tracing every line, every curve, until they meet your face again. He takes you in like he’s memorizing every feature.
“You look amazing.”
It’s hard to stay calm under his darkened gaze. There’s something behind his usual demeanor that feels heavier, intentional. Hot.
Focused entirely on you. He can’t help it.
“You- look amazing too,” you stutter to return the compliment, a little dizzy under the weight of his attention.
He’s in a well pressed suit. He didn’t shave, thank goodness. You loved his scruff. His hair is more in place tonight. You catch the faint auburn still lingering beneath the silver. A sleek black tie sits at his neck.
It’s a bit crooked.
“Here, let me-” you say, stepping closer.
Reaching out your hands, you close the distance between, air filled with the scent of his woodsy cologne and of your cozy, vanilla perfume.
It’s warmer here. Close to his body.
He stills as you fix the tie into a straight line, letting you, too transfixed on your long lashes that frame your beautiful face. He cannot take his eyes off you.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare.
Wow.
Jack Abbot always knew you were pretty. Stunning even.
But now he was struggling to find air, especially when you let one hand smooth out the tie before you take a step back, toeing the line of intimacy and professionality.
“Dr. Abbot,” you say, waiting for him to take the lead.
“Shall we?”
He holds out his arm, allowing you to slip your arm in the crook of his elbow. As your arm slides in, he lowers down to your ear, his gravely voice nearly sending chills down your exposed spine.
“It’s Jack, for tonight.” He murmurs, closer than needed.
Then, he pulls back, a small, knowing look in his eyes, and guides you down the stairs to his car, supporting you in your delicate heels.
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The hospital floor just above the emergency room has been transformed into a moody party venue. They host it here, since technically all the doctors and nurses are still on call downstairs, allowing anyone to hurry away to a patient if needed.
Abbot helps you out of the car, holding out his large hand, taking yours in it, guiding you out of the door.
“Thank you,” you say quietly, unaccustomed to this level of chivalry.
His head ducks. “Of course.” As you both take a step forward, you feel the warmth of his palm against your lower back, a gentle guide as you make your way to the entrance.
It’s noisy, but not overwhelming inside. Soft jazz music drifts out of speakers. There’s the clacking of chips at a few tables. Everyone else is dressed up as much as you were. Dana’s wrapped in a light blue dress. Santos sports slacks and a button down shirt. Whitaker’s tie is already discarded as he’s hunched over the poker tables.
“Let’s grab some drinks, shall we?” Jack says, pointing to the cocktail bar.
Admittedly, you’ve already had a tall glass of wine at home while you were getting ready for tonight. You’re not ready to admit why you were so on edge, but any extra drinks would be welcome.
“Sure, let’s do it.” You grin at him, giving him permission to lead the way.
Mckay walks by in a green gown, and stops, jaw going slack.
“Are you guys…” she trails off, unsure of what to even say, “together?”
Jack’s hand is still pressed to the small of your back and he sidesteps into the space between you. “She’s my plus one tonight.”
Mckay’s eyes go wide. “Oh- okay… didn’t know this was happening,” she says, then hurries off.
You glance up at Jack, biting your lip out of embarrassment. But all he gives back is a confident smirk.
He’s just happy you’re here.
Dr. Robby is hovering by the cocktail bar, making light conversation with unfamiliar hospital staff. He does a near double take when he spots the two of you, catching him mid-sentence.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” He raises a whiskey glass in your direction.
“Nice tie,” you interject, already feeling warmer than what’s a comfortable level for you.
Robby reflexes and touches his bright purple tie. It tells you that maybe it’s the only one he owns now. “Why thank you, but you didn’t answer my question.”
Jack interrupts to your rescue. “The invite said plus ones were welcome. Thought I would bring one,” he says casually.
“Ah.” There’s a mischievous glint in Robby’s crinkled expression, but he doesn’t push anymore. Figures it's about time that Jack gets some action.
It’s been ages since he’s actually entertained the thought of a date. If that’s what one could call this interaction. It’s a date, right? He asked you out.
Between exhausting night shifts and fun extracurriculars like being on call for SWAT, there just isn’t a lot of time to go out there and pursue anything romantic. Sure, he might have participated in flirty conversation at the bar, but work was his new responsibility. It never went anywhere.
The relationships around him sustained him plenty. And perhaps a newcomer on the day shift a few months ago motivated him even more to stay “off the market”. He didn’t see her much, but always tried to find opportunities to slip her into procedures when the night shift came in to take over.
And a charity night, plus ones invited… it was an easy excuse. To finally ask out someone he’s had his fancy on for far too long.
As you near the bar, the woman behind perks up. “Hiya! What can I get for ya?”
“I’ll take an aperol spritz.” You’re hoping it might cool you down slightly.
She nods and turns to Jack. “And for you, sir?”
“A Manhattan, please.”
You watch as she begins to mix the drinks behind the counter before your hair is being swept off your shoulder. You glance over, and watch as Jack’s hand lowers.
He gives that all-too-familiar half-smile. “Sorry, just wanted to see the necklace you have on.”
Your chest tightens. For a split second, you expect eyes on you, questions, and unwanted attention. But there’s nothing. Just background chatter and laughter, like the rest of the room exists in a completely different world.
“Oh. It’s from my mom. She gave it to me before I started med school. It’s just been my good luck charm since.”
He’s not looking at the necklace. Instead his quiet attention rests on your lips, listening to you as you explain the significance of the pendant.
“Here you go!” The bartender places the drinks on the counter, and you eagerly take a sip.
“How is it?” Jack says after taking a sip of his own.
“It's good, wanna try?” You hold the glass up to him.
His finger tips brush your hand for a half second while you pass him the spritz, taking a sip directly in the spot where your lipstick stains the rim.
You wonder what he would look like with lipstick stains on his freckled cheeks, against his greying temple, down his rosy neck.
“Um, how about we go play some poker?” You breathe, trying to wipe your mind of wherever it was deciding to go just now.
He hums. “Sure, let's do it, you feeling lucky, sweetheart?”
It shouldn’t affect you… “sweatheart”... but your chest tightens at the sound.
You loop your arm into his again, your hand resting gently on top of his bicep with a newfound excitement. “I’m feeling extra lucky tonight.”
‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗
The table is already half full when you get there. Santos’s eyes dart around suspiciously, cards snapping between her fingers. Whitaker leans back in his chair like he owns the place, chips stacked high in front of him. Javadi sits quieter, observant, eyes flicking between players like she’s cataloging tells. Al-Hashimi barely looks up, only to take a sip of her nearby drink.
Santos glances up first. “Well, look who finally decided to join us.”
Whitaker sports a tight smile. “Abbot brought backup? That’s dangerous.”
Jack pulls out a chair for you. “Try not to scare her off in the first round.”
You sit, smoothing your dress slightly. “I can handle myself,” you hum.
“Good,” Perlah quips, sliding a stack of chips toward you. “Buy-in’s the same.”
The first few hands move around quickly. You play it safe… at first, watching. Santos likes to push early. Whitaker overcommits when he’s ahead. Javadi folds more than she should, she’s probably never played poker before in her life. Perlah is definitely too experienced.
Jack sits close by, his presence looming over the table. He seems relaxed in a way you haven’t seen in a while… ever, actually. You only ever see him as an attending, nothing else.
“Fold,” Whitaker mutters, tossing cards down.
Santos smirks. “You’ve been folding all night.”
He groans. “It’s a strategy.”
“Maybe he’s just afraid,” Al-Hashimi whispers loudly. The table joins in laugher.
You hide your own smile, glancing at your own cards. Not the best hand, but something you could work with.
Jack leans slightly, hushed voice only you can hear. “Don’t chase the hand. Let them make mistakes first.”
Your eyes flick to him. “You always this helpful?”
“Only when it benefits me.”
You peer at him with squinted lids, and the round continues. You follow Jack’s advice and low and behold, you take a small pot off Santos, then Whitaker. This gets everyone’s attention.
Santos sucks in a breath. “Beginner’s luck.”
You shrug. “Or maybe you’re predictable.”
Whitaker lets out a short laugh. “Oh, this is good.”
Jack doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to, he’s content with you getting the glory.
Another round. Stakes climb and the chips stack higher. A few players drop out in frustrated huffs and signs and the table narrows down.
Now it’s you, Jack, and Perlah across the table, her expression unreadable as always but her fingers tapping lightly against her stack.
“You’re awfully quiet,” she says, eyes flicking between you and Jack.
Jack leans back slightly letting his arms stretch out. “Just enjoying the game.” As he shifts back into the chair, his knee brushes yours under the table, toe of his shoe connecting with yours.
You go still, not sure if you should move. He doesn’t. Maybe he doesn’t realize.
Your heart races as his leg pushes closer into yours.
Okay. It was intentional.
You glance at your cards, wanting to shift your focus away from the slightly distracting connection happening under the table. Strong hand this time. You keep your expression neutral, pushing a few chips forward.
Perlah watches both of you carefully. “Interesting.”
The pot grows. One more round and you’re ready to push it.
You’re just about to go all in, when there’s a page on the overhead speakers.
“Code trauma to the ER. Incoming in two. All available hands, respond”
Jack’s gaze darts to yours. You meet his hazel stare, a knowing look.
“I should go,” he says, rising from the poker table.
Without thinking twice, you pop up to your feet too. “I’ll come.”
He waves a hand. “No need, I can grab someone else.”
But he doesn’t protest when your heels click right behind you, downstairs to the chaos of the ER.
“You probably just saved me from losing everything,” you mumble.
He chuckles. “I think you had it. Perlah was totally bluffing.”
The second the stairwell door swings open, you’re snapped back into work-mode. The beeping machines and humming devices replace the low music upstairs. It’s colder, and the permanent scent of blood and alcohol hangs in the air.
By the time your heels hit the floor, you’re already rushing to a gurney at the other end.
Voices overlap and you tune in quickly, every fiber of your body tensing for the incoming action.
“Blunt force trauma, possible internal bleed- BP dropping- ”
“Let’s move, let’s move.”
Jack, now Dr. Abbot disappears from your side to take his place at the head of the bed.
A nurse taps your shoulders, holding out loose paper scrubs for you to slip on over your dress. It’s somewhat hard to move around, but you manage to stay nimble.
“Do we have a FAST yet?” you ask the nurse, sharper than you expect.
She hesitates. “Not yet-”
“We should. If that pressure keeps dropping, we’re missing something.”
Jack’s eyes flick up at you, appreciative that you can switch into Pitt-mode at the drop of a dime.
As if the lines of passion and professionalism couldn’t blur even more, somehow you’re even more attractive to him as you put on the blue gloves.
“Get ultrasound,” he says immediately. “Now.”
You’re already reaching for the device that’s nearby. More voices call out.
“Pressure’s tanking!”
“Hang another unit!”
But before you use the ultrasound, you lean in, scanning the patient with your bare eyes noticing the subtle asymmetry in the abdomen, just barely noticeable to the trained physician.
“Left side’s distended,” you cut in. “That’s not right.”
The room shifts in unison and different orders are called out. People are moving faster around, but with more intention.
Between motions and commands, Jack’s eyes find you, assessing, checking in.
Making sure you’re good.
Of course you are. His plus one isn’t just anyone. You’re just as capable as the other residents.
This is different. Seeing you in this light, it feels familiar yet so foreign. You’ve clipped your hair back but loose strands still fall in front of your face. Softened. Almost careless. And the dress that exposes just enough to catch a glimpse of your shoulder blades, even with the paper scrubs slung over.
He fights hard to stay focused. Thank goodness for all his SWAT days. Bullets ringing out and your formal outfit are totally like the same thing.
The ultrasound is in place within seconds. Someone calls out findings, and it aligns with what you saw. A nurse pivots immediately, adjusting the line of treatment. Another starts prepping blood.
Dr. Abbot nods once. “Good work.”
There’s a brief lull as the patient is stabilized enough to move once the IV drip hits their veins.
“Prep for OR,” he says confidently.
You take a step back as a team wheels the patient out of the room, leaving just you and the night attending there. Although your hands remain steady by your side, hands stained with the faintest of the patient’s blood, your adrenaline is far from tapering down.
It’s just like another day in the Pitt. Only it’s quieter because of the event upstairs, and you’re in an open back dress, heels that you’re now dying to peel off, and Dr. Abbot, chest heaving slowly as he works his own nerves down.
He drags off the paper scrubs he was wearing and tosses them into the trash, revealing a creasing black suit underneath.
Jack grins.
“Wanna go back?”
You blink as he circles the room, watching you with a new intensity. He places his hand on your exposed shoulder.
You lift your chin slightly, taking in his always-calm features. Despite chaos, he was always anchored. The adrenaline in your veins switches into a warmth that pools below your gut.
“Maybe…”
He chuckles, his thumb brushing slow and absentmindedly over your arm. “...how about the roof?”
You shrug. “Let’s do it, as long as we can grab another drink on the way without anyone catching us sneaking off.”
Jack moves his hand and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger there a beat too long.
“I like the way you think,” he says quieter with an intimate grittiness
Your breath stutters, and you’re not quite sure what you’re feeling anymore as he leads you out of the ER.
‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗
You nurse the drink in your hands, closing your eyes as a breeze pushes past the roof.
“This is so much better.”
The evening sky glitters with city lights, cars buzzing quietly below.
It’s quiet, just you and Jack, perched against the railing on the top of the PTMC.
He stands to your left, unmoving, enjoying the silence away from the drama of the event and the chaos of the ER.
There’s only a few inches of space between your arms, and you’re much too afraid to close that distance.
What it would mean for you and him.
You’re confused at what this all means. To Jack Abbot.
“Um,” you say, opening your eyes, but keeping them focused on the horizon. “Why did you ask me to be your plus one?”
Jack’s body shifts as he stands a little taller, pushing himself up with his hands against the rail.
“You didn’t have to invite me, I was probably going to come anyways-”
“-I know,” he cuts you off.
You shake your head. “So then, why?”
Jack’s head dips down. “Would you let me answer?”
“Sorry.”
You hear the rustling of fabric as Jack slides his blazer off, then wraps it around your shoulders.
His leftover warmth settles around your back. You didn’t even realize you were cold till it chases away the goosebumps on your arms and neck.
He doesn’t move away now. And you try to ignore the fact that he’s left one arm around you.
“Look at me,” he says.
You do.
His smile is warm.
“Because I wanted to.”
You just nod.
Like you can’t even accept this. That your attending would ask you out, make a grand appearance with you at his side, even pick you up at your door and escort you like a true gentleman.
No words come out of your mouth, you just open, and close it once.
“Is that not enough?” He asks, still locked onto you.
“It’s just, well, I didn’t expect it. I feel like I hardly know you, outside of work,” the words tumble before you can stop them, tripping over each other. “I mean- you’re my attending, well an attending, and what will people think, it’s like-”
His brows raise quickly. “Hey. It’s just a date. I’m not asking you to marry me…”
You breathe, and relax a little. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”
Jack can’t help but love this side of you. Flustered, but here. Not shutting it away. Just… trying to make sense of it all.
He knows you’re thinking too far ahead. You always do. You’re always two steps ahead at work, how could he expect your personal life to be any different.
His thumb shifts slightly against your arm.
“You think a lot,” he grumbles quietly.
You let out a small shaky laugh. “Yeah. Occupational hazard.”
“Not right now.”
Your brows knit just slightly. “What does that mean?”
He moves closer. The space between you disappears almost imperceptibly. The noise in your head begins to iron out.
“It means,” he says, “you don’t need to figure this out tonight.”
It feels impossible to do that. “Then what do I do?” you ask, voice hushed, almost like you’re asking yourself and not him.
His hazel gaze doesn’t leave.
“Just be here. With me.”
The smile that creeps into his cheeks is quick and small but very real.
Your breath catches slightly, but you don’t look away.
And Jack, he notices.
The way you haven’t stepped back. The way your hand, almost unconsciously, tightens in the fabric of his blazer around your shoulders.
“You’re not as hard to read as you think.”
“Oh?”
“No.” His voice softens, but it doesn’t lose that edge. “You like me.”
Your breath stutters, and this time you don’t even try to hide it.
“Jack-”
“It’s okay,” he cuts in gently, noticing your face falling as his lights up. “I like you too.”
You swallow, your voice quieter now. “You barely know me.”
“I know you enough.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying you like a patient being diagnosed. “I know you don’t hesitate under pressure. I know you don’t try to impress people, which is rare in this place. You’re more stable than most of the ER.”
His hand moves, brushing lightly against your jaw, slow, like he’s giving you time to pull away if you want to.
You don’t.
“And I know I want to know more.”
“Is that a good idea?” you whisper.
A quiet exhale. He blinks. Actually considers your question.
“Probably not.”
Surely he’s drunk. Surely you’ve had too much to drink, but you count the cocktails in your head and there’s not enough combined between you two to make either of you unaware of what’s happening right now.
“But I don’t really care.”
And that’s when he leans in. He hovers , close enough that you feel his breath, whiskey tickling your lips, giving you one last chance to decide.
Without thinking, you move in. His lips meet yours, just holding there for a moment as he takes in the surprise that you kissed him first. Your hand finds the shirt fabric against his chest and you tighten it into a fist, pulling him closer to you.
Jack chooses this moment to deepen it, moving slowly against your mouth, tongue rolling along the edge of your lips. His hand is firm at your jaw now, keeping you there as if you might pull away.
You can’t. He’s kissing you too slowly, too passionately for you to even think about stopping anytime soon.
Just as your arms move up and around his shoulders, he pulls back, darkened eyes looking at yours once before he straightens.
No, come back.
“I meant what I said,” his voice smokey from the kiss, bumping his forehead gently against yours affectionately. “I want to see you more.”
Your heart is racing. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” The left corner of his mouth lifts in his crooked smile. “If that’s okay with you.”
“Yeah,” you say. “That’s… definitely okay with me.”
“Good.”
His hand snakes around your waist before he leans in again, the kiss feeling more real this time.
PAIRINGS ⋮ Jack Abbot x Daughter!Reader, The Pitt x Abbot!Reader (platonic)
SUMMARY ⋮ Jack Abbot trusted his daughter; significantly so. When she is out with her friends and doesn't answer her phone, however? He can't help but think he should've been a bit more protective.
Jack Abbot wasn't a strict dad by any means — After losing his leg; after losing his wife, it felt unfair to beg for anything more than for his daughter to be happy, healthy, and — most importantly — safe. Her safety was the one non-negotiable that he had set in place when raising her. She had driven to a party and drank anyway? She called him and he would pick her up, no lecture given. She felt unsafe at any given point, no matter because of who or what? She told him or a trusted adult (the list was short of the adults he trusted — Robby, Dana, Shen and Ellis) and they would take care of it.
"Hey, Grumpy! Haven't seen the kid around in a few? Where's Tiny?" Parker Ellis grinned as she slid up next to Jack at the nurses station, head tilting at him as she saw the way he just starred intensely at his phone.
Hey, you OK? was the message starring back at him menacingly, the timestamp next to it reading two hours earlier. He blinked blearily at the tiny Send beneath it, willing it to change into a Seen.
"Abbot?" Ellis called out again, her grin slowly melting into a concerned frown.
Jack's head snapped up, dropping the hand holding the phone "Hm? Oh, uh, she had exams this week. 's out with her friends tonight to celebrate their newfound freedom."
"Oh— I see how it is!" Ellis hummed thoughtfully, the grin reappearing, "Grumpy Abbot has a hard time letting go."
Jack shook his head ever so slightly "It isn't like that."
It really wasn't like that. Jack trusted his daughter — more than anyone, probably. He had raised her — all on his own ever since she was a three years old toddler that threw tantrums when served broccoli for dinner and asked When is mommy coming home? while dangling her legs from a swing — and he knew he had given her every single ressource to make smart decisions and to know that, even if she had a crashout (whatever that meant; Jack had long given up trying to understand the way she spoke) he was there to pick it up, piece by piece.
In simple terms; he had raised her to be his best friend.
Jack didn't trust anyone else — Not with his daughter. Certainly not with his daughter.
His fingers moved swiftly over the screen again, Ellis' laughter barely audible over the ringing in his ears. Call me when you get this please. Love you. He send the text, mentally chastising himself for opting out of sharing locations with her in fear of coming off to overbearing.
The doors to the pitt slid open, a trauma being wheeled in fast and steady, effectively pulling Jack back into the chaos of the ER and — after the brief panic that it could be her had subsided — he was by the gurney, sharp and focused, the worry over his daughter only a distant pain in his chest.
The trauma took a lot longer than Jack had thought — MVA, three victims; a family. The daughter, only six years, had died after Jack spend 47 minutes perched over her chest, doing chest compressions until the sweat dripped down his forehead and now he was sprawled out in a chair at the nurses station, too exhausted to even think about making the way up to the roof.
"That was a rough one." Shen sighed, leaning up against the hub across from Jack, hands fiddling with the straw in his Dunkin Donuts cup.
"The child ones always are. Always makes you wonder..." Lena trailed off with a frown, noticing the tight set of Jack's jaw. Everyone at the PTMC knew about Jack Abbot's daughter — Tiny Abbot as Shen and Ellis always proclaimed so lovingly when she once again spend one of Jack's night shifts, huddled up in a seat next to Lena, head stuck in a book. By now they had also all noticed, that Jack seemed to be on edge that night, hands and eyes trained to react at the slight buzz of his phone. Shen furrowed his eyesbrows, mulling over whether it was safe to ask or if Jack would rip his head off for just as much as suggesting that something was amiss when the ringtone Jack had specifically set for his daughter made his body jerk into action.
"Kiddo, hey!" Jack breathed, all the air escaping him in one as he registered her name in bold letters on his screen. The relief was short-lived, however, when the line crackled; a tiny whimper cutting through the jumbling noise.
"Dad? Dad, I— I'm sorry. My friends— They left me. I'm drunk, I don't know— They kept saying I should loosen up and I should drink more and then they just left me! I'm scared, I—"
The sirens in Jack's head were blaring two times over as he listened to his daughter's babbling and blubbering "Hey, baby. Baby, it's okay—" he cooed, jumping up to his feet against the strain it put on his prosthesis. "Yeah, it's okay. I'm at work but send me your location, okay?" he turned over, eyes wide with a panic that was entirely unusual for the always so stoic doctor "Lena, call Robby. Kiddo's in trouble, I need him to pick her up."
Lena nodded, hands already grabbing for the red phone — hospital emergencies only policy be damned. Tiny Abbot was one of PTMC's own; a staple in the dysfunctional family that was the night shift and, most importantly, the one thing to bring Jack Abbot from the dark every single time.
"Dad, I'm sorry." Tiny sniffled and she sounded so sad Jack had a hard time not ditching work to pick her up himself. His head spun to string together the worst images it could muster — The idea of his daughter sitting on a curb somewhere far out of his reach, only a dim street lamp as company as she tried to keep herself warm (She never took a jacket with her; no matter how much Jack nagged).
He let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a sigh, scrubbing his free hand over his face to get rid of the haunting images "You've got absolutely nothing to apologize for. You hear me, kiddo? Nothing." he soothed desperately, shooting a look at Lena "Send me your location and I'll have Robby pick you up and bring you here, okay?" he added after Lena gave him a nod and a brief thumbs up.
53 minutes — That's how long it took from the moment his daughter had hung up the phone to call Robby ("uncwe Wobby" as she used to call him all those years ago) to the doors of the ER sliding open to reveal a worried-looking Robby — an usual sight; dressed in sweatpants and a faded band tee — arm wrapped around Jack's daugher. She looked even more sad than she had sounded; Robby had brought her one of his hoodies and a pair of one of her sweatpants that were always flying around at his place to change into in the car and, mixed with the smudged make-up Jack had watched her put on mere hours ago, she looked like a lost little lamb brought to the slaughter.
"Tiny Abbot..." Shen frowned, as he appeared next to them, holding out a fresh Dunkin Donuts' iced coffee "Grumpy Abbot told us what happened so I immediately got your favorite. Donuts are in the break room."
"Thank you, Johnnie." she sniffled, giving him a watery smile, that had Shen's frown deepening, as she took the cup tentatively "Where's dad?"
Shen grimaced "Still with a patient, kiddo. He should be out soon— C'mon let's get you seated. You need something?"
She shook her head, letting Robby and Shen guide her over to a chair at the safety of the nurses station. All she wanted was a hug from her dad — letting him wrap her up in his arms and keeping her safe from all the bad things like he did when she had a nightmare as a kid.
It took seven minutes — seven agonising minutes for Jack, who'd been told that his daughter had arrived safely — for him to finally dismiss himself from the room; eyes seeking out his daughter's form immediately.
She was still sitting at the hub, legs pulled up to her chest with Robby keeping watch over her from his place leaned up against hub across from her. Her eyes were cast down to her fingers fiddling with the straw from her iced coffee but as soon as she recognised the sound of his uneven gait her head was flying up, relief melting her body into a slumped form as she found his gaze.
"Hey, kiddo." he breathed out, pulling her up to her feet and crushing her against his chest with no hesitation "Are you okay?" he murmured, pressing a tender kiss to her head.
She hummed, nodding against his scrub top "'m okay, just... sad, I guess." she shrugged. Jack nodded wordlessly — He had had his suspicions about her friends for a while now; they always seemed nice enough during the few moments they spend at their place. Every now and then, however, Jack heard the quiet comments — He heard the insults, cowardly slipped into a passing comment over a snack at their dinner table, saw the glances and smirks shared when his daughter wasn't looked but he'd kept quiet about it; had smiled at his daughter when she came home all giddy and giggly and had told her how happy he was that she did have finally found friends, after all.
Now he loathed himself for never saying anything.
He pressed another kiss to her head, one heavy hand moving towards her back to trace absentminded circles. Jack had always been good at fixing injuries or sickness — He knew what to do when she fell and scraped her knee and he knew how to take care of her when the flu once again caught up to her, but he always struggled with the emotional side of parenting. Years and years of therapy had helped; he was better at being emotionally present now, the words of comfort came easier to him now, but — every now and then; just like now — he had a hard time figuring out what to say.
"Are you good to go home?" he asked instead as he pulled back, eyebrows furrowed together in almost paralysing worry "Robby's gonna drive you and stay with you until shift change."
"Okay, okay..." she muttered quietly, rubbing her eyes with a muffled sniffle, before bringing herself back against her dad's chest; head flush against his broad chest "'m sorry, dad."
She didn't know what she was apologising for — For worrying him? For drinking? For losing friends? Again? Surely, he didn't think it was cute for his sixteen years old to say that her dad was her best friend.
Jack shook his head vehemently, shifting his stance so she could lean all her weight on him without his prosthesis hurting "Kiddo. You are not at fault here — Absolutely not; in no way. People who do that? Who guilt-trip you into getting drunk and then abandoning you? These people are not your friends and they never were."
His daughter cried something in his chest and it took a beat for Jack to understand that she had said, that she just wanted to belong.
"You belong, baby." Jack spoke firmly, slipping a finger underneath her chin to look into her eyes "You belong with me. You belong in this life. You belong."
She sniffed again, more tears spilling over but yet she nodded, rubbing her head against his chest one last time before taking a final step back. Robby was there immediately, his arm coming up to wrap itself around her shoulder again "Let's get you home, kiddo, hm?"
She nodded tentatively and — after a last hug and a long kiss to her forehead — Jack had to watch his best friend guide his daughter out into the dark night that awaited them outside of the hectic walls of the pitt.
The remaining two hours of his shift dragged on for seemingly forever — All he wanted was to get home to his daughter, maybe stop by the breakfast place they frequented at every Saturday morning and get her one of the cinnamon buns she loved, and put on her favorite movie in the living room where he could keep an eye on her.
Jack Abbot may not be a man of emotional loaded words, but, what he was was a man of actions.
By the time he finally stepped into the townhouse he and his daughter had been living in for the past fifteen years the sun had long risen behind the horizon "Kiddo? I'm home." he called out softly as he closed the front door with one hand, the other one clutching a bakery bag, the sweet smell of cinnamon following him.
Jack had spend the last two hours berating himself for never saying anything — He'd spend ten minutes in between patients, doing the breathing exercises his therapist always spoke off and Lena still called him out for looking brooding — and the cinnamon buns felt like a kind of peace offering now; an apology of sorts for failing her.
"Dad?" a voice breathed. Jack's head whipped around and, for the first time, Jack understood why everyone at the PTMC called her Tiny. His daughter was standing in the doorway to their living room, her favorite fluffy blanket wrapped around bony shoulders and a stuffed rabbit Robby had gotten her when she was younger and refused to go to sleep every time her dad was on night shift clutched to her chest.
She looked like a little kid, all over again.
"Hey, baby." Jack swallowed down every heavy feeling, forcing the corners of his lips into a soft, weary smile as he held up the bag. "I have cinnamon buns."
Her face twitched into something akin to a smile despite the tears brimming hot and heavy behind her waterline. "Robby already helped me move all the blankets and pillows to the sofa."
"Hot chocolate and Princess Diaries?" Jack grinned.
"You always know how to cheer me up, old man."
Jack huffed out a laugh at the old man, dismissing his go-back carelessly by the door as he moved to wrap an arm around her. With a tender kiss to her head he began guiding her towards the sofa, turning off the police scanner while he was at it — He didn't need that today.
Today was all about her.
Taglist ⋮ @sommywithluv @suntello (special thanks to this one for being my biggest supporter in writing this <33)
stealing kisses from him just to see him getting flustered
The first time you kissed Jack Abbot just to see him flustered, it was an accident.
The second time was absolutely not.
You worked the late shift in the emergency department three nights a week, which meant your life consisted primarily of fluorescent lighting, cold coffee, trauma alerts, and Jack Abbot leaning against counters looking unfairly handsome in navy scrubs.
The thing about Jack was that he carried himself like someone impossible to shake.
Nothing rattled him.
Not combative patients. Not blood. Not overcrowding. Not the attending surgeon screaming because someone misplaced scans. Not even the twelve-hour shifts that turned everyone else into sleep-deprived disasters.
Jack was steady.
Calm voice. Dry humor. Capable hands.
The kind of man who walked into chaos and somehow made the room quieter.
Which was exactly why discovering he got adorably flustered when you kissed him became the greatest source of entertainment in your life.
It started after a brutal shift.
You’d both been running nonstop for eleven hours. Your ponytail was half falling out, your sneakers were stained with something you didn’t want to identify, and Jack had dark circles beneath his eyes that somehow only made him hotter.
You were both restocking supplies in an empty trauma bay at nearly two in the morning when he handed you gauze without looking.
“Last pack,” he said.
“You hiding the rest from me?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re selfish, Abbot.”
“You survive.”
You snorted softly.
He glanced over then, just briefly, and there it was again—that little almost-smile he only ever showed around you.
Most people got professionalism from Jack.
You got warmth.
Tiny pieces of it, carefully handed over.
You didn’t know exactly when the crush happened.
Maybe it was the first time he brought you coffee without asking how you took it because he already knew.
Maybe it was the night he sat with you in the ambulance bay while you cried after losing a teenage patient.
Maybe it was because Jack looked at you like you were something precious even when you felt exhausted and wrung out and fraying at the edges.
Whatever the reason, you were gone for him.
Hopelessly.
“Hey,” you said suddenly.
“Hm?”
“You’ve got something.”
He frowned faintly. “Where?”
You stepped closer before he could think too hard about it.
Your hand curled lightly into the front of his scrub top.
Then you kissed him.
Quick.
Soft.
Barely more than a brush of your lips against his.
Jack froze.
Actually froze.
His eyes widened slightly as you pulled back.
And there it was.
Color rising up his neck.
“You—”
You grinned.
“Oh my God,” you whispered. “You blush.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
Jack stared at you like he’d forgotten how words worked.
Which was shocking, considering this man regularly handled medical catastrophes without blinking.
“You kissed me,” he finally managed.
“Yeah.”
“In the middle of work.”
“Mhm.”
“You can’t just do that.”
“But I already did.”
His jaw flexed.
You watched the pink deepen in his cheeks and nearly lost it laughing.
Jack pointed at you like he was trying to regain control of the situation.
“That’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“You assaulted me with affection.”
“You survived.”
“That’s your defense?”
“You use it all the time.”
He made a low sound in the back of his throat that suspiciously resembled a laugh.
Then someone called for him down the hall and the moment broke apart.
But before he left, he looked at you again.
Longer this time.
Something softer in his expression.
Something dangerous.
“You’re trouble,” he said quietly.
And walked away.
After that, it became a problem.
Because now you knew.
Jack Abbot—competent, composed, terrifyingly capable Jack Abbot—completely lost his mind when you kissed him unexpectedly.
And you had zero self-control about it.
You started small.
A kiss against his cheek while he charted.
A quick peck to the corner of his mouth when he handed you coffee.
One stolen kiss in the elevator that left him staring at the closing doors like he’d just been shot.
Every single time, he reacted the same way.
Stillness.
Blinking.
Blushing.
Occasionally short-circuiting entirely.
It was incredible.
“You do this on purpose,” he accused one night.
You looked up innocently from your seat beside him in the break room.
“Do what?”
“Weaponize affection.”
You gasped dramatically. “Weaponize?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a strong word.”
“You kissed me and walked away while I was talking to Collins.”
“And?”
“I forgot what I was saying.”
You burst out laughing.
Jack looked deeply unimpressed.
Which would’ve been more convincing if his ears weren’t bright red.
“Oh my God,” you wheezed. “You’re still blushing.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You like me.”
He looked at you then.
Really looked at you.
And suddenly the teasing atmosphere shifted into something quieter.
Warmer.
More dangerous.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I do.”
Your laughter faded immediately.
The room felt smaller.
Jack leaned back in his chair, gaze steady on yours now, and somehow that was worse than the blushing.
Because this—
this calm honesty—
felt terrifyingly real.
“How much?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
His expression softened.
“Enough that you’ve turned me into an idiot.”
Your chest hurt a little.
Jack wasn’t smooth when it came to feelings.
That was part of what made him so devastating.
Everything he said felt honest.
Carefully chosen.
Real.
You stood slowly from your chair.
Walked over to him.
He watched you the entire time.
“What are you doing?” he asked quietly.
You stopped between his knees.
Rested your hands lightly on his shoulders.
“Kissing you again.”
“See? Problem.”
You smiled softly this time.
Not teasing anymore.
Then you kissed him properly.
Not quick.
Not playful.
Slow enough that his breath caught.
Jack’s hands settled instinctively at your waist, careful and warm and solid.
For one suspended second, he didn’t kiss you back like a man unsure of himself.
He kissed you like someone who’d wanted this for a long time.
Deeply.
Completely.
Your fingers slid into his hair and he made a rough sound against your mouth that nearly ruined you.
When you pulled away, both of you were breathing harder.
Jack rested his forehead lightly against yours.
“You can’t keep doing that to me,” he murmured.
“You hate it?”
His hands tightened slightly on your waist.
“I didn’t say that.”
“No?”
“No.”
You smiled against his mouth.
“Good.”
Then the break room door swung open.
“Abbot, I need—”
Dana stopped dead.
You jerked backward.
Jack looked profoundly unimpressed with the interruption.
Dana’s eyes moved between the two of you slowly.
Then she sighed.
“Finally.”
You blinked.
“Finally?”
“You two have been making eyes at each other for months. It was embarrassing.”
Jack scrubbed a hand over his face.
“You’re not helping.”
“I’m helping plenty.” Dana pointed at you. “Keep doing whatever this is. He’s less grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy.”
“You threatened a printer yesterday.”
“It started it.”
Dana walked out muttering something about emotionally constipated emergency staff.
You dissolved into helpless laughter.
Jack looked at you for three seconds before giving up and laughing too.
God.
You loved that sound.
Dating Jack happened naturally after that.
Like slipping into something that had already been waiting for you both.
You learned quickly that beneath the calm exterior, Jack loved quietly but intensely.
He remembered everything.
Your coffee order.
Your favorite snacks during night shifts.
How you liked your fries stolen but not your pickles.
He’d press tired kisses into your hair while passing behind you in the kitchen.
Would rest a hand at the small of your back absentmindedly.
Would look at you across crowded rooms like he still couldn’t quite believe you were his.
And you never stopped stealing kisses.
Never.
In supply closets.
Hallways.
Parking garages.
Against his shoulder while he charted.
One memorable time while he was mid-sentence talking to Robby.
“You were saying?” Robby asked dryly after you walked off.
Jack stared blankly ahead.
“I don’t remember.”
“You’re pathetic.”
“Probably.”
The worst—or best—incident happened three months into your relationship.
Jack was focused on stitching up a patient’s arm while you stood nearby assisting.
Completely professional.
Composed.
Until the patient’s elderly grandmother looked between the two of you knowingly and said, “You’re in love.”
You nearly choked.
Jack remained calm.
“We’re dating,” he corrected gently.
“No,” she said wisely. “You’re in love.”
Silence.
Then she pointed at you.
“You look at him like he hung the moon.”
Your face burned.
Then she pointed at Jack.
“And he looks at you like he’d fight God for another five minutes.”
The entire room went quiet.
Jack’s stitching paused briefly.
You looked at him.
And there it was.
That look.
Open affection so intense it made your chest ache.
The grandmother hummed triumphantly.
“I’m old, not blind.”
Later, after the patient was discharged, you cornered Jack in an empty hallway.
“You’d fight God for me?” you asked lightly.
Jack looked down at you.
Completely serious.
“Without hesitation.”
Your heart nearly stopped.
“Jack—”
“I mean it.”
There was no teasing in his face.
No embarrassment.
Just certainty.
You reached for him automatically.
“Come here.”
“What?”
“I need to kiss you.”
A faint blush appeared immediately.
You grinned delightedly.
“There he is.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re blushing again.”
“Because you keep looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you adore me.”
You softened instantly.
“Oh,” you whispered. “That’s because I do.”
Jack stared at you for half a heartbeat before pulling you into him suddenly.
His mouth found yours hard enough to steal your breath.
Not shy.
Not flustered.
Certain.
One hand cupped your jaw while the other settled firmly at your waist.
You melted against him immediately.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours again.
“You’re gonna kill me someday,” he murmured.
You smiled softly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His thumb brushed gently across your cheek. “Worth it.”
Two years later, Jack still blushed when you stole kisses.
Especially when you did it unexpectedly.
Especially when you smiled afterward like you’d won something.
Maybe you had.
Because every single time, without fail, Jack looked at you like falling in love with you had been the easiest thing he’d ever done.
Hey! I’m loving the Pitt atm as it’s now in the UK and love your fics! I was wandering maybe one based of the song U&I by Anne-Marie for either Robby or Jack?? Maybe after pittfest or a heavy day?? Thank you!!
I’ve never heard this song until now and it is such a beautiful song. After listening to it over and over I feel like it would go perfectly with Robby after Pittfest. Sorry it took so long but here it is. I really hope I captured the moment and the vision you were looking for.
Summary: After Pittfest, you notice Robby quietly slipping away from the others and ask to walk him home. What starts as a silent walk becomes one night of shared grief, small comforts, and the fragile promise that neither of you has to survive it alone.
Tags: Pittfest Aftermath, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst with Comfort, One Shot, Processing Trauma Together, Emotional Intimacy, Gender Neutral Reader, No Y/N
A/N: This was a request inspired by the song You & I by Anne-Marie. I hope I captured the vision.
Something cold against your palm. Something bitter on your tongue. Something normal enough to make the world feel briefly less impossible.
The park across from Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center had gone soft with evening light, the grass damp beneath everyone’s shoes, the benches crowded with bodies still dressed in scrubs.
Not many of you.
Just enough to make it feel like no one had been completely abandoned by the day.
Princess sat on one end of the bench with her beer balanced between both hands, knees pressed together, her scrub top wrinkled and stained near the hem. Donnie sat on the grass near her feet, long legs stretched out in front of him, staring up at the sky like he was waiting for it to explain itself.
Mateo was trying.
That was the only word for it.
He sat near you with his back against the bench, explaining how hospital administration now legally owed all of you at least one free vending machine item and possibly a parade.
Princess laughed into her sleeve.
Not a real laugh.
But close enough that everyone let it count.
“Forget the parade,” Donnie muttered. “I want hazard pay and a chair that doesn’t feel like it was designed by someone who hates nurses.”
“That’s every chair in the hospital,” Mateo said.
“Exactly. I’m convinced they’re designed to discourage sitting.”
Javadi made a quiet sound that might have been amusement. She sat beside Mohan on the bench, shoulders folded inward, her beer unopened between her knees. Mohan looked hollowed out beside her, like part of her was still somewhere inside the department.
“I would settle for a working printer,” Princess said.
Donnie pointed his beer at her. “Don’t get greedy.”
They all laughed. That was the rhythm of the park now. Tired voices. Long silences. Traffic hissing past on wet pavement.
The hospital glowed across the street like it hadn’t swallowed all of you whole and spit you back out in pieces.
You sat in the grass with your untouched beer between your hands, knees pulled close to your chest. No one had changed out of their scrubs. No one had the energy. Everyone looked exactly like what they were.
Survivors of a shift that had asked too much.
For a while, the six of you stayed like that, trying to joke your way around the edges of the day.
Mateo declared the beer a wellness initiative. Donnie said if this was wellness, he wanted a refund.
Princess swore she would never trust anyone who said, “At least it’s been quiet.”
“Ban that phrase,” Javadi said suddenly.
Everyone looked at her.
Her voice was flat, but frayed underneath.
“Hospital-wide policy,” she added. “Immediate termination.”
Mateo lifted his can. “Seconded.”
“Third,” Donnie said.
Mohan nodded solemnly. “I can draft the memo.”
“Make it threatening,” Princess said.
“It’ll be very professional,” Mohan replied. “But legally terrifying.”
This time the laughter came easier. Still tired. Still cracked around the edges. But real enough to hold onto for a second.
Then, across the street, two figures stepped off the curb together.
Abbot and Robby.
Abbot carried a slight but noticeable limp, one hand shoved into his pocket. Robby walked beside him with his hands empty, shoulders set, his expression arranged into something almost normal.
Almost.
The group noticed them at nearly the same time.
Mateo lifted his beer. “Look who escaped.”
Abbot glanced back toward the hospital. “Barely. The building tried to keep custody.”
Princess made a tired sound. “It does that.”
Robby’s mouth twitched. “You all started drinking without us?”
Donnie looked up from the grass. “We were honoring your memory.”
“That’s touching,” Robby said. “Premature, but touching.”
Abbot lowered himself onto the bench with a muted grunt just as Donnie reached into the cooler and held a beer out toward him.
“Here,” he said. “Medical intervention.”
Jack took it, letting it dangle loosely between two fingers. “Finally. Evidence-based care.”
Mateo eyed him. “You good, Abbot?”
Jack looked at the beer. “Balanced meal. Grain. Water. Emotional avoidance.”
Mateo snorted. Even Mohan’s mouth moved faintly.
Robby huffed something that passed for a laugh and settled near the edge of the group, close enough to be included, far enough not to be touched.
Your chest tightened. Because you knew that laugh. Or more accurately, you knew what it wasn’t.
It wasn’t the sharp, reluctant laugh that escaped him when someone genuinely caught him off guard. It wasn’t the tired but real one he gave after a resident said something so ridiculous it circled back around to funny. This one was deliberate. Placed carefully over the cracks.
Abbot leaned forward beside him, gaze fixed on the grass between his shoes. He looked exhausted too, scraped raw around the edges, but Robby looked different. Quieter. Smaller somehow. Like holding himself together had become an active effort.
Princess reached into the cooler beside the bench and handed him a beer. “Cold enough to legally qualify as self-care.”
Robby took it from her. “Good. I was worried we’d have to process emotions instead.”
“Absolutely not. We’re medical professionals.”
He curled his fingers around the can but barely drank from it.
Around him, everyone kept trying. Trying to talk. Trying to joke. Trying to feel like people again instead of survivors clawing their way out of disaster.
Javadi muttered that she never wanted to hear the phrase “It can’t get worse,” again.
“Ban that too,” Donnie said.
“Second memo,” Mohan agreed.
Mateo pointed at her. “You’re our entire legal department now.”
“I’m an R3.”
“Same thing after today.”
“That is deeply incorrect.”
“Bright side,” Princess said softly, lifting her beer, “none of us are in the trauma bay right now.”
The group went quiet. Not because it wasn’t true. Because it was. Because even the bright side still had blood under it.
Then Abbot tipped his can toward her. “I’ll drink to low standards.”
That saved the moment. Barely. A few tired laughs moved through the group.
Robby smiled. Half a second late. You watched it appear, hold, then disappear before it ever reached his eyes.
You had worked with Michael Robinavitch for years. You knew every version of his exhaustion: the irritated kind, the over-caffeinated kind, the dangerous kind where his voice got calmer the worse things became. And today had been hurting him long before Pittfest cracked the shift open.
You had seen it early that morning in the tightness around his mouth, the way he kept forcing himself back into focus, the jokes that came a little too quickly.
Now he sat surrounded by people who cared about him in every way emergency medicine allowed, and somehow he still looked completely alone.
That was what made you watch him. Not obviously. Just enough.
Robby took another sip of beer. His gaze kept drifting across the street toward the hospital. Like part of him was still inside it.
Jack said something low beside him. You didn’t catch the words. Robby answered with a dry comment that made Mateo laugh for real this time. The sound warmed the space for half a second.
Robby’s smile didn’t. Then, quietly, he shifted. Small enough most people wouldn’t notice. One hand pressed briefly to his knee before he stood. But you knew him. You saw the exit before anyone else did.
Robby brushed a hand over his scrub pants. “Well,” he said casually, “this has been sufficiently depressing.”
Jack looked up at him. “You’re leaving before the trust falls?”
“I’d rather be intubated awake.”
Princess barked out a tired laugh.
Mateo lifted his can. “Get home safe, man.”
Robby gave a small two-finger salute. “That’s the plan.”
As if plans had meant anything today.
He started walking before anyone could say anything else. And for one second, nobody moved. Not because they didn’t care. Because everyone was exhausted enough to accept the performance.
But you didn’t.
You watched him cross the grass, hands sliding back into his pockets. The second he thought no one was looking, his shoulders dropped. Not much. Just enough to tell the truth.
Your throat tightened. Then you set your beer carefully in the grass and stood. Jack’s eyes flicked toward you for half a second. He didn’t say anything. Maybe he knew too.
You crossed the park slowly, your legs stiff, your whole body heavy with the delayed ache of the day. Your shoes sank slightly into the damp grass. Somewhere behind you, the conversation started again, quieter than before.
Robby had almost reached the sidewalk by the time you caught up.
“Robby.”
He stopped. Two steps late. Then he turned halfway, his face already pulled back into something manageable.
“Yeah?”
You slowed before you reached him, leaving a careful amount of space between you. Close enough to follow. Not close enough to corner.
That mattered with him. Especially now.
“You heading home?” you asked.
His mouth twitched. “Unless you know somewhere better to emotionally decompose.”
There it was again. The joke. The shield. The thing he gave people so they wouldn’t ask about the wound underneath.
You let out a soft breath that almost became a laugh.
“No,” you said. “Not really.”
His eyes moved over your face out of habit, checking you over. Looking for damage, even when he was the one bleeding where no one could see.
“You okay?” he asked.
It hurt, somehow. After everything, his first instinct was still to check.
You held his gaze.
“Can I walk with you?”
Robby blinked once. The question seemed to land harder than you meant it to. For a second, he looked past you toward the park. Toward the people still sitting together in the bruised evening light, trying to remember how to breathe.
“You don’t have to,” he said.
“I know.”
“You should stay with them.”
“I’ve been with them all day.”
His jaw moved faintly.
You softened your voice.
“I’m asking if I can walk with you.”
That did it. Not fully. Not visibly. But something in his face shifted. A tiny fracture in the careful, casual mask.
The smallest surrender.
Robby looked down at the sidewalk, then back at you.
His voice came out quieter.
“Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”
You stepped beside him. Not touching. Not yet. Just there. And together, you walked away from the park, the hospital glowing behind you, the others fading into low voices and tired laughter at your backs.
For the first few blocks, neither of you said anything. There didn’t seem to be anything left to say.
The city moved around you like it had not been changed by the day. Cars rolled through green lights. Someone’s music thudded faintly from an open window. A couple crossed the street ahead of you, laughing about something on a phone screen, their shoulders pressed together, their lives still ordinary enough for that kind of laughter.
You watched them pass. Robby didn’t. He kept his eyes forward, hands tucked into his pockets, his steps slow but steady beside yours. Not his usual walk. Not the clipped, purposeful stride he used through the department when everyone knew better than to get in his way.
This was different. Looser. Emptier. Like momentum was the only thing keeping him upright.
You matched his pace without making it obvious. That was one of the first things you had learned about him, years ago.
Robby noticed being managed. He noticed being handled. He noticed pity like it had a smell. So you didn’t manage him. You just stayed.
The park noise faded behind you. The hospital remained at your backs, but you could still feel it there, huge and bright and wounded. A place you both knew too well. A place that had taken too much from everyone today. A place that had taken too much from him long before today.
At the corner, the crosswalk sign glowed red. Robby stopped beside you. For a few seconds, the two of you stood beneath the streetlight, evening cooling around you, neither of you quite looking at the other.
Then Robby said, “You realize this is the part where you’re supposed to say something inspiring.”
You glanced over. His mouth had barely moved. Dry. Automatic. Tired.
You looked back at the light.
“I’m off the clock.”
A breath left him. Not quite a laugh. Closer than the ones in the park, though. You counted it anyway.
The crosswalk changed. You walked. Halfway across, his shoulder brushed yours. Barely. An accident. Neither of you moved away.
On the other side, the silence came back, but it had changed shape. Less empty now. Less dangerous. Still heavy, but shared between two sets of hands.
Robby glanced at you once. “You don’t have to babysit me.”
“I’m not.”
“Feels like babysitting.”
“You’re taller than most babies.”
That got something from him. Small. Cracked. Real enough that your chest tightened around it.
He shook his head, looking down at the sidewalk. “That was terrible.”
“I’ve had a long day.”
“Yeah,” he said.
The word landed softly. Too softly.
You looked at him. His eyes were still on the pavement, but his face had shifted again. The joke had taken him somewhere he hadn’t meant to go. Back into the day. Back into all of it.
You wanted to ask what part he was seeing. You didn’t. You had your own ghosts walking beside you. The girl with glitter still stuck to her cheek. The father who kept asking for his son after you already knew. The sound of someone crying into a disposable mask because there hadn’t been time to go somewhere private.
You swallowed and looked ahead.
“I keep thinking I’m hearing monitors,” you said.
Robby’s steps slowed for half a second. Then kept going.
You didn’t look at him when you said it. That made it easier somehow.
“Every time a car beeps or someone’s phone goes off, I keep turning like there’s a room I’m supposed to check.”
Robby was quiet for so long you thought he might not answer.
Then, very quietly, he said, “Yeah.”
One syllable. But it carried too much. You nodded. That was enough.
For a while, the only sound was traffic and the soft scuff of your shoes against the sidewalk.
Then Robby said, “I keep seeing the floor.”
Your throat tightened. He didn’t elaborate at first. You let him have the space.
“Faces,” he said finally. “Blood. Carts. Who went upstairs. Who never made it.”
His voice stayed calm. Too calm. The same voice he used when calling out orders over chaos.
“I keep thinking there’s something I missed.”
There it was. The thing under everything. Not all of it, maybe. But enough.
You turned your head slightly. “Robby.”
“I know,” he said, already bracing. “I know what you’re going to say.”
“No, you don’t.”
That made him look at you.
You kept walking, voice quiet.
“I’m not going to tell you that you did everything you could.”
His face changed. Just barely.
You stared ahead at the sidewalk because looking right at him felt too much like touching an open wound.
“You know that already,” you said. “And if you don’t know it tonight, me saying it isn’t going to make you believe it.”
Robby looked away first. The city hummed around you. A bus passed with its windows lit gold, full of people going somewhere that had nothing to do with blood or triage or death notifications.
You kept your hands at your sides.
“I’m just walking with you.”
The words sat between you. Simple. Almost nothing. Everything, anyway.
Robby breathed in slowly through his nose. When he spoke again, his voice had gone rougher around the edges.
“That’s your plan?”
“Pretty much.”
“Terrible plan.”
“Probably.”
“You always this bad at discharge instructions?”
“Only with difficult patients.”
He huffed again. This time, it almost sounded like him.
You glanced over before you could stop yourself. His eyes were still tired. His whole face was wrecked with it. But for half a second, the corner of his mouth tilted in a way that belonged to him. Not the attending. Not the person everyone had needed. Just Robby.
Then it faded. But you had seen it. That was enough to keep walking.
At the next block, he slowed. Not stopped. Just slowed enough that you noticed.
His apartment building waited farther down, plain brick and dark windows, close enough now to feel like a question.
He stared at it like he didn’t recognize the place. Like home was just another room where the day could follow him.
“You can go back,” he said.
You looked at him.
His voice had gone careful again. Controlled. Making an exit for you before you could need one.
“I made it this far,” he added. “Gold star for civic service.”
You didn’t smile. Not this time.
“Do you want me to?”
He didn’t answer. That told you enough. Still, you waited. Because he deserved the dignity of choosing.
Robby’s jaw tightened. His eyes stayed on the building. For a moment, you thought he might make the joke. The one that would put the wall back up. The one that would let him walk inside alone and convince himself he had spared you something.
Instead, he said, “I don’t know what happens when I stop moving.”
Your breath caught.
He looked furious with himself for saying it, like the words had slipped through before he could triage them.
You softened.
“Then don’t stop alone.”
Robby closed his eyes. Just for a second. When he opened them, he didn’t look at you. But his hand shifted beside yours. Not reaching. Not quite. Close enough that your fingers could have found his if either of you were braver.
You didn’t take his hand. Not yet. You just stepped forward. He followed. And together, you walked the last half block home.
His building was quiet in the way apartment buildings got after everyone else had already made it inside. A few windows glowed warm above you. Someone had left a bike chained crookedly near the front steps. The lobby light flickered once, then steadied, yellow and tired.
Robby stopped at the door. For a second, he didn’t reach for his keys. He just stood there, staring at the lock like it had asked him a question he didn’t know how to answer.
You waited beside him. Not looking too hard. Not making it a thing.
Finally, he exhaled through his nose and dug into his pocket. The keys scraped together softly in his hand. It took him two tries to find the right one. He noticed. Of course he did.
His mouth pulled into something bitter. “Great. Fine motor skills are apparently decorative now.”
“You’ve had a long day.”
“Don’t start being nice to me. It’s disorienting.”
“I’m always nice to you.”
He got the key into the lock and glanced back at you. “You once told a med student I looked like I survived off spite and cafeteria coffee.”
“You do.”
“That wasn’t nice.”
“It was accurate.”
For half a second, the corner of his mouth moved. Not much. Enough. Then the lock turned, and he pushed the door open.
The lobby smelled faintly like floor cleaner and old mail. Robby held the door for you without thinking, because even exhausted and hollowed out, some habits survived everything.
You stepped inside. He followed. Neither of you spoke in the elevator. The silence pressed close, made smaller by the mirrored walls and the hum of machinery dragging you upward. Robby stood with one shoulder near the panel, eyes fixed on the numbers as they changed.
Three. Four. Five.
His reflection looked worse than he did straight on. Paler. Older. Like the fluorescent light had found every place the day had carved into him. You looked away before he caught you staring. The doors slid open.
Robby led you down the hall to his apartment, slower now. Like every step away from the hospital made the exhaustion heavier instead of easier to carry.
At his door, he paused again. Not as long this time. Then he unlocked it and stepped inside. The apartment was dark except for the dull gray-blue wash of evening through the windows.
Quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel restful. The kind that waited.
Robby stood just inside the doorway. You stayed behind him, giving him room.
His keys were still in his hand. His shoulders rose once with a breath that didn’t quite finish. Then he seemed to remember you were there.
“Sorry,” he said, flipping on a lamp near the door. Warm light spilled over the living room. “It’s, uh…” He looked around at the perfectly ordinary space, like he was searching for something to apologize for. “It’s not exactly guest-ready.”
There was a coffee mug on the side table. A stack of books near the couch. A sweatshirt thrown over the back of a chair.
That was it.
You looked at him. “Robby.”
“What?”
“This is cleaner than the staff lounge on its best day.”
“That’s not a standard. That’s a biohazard comparison.”
“Still.”
He let out a breath that almost wanted to be a laugh and shut the door behind you.
The click sounded too loud. Both of you heard it. Both of you pretended not to.
Robby set his keys in a bowl near the door, then immediately picked them back up like he had forgotten why he put them down. He stared at them for a second.
You watched his fingers tighten around the metal.
“Hey,” you said softly.
He looked over.
You kept your voice easy. “Do you want me to make coffee and pretend it isn’t a terrible idea right now?”
His eyes searched your face. The question was small enough to be safe. That was why you’d asked it.
Not “Are you okay?”
Not “Talk to me.”
Not “What do you need?”
Just coffee.
Something normal. Something survivable.
Robby swallowed. “Coffee sounds irresponsible at this time.”
“Tea?”
“Worse.”
“Water?”
He grimaced. “Now you’re just being aggressive.”
You smiled faintly. “Water it is.”
You moved toward the kitchen before he could argue with you. Not because you wanted to take over. Because standing still in the doorway felt too much like waiting for him to break. And you weren’t sure he could do that with an audience.
The kitchen was small but neat. You found two glasses in the cabinet beside the sink on the second try. Robby followed after a moment, leaning against the counter like he didn’t trust himself to sit down yet.
You filled one glass and set it beside him. He looked at it. Then at you.
“You always this bossy off shift?”
“Yes.”
“Good to know.”
“You’re welcome.”
He picked up the glass, took one obedient sip, and set it down.
“Heroic,” you said.
“Don’t patronize me. I’m fragile.”
The joke came easier. Then disappeared.
His eyes drifted to his hands. There was still dried blood near one knuckle. Not much. Just a rust-colored crescent caught at the edge of his skin. You saw the exact moment he noticed it too. Everything in him went still. The apartment seemed to go still with him.
Robby stared at his hand. His face emptied. Not dramatically. Not with a sob. Just gone. Like some vital part of him had stepped backward out of reach.
You didn’t move at first. Then you turned on the sink. The rush of water filled the silence.
Robby blinked once, like the sound brought him back half an inch. You reached for a dish towel, wet the corner, and held it out.
He looked at it. Then at you.
“I can do it,” he said.
“I know.”
For a second, neither of you moved. Then he took the towel. His fingers brushed yours. Cold. He scrubbed at the blood too hard.
“Robby.”
“I know.”
He kept scrubbing.
You stepped closer, slowly. “You’re going to take the skin off.”
That got a breath out of him. Sharp. Bitter.
“Wouldn’t be the worst thing that came off me today.”
The words landed badly. He knew it as soon as he said them.
You saw the regret flash across his face, quick and wounded.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
You shook your head. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know.”
He looked down again. The towel hung from his hand now, damp and stained faintly pink.
His voice dropped so low you almost missed it.
“I thought I washed it off.”
Your chest tightened. You reached for the towel, and this time he let you take it. Carefully, you wiped the last mark from his knuckle. Not because he couldn’t. Because maybe, for once, he didn’t have to.
Robby watched your hand move over his. His breathing had gone shallow. You finished and folded the towel closed around the stain.
“There,” you whispered.
He didn’t pull away. Neither did you. For a moment, the whole day narrowed to the space between your hands.
Then Robby closed his eyes. His chin dipped. And when he spoke, his voice broke just enough to make your heart hurt.
“I don’t know how to go to sleep after this.”
You held his hand a little more firmly.
“Then we don’t start there.”
His eyes opened.
You kept your thumb resting against the back of his hand.
“We start with water,” you said softly. “Then maybe sitting down. Maybe taking off your shoes. Maybe turning on the TV so the quiet doesn’t get too loud.”
Robby stared at you like he wanted to argue. Like he wanted to make a joke. Like he wanted to say you had no idea what you were doing. But he didn’t. He just looked tired. So tired.
“Sounds like a terrible plan,” he said.
You nodded. “It’s the only one I’ve got.”
A faint, ruined smile touched his mouth.
“Figures.”
Then, very slowly, he let you lead him out of the kitchen. You led him to the couch like it was not a mercy. Like it was not a decision. Like it was simply the next thing.
Robby let you. That alone felt enormous.
He sank down slowly, elbows coming to his knees, hands hanging loose between them. For a second, he stared at the floor. Then he reached for the laces of one shoe and stopped halfway there. His fingers hovered. Nothing happened.
You crouched in front of him. Not too close.
“Can I?”
His eyes lifted to yours.
For one second, you saw the argument in him. The reflexive no. The offended dignity. The dry comment about not being eighty-seven years old or post-op.
But it never made it out. Instead, Robby’s throat moved. Then he gave one small nod. So you untied his shoes. Carefully. One lace, then the other. You eased the first shoe off, then the second, setting them side by side near the coffee table. Such a stupid little thing. Such an ordinary act. And somehow it felt more intimate than anything else could have.
Robby looked down at you, wrecked and quiet.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said.
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“You keep giving me reasons to.”
A breath moved through him. Almost a laugh. Not quite.
You stood and sat beside him, leaving space between you. Enough that he could breathe. Enough that he could pretend this was casual if he needed to.
Robby leaned back against the couch, head tipped slightly toward the ceiling, eyes open and unfocused.
The lamp threw warm light across his face. It made him look human in a way the hospital never did. Not smaller. Just less armored.
You picked up the remote from the coffee table. “Background noise?”
He didn’t look over. “Depends.”
“On?”
“How bad your taste is.”
You glanced at the dark TV. “At this point? Catastrophic.”
“Great.”
“You want medical drama?”
His head turned just enough to give you a look.
You held up both hands. “Too soon?”
“Forever too soon.”
“Game show?”
“I don’t want to watch people make decisions under pressure.”
“Cooking show?”
Robby stared at the ceiling.
Then, after a long second, said, “Cooking show.”
You turned on the TV and clicked through until you found something bright and harmless. People in aprons were panicking over pastry. No blood. No sirens. No one asking for a bed that didn’t exist. Just flour and timers and overly intense commentary about custard.
The volume stayed low. Enough to soften the quiet. Not enough to demand anything. For a while, neither of you spoke. Onscreen, someone dropped a tray. A judge made a wounded noise.
Robby exhaled through his nose. “Rookie mistake.”
You looked at him. “You bake?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
“I’m judgmental.”
That one got you.
A real laugh slipped out before you could stop it. Small. Tired. Cracked at the edges. But real.
Robby looked over at you. And something in his face changed. Not relief, exactly. Something more painful than that. Like your laugh had reminded him that life still existed outside the hospital, and he didn’t know what to do with the proof.
Your smile faded gently.
“What?”
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Robby.”
“It’s nothing.”
You let him have the lie for two seconds. Then you looked back at the TV.
“Okay.”
His gaze stayed on you. You could feel it. The weight of it. The uncertainty. The part of him that didn’t know what to do when someone didn’t pry open the wound just because they had noticed it.
Finally, he looked away too. Onscreen, the pastry disaster somehow got worse. You both watched in silence.
Then Robby said, “I heard you earlier.”
Your fingers tightened around the remote. You didn’t ask what he meant. You knew.
There had been so much noise. So many people. So many names. You had moved through the day with your face set and your voice calm because calm was useful. Calm got families into rooms. Calm got information out of chaos. Calm made horror easier for other people to receive.
But there had been one moment. One. A supply room with the door mostly closed. Your hand pressed over your mouth. A sound you had not meant to make. Small. Broken. Gone almost as soon as it escaped. Then you wiped your face, stepped back into the hall, and kept going.
You thought Robby had been across the department.
You stared at the television. “I didn’t know anyone heard that.”
“I did.”
Of course he had. He noticed everything. Especially the things people hoped he wouldn’t.
You swallowed. “I was fine.”
“No, you weren’t.”
The correction was gentle. That made it worse. You looked down at your hands.
Robby’s voice stayed low beside you.
“You came back out thirty seconds later and talked to that father like you hadn’t just—”
He stopped. Couldn’t finish. Neither could you.
The father. The room. The name. The way his whole body had folded around the news.
Your eyes burned. You blinked hard, but it didn’t help.
“I had to,” you said.
“I know.”
The same words you’d given him all night. Returned now. Soft. Devastating. Your breath caught once.
You turned your face away, but it was too late. The first tear slipped free anyway, hot and humiliating after a day spent refusing to fall apart where anyone could see.
“Sorry,” you whispered.
Robby moved immediately. Not dramatically. Just there. One second there was space between you, and the next there wasn’t.
His hand found your wrist first, careful and grounding. Then your shoulder. Then he pulled you toward him with a restraint that nearly broke you more than force would have.
You went. Because you were tired. Because it was him. Because maybe you had been waiting for permission too.
Your forehead hit his shoulder, and the smell of him, soap, hospital, beer, the day, made something in you come loose.
You cried quietly at first. Then not quietly enough. Robby’s arm came around you. His hand settled at the back of your head.
“Hey,” he murmured.
Not fixing. Not shushing. Just there.
You gripped the front of his shirt like you were afraid of sliding off the earth.
“I keep seeing them,” you choked out.
His hand stilled.
“I know.”
“I keep hearing the monitors. I keep hearing people asking me if their kids were alive, and I knew, Robby. Sometimes I knew before they finished asking.”
Your voice cracked.
“I knew.”
Robby closed his eyes. His face pressed briefly into your hair.
“I know.”
“It felt like lying every time I told someone it’ll be okay.”
His arm tightened around you.
“Yeah.”
“And I can’t stop thinking about the ones who were alone.”
That did it. You felt him break before you heard it. The breath went out of him wrong. Hard. A sound caught low in his chest and stayed there, trapped behind all the things he had refused to let himself feel in front of anyone else.
You lifted your head. Robby was looking past you, jaw clenched, eyes bright in the lamplight. Trying. Still trying. Even here. Even now.
“There you are,” you whispered.
His face shifted. A warning. A plea. Don’t. Don’t see this. Don’t make me name it. But you already had.
You lifted a hand slowly and touched his cheek. He flinched once. Not away. Just from the tenderness of it.
“Robby.”
His eyes closed. And then the first tear fell. Silent. Angry. Like it had escaped without permission.
He shook his head once. “I can’t—”
“I know.”
“No.” His voice broke around the word. “No, I can’t do this. I can’t keep doing this.”
You held his face between your hands, gentle but steady. He tried to look away. You didn’t let him disappear.
“Tonight?”
His mouth trembled. He hated that too.
“All of it,” he said. “The whole goddamn thing.”
The TV murmured in the background. Someone laughed about pastry cream. The apartment stayed warm around you, absurdly normal while Robby came apart in your hands.
“I can’t keep walking back into that place and pretending it doesn’t take pieces out of me.”
His voice dropped. Raw now. Ruined.
“I don’t think I know what’s left.”
Your own tears kept falling. You brushed your thumb under his eye, catching what he would have wiped away if he’d had the strength to care.
“You’re left,” you whispered.
He let out a broken sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob.
“Barely.”
“Barely counts.”
His forehead dipped toward yours, and you let it. For a second, that was all there was. His breath uneven against yours. Your hands on his face.
The two of you came undone in the low glow of the living room, with the city outside and the hospital behind you and the whole terrible day still breathing down your necks.
Then Robby whispered, “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
There it was. The truth. Small. Terrified. Everything.
Your throat tightened so hard it hurt.
“You’re not.”
His hands closed around your wrists. Not pushing you away. Holding on.
“I mean it,” he said, like you might not understand. Like he needed to make the warning clear. “I’m not good company right now.”
“I didn’t come for company.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Me neither.”
His eyes opened.
You gave him the smallest smile you could manage.
“That’s kind of the theme.”
A breath shuddered out of him. This time, when he laughed, it broke in the middle. But it was real. You felt it against your palms.
Then he leaned forward and pulled you into him, not carefully this time. Not politely. His arms wrapped around you with something close to desperation, and yours went around his shoulders just as fast.
You held each other like neither of you knew which one was saving the other. Maybe that was the point. Maybe nobody had to. Maybe tonight it was enough to stay. His face pressed into the curve of your neck. Your hand found the back of his head.
Outside, traffic passed in soft waves. Inside, the cooking show kept playing to no one. And for the first time all day, Robby stopped moving.
He did not fall apart cleanly. Neither did you. But you fell apart together. And somehow, somehow, that made the room feel survivable.
Not better. Not healed. Just enough.
Robby held on like he had forgotten how to let go without falling. His breath came unevenly against your neck, warm and broken, while your fingers stayed buried in his hair.
Neither of you spoke. There were no words useful enough for this.
The cooking show kept murmuring from the television, absurdly bright and cheerful in the corner of the room. Someone laughed about a collapsed cake. A judge said something grave about texture. Life, impossibly, kept offering ordinary things.
You closed your eyes. Robby’s grip tightened once at the back of your shirt.
“I’m still here,” you whispered.
His answer was barely sound.
“I know.”
But he held on like he needed the proof anyway. So you stayed.
Minutes passed. Or longer. Time had gone strange somewhere between the park and his apartment, stretched thin by grief and exhaustion until it no longer meant much of anything.
Eventually, Robby’s breathing slowed. Not sleep. Not peace. But closer.
His forehead rested against your shoulder now, his body heavy with the kind of exhaustion that came after running too long on nothing.
You kept one hand at the nape of his neck. Steady. Quiet. There.
Outside, traffic moved softly through the dark. Behind you, somewhere across the city, the hospital kept glowing.
Tomorrow would come. The shift would end and begin again. The board would fill. The rooms would turn over. The grief would still be there, waiting in corners neither of you knew how to clean out yet.
But not tonight.
Tonight, there was only the low hum of the television.
Summary: It’s Mother’s Day and Jack and his sous chef Tommy makes sure you have the best one.
6K
Tags: autistic character, nonverbal autism, aac user, meltdown depiction, autism acceptance, parenting a neurodivergent child, single mom reader, found family, neighbors to lovers, Mother’s Day, Jack and Tommy bonding
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5
Jack used the key you’d given him and let himself into the apartment before the sun had fully come up.
The lock turned softly beneath his hand. He eased the door open just wide enough to slip inside, then caught it before it could click too loudly behind him.
The hallway sat dim and quiet, washed in blue-gray morning light.
Jack stood still for a second, listening.
Nothing.
No footsteps. No tablet voice. No movement from your room.
In one hand, he carried the flowers he had picked up after work the night before and hidden in his apartment so you wouldn’t see them too early. Not grocery store panic flowers. Not last-minute flowers grabbed because the date had snuck up on him.
Jack didn’t do last-minute when it came to you.
He had ordered them from the little florist two blocks over because he’d noticed, weeks ago, that you paused outside their window whenever they had tulips in the display.
Soft yellow tulips. A few white ranunculus tucked between them. Greenery around the edges.
Bright without being loud.
Like morning.
Like you.
He set them carefully on the kitchen counter, still wrapped in brown paper, then glanced toward your bedroom.
Your alarm was set for seven.
Jack knew that because he knew your routine now. Knew how quickly you moved once the alarm went off, like the day had grabbed you by the wrist before your eyes were even open.
But not today.
He crossed the apartment quietly, every step measured.
Your bedroom door was cracked open.
You were asleep on your side, tucked under the blanket, one hand curled near your face. Your hair was messy against the pillow. You looked peaceful. Truly peaceful. The kind that almost never found you once you were awake.
The alarm clock on your nightstand glowed.
6:41 AM.
Jack moved carefully around the edge of the bed and turned the alarm off.
No snooze.
Off.
You shifted slightly, brow pulling together like some part of you sensed a routine being interrupted.
Jack leaned down and pressed the softest kiss to your temple.
“Not today,” he whispered.
You settled again.
He stayed there one extra second, looking at you. Then he slipped back out and pulled the door nearly shut.
The kitchen became his next mission.
Tommy’s routine.
Jack unplugged the tablet from the charger and set it at Tommy’s usual place at the table, screen already awake and ready. Then he opened the cabinet where you kept Tommy’s morning meds, took out the organizer, and checked the label twice because he was careful with things that mattered.
Medication.
Glass of milk.
Strawberry Pop-Tart. Not toasted.
Jack had made that mistake exactly once and had been corrected with the full force of Tommy’s disgust and three tablet presses of:
“No hot.”
“Not again.”
He placed everything where Tommy expected it.
Tablet to the left. Milk above the plate. Pop-Tart centered. Meds beside the glass.
Predictable.
Steady.
Done.
Then Jack washed his hands, rolled up his sleeves, and started breakfast.
Real breakfast.
Not “man tries pancakes and hopes for the best” breakfast.
Jack could cook. Well, actually. It was one of the things people didn’t always expect from him, probably because he gave off the energy of someone who could survive on black coffee, hospital cafeteria sandwiches, and spite.
But he liked cooking.
Liked the structure of it. The sequence. The quiet precision.
He set out eggs, flour, milk, butter, vanilla, cinnamon, and the maple syrup he’d brought over because Mother’s Day pancakes deserved actual syrup, not the bottle shaped like a cheerful lie.
He was measuring flour when Tommy’s bedroom door opened.
Soft creak. Bare feet. Slow, sleepy steps.
Tommy appeared in the hallway wearing dinosaur pajama pants and an oversized shirt, hair smashed flat on one side from sleep.
He stopped when he saw Jack.
Jack looked up from the counter and smiled.
“Morning, buddy.”
Tommy blinked at him.
Then his eyes moved to the table.
Tablet. Pop-Tart. Milk. Meds.
His shoulders lowered slightly.
He walked to the table, picked up the tablet first, and pressed:
“Jack is home.”
“Yeah,” Jack said, keeping his voice low. “Early today.”
Tommy looked toward your bedroom door.
“Where is Mom?”
Jack softened.
“Still asleep.”
Tommy’s brow furrowed.
Jack dried his hands on a towel and came closer, lowering himself into the chair across from Tommy so they were on the same level without crowding him.
“Today is Mother’s Day,” Jack said. “That means it’s a day where we say thank you to moms.”
Tommy watched him.
Jack looked toward your bedroom door. “Your mom takes care of people all day long. She makes breakfast, helps with your tablet, remembers medicine, checks weather reports.” His expression softened. “She makes you feel safe and loved.”
Tommy looked toward your door.
“So today,” Jack said, lowering his voice like he was telling him something very important, “we let Mom sleep. We make her breakfast. We give her flowers. And we do not wake her up unless the apartment is on fire.”
Tommy blinked.
Jack paused.
“And even then,” he added, “we bring the flowers.”
Tommy’s mouth twitched.
Then his tablet spoke.
“Mom day.”
Jack smiled. “Exactly. Mom day.”
Tommy paused and looked toward the bedroom again.
“Mom still sleep.”
“Yep,” Jack said. “First Mother’s Day rule. Mom sleeps in.”
Tommy stared at him.
Jack leaned in slightly and lowered his voice like he was sharing classified information.
“Second rule is we do not wake mom up.”
Tommy blinked.
“Mom works hard. Today, sleep is her first gift.”
Tommy looked toward your bedroom door again, then down at the Pop-Tart.
He picked it up carefully with both hands and took a bite.
Jack stayed where he was, giving him space to wake up fully at his own pace.
Tommy chewed slowly, eyes drifting around the kitchen while his brain caught up to the morning.
The flowers on the counter.
The mixing bowl.
The eggs.
The flour.
The stove.
Then back to Jack.
His tablet spoke.
“What are you cooking?”
“Pancakes,” Jack said softly.
Tommy watched as Jack moved back to the counter. Not anxious watching. Curious watching.
Tommy always liked seeing how things worked once he trusted the pattern.
Jack measured flour into the bowl.
Tommy watched the flour closely.
“It is too much.”
Jack looked down and smiled slightly.
“Good catch, chef.”
He fixed it before pouring it into the bowl.
Tommy nodded once, satisfied.
Jack paused.
“You’re using full sentences a lot more lately,” he said.
Tommy looked at him.
Jack kept his voice easy, not making it too big. “Good job.”
Tommy’s fingers hovered over the tablet for a second.
Then he pressed:
“Ms. Molly says I have to.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Ms. Molly sounds tough.”
Tommy nodded seriously.
Then pressed:
“Mom says too.”
“Yeah?” Jack leaned against the counter. “Well, Mom and Ms. Molly are right.”
Tommy watched him carefully.
Jack nodded toward the flour. “That was clear. I knew exactly what you meant. Proud of you kid.”
Tommy’s shoulders lifted a little.
Not much.
Just enough.
Proud.
Jack smiled softer.
“Nice work, buddy.”
Tommy looked down at the tablet, then back at the bowl like he was trying not to show how much that landed.
But he stood a little taller anyway.
Jack let him have the moment.
Then he reached for the cinnamon.
Tommy’s eyes followed immediately.
“You have cinnamon.”
“Yep.”
Jack reached for the vanilla.
“And vanilla.”
Jack held up the bottle briefly. “Secret ingredients.”
Tommy looked at the batter.
Jack smiled slightly. “Well. Not very secret anymore.”
Tommy’s mouth twitched.
Jack cracked the eggs into a smaller bowl first, clean and easy. Tommy watched closely.
Not because the eggs interested him specifically.
Because Jack did.
Tommy leaned slightly closer as the second egg dropped into the bowl.
“Two eggs.”
Jack nodded seriously. “Couldn’t sneak a third past you if I tried.”
Tommy accepted the praise with complete seriousness.
Jack poured milk into the bowl.
A tiny splash hit the counter.
Tommy’s eyes dropped to the milk immediately.
“You made mess.”
Jack sighed softly. “I’m losing credibility as a chef.”
Tommy’s shoulders bounced once in silent amusement.
Jack started whisking the batter slowly.
Round and round.
The flour disappeared into the batter.
“Mixing good.”
Jack glanced over. “That’s years of pancake training.”
Tommy took another bite of Pop-Tart while he watched.
Jack slowed the movement of the whisk just enough for Tommy to follow it easier.
“Now it’s getting smoother,” he said quietly.
Tommy looked between the whisk and the batter.
Jack nodded once. “That’s what we want.”
The batter smoothed out gradually.
Tommy watched the consistency change.
“More milk.”
Jack paused, looked into the bowl, then back at Tommy.
“You might actually be better at this than me.”
Tommy straightened slightly in his chair.
Jack added a little more milk.
“There. Better?”
Tommy studied the batter carefully, then nodded once.
Jack pointed at him with the whisk. “Natural talent. I might have to promote you to sous chef.”
Tommy made another soft amused sound.
Jack handed him the whisk.
“You wanna try?”
Tommy looked down at it.
Then at Jack.
Then carefully climbed down from the chair.
Jack stepped sideways automatically to give him room at the counter.
Tommy came to stand beside him, still sleepy around the edges but more awake now.
He wrapped both hands around the whisk.
Jack leaned one elbow against the counter.
“Alright,” he said quietly. “First pancake rule.”
Tommy looked up at him.
“Keep the batter inside the bowl.”
Tommy stared at him.
Jack nodded once. “The bowl worked hard to be included.”
Tommy’s mouth twitched.
Then he started whisking.
Carefully at first.
Small circles.
Jack watched him for a second before nodding. “That’s solid whisk technique.”
Tommy whisked a little faster.
The batter sloshed slightly against the side of the bowl.
Jack pointed immediately. “Easy there, chef. We stay below tornado level.”
Tommy slowed right away.
Tommy kept mixing while Jack stayed beside him, not taking over, just there if needed.
Then Tommy glanced toward the flowers.
His fingers moved over the tablet.
“Yellow flowers.”
Jack followed his gaze.
“Yellow tulips.”
Tommy looked at them for a long second.
“Mom likes yellow flowers.”
Jack’s expression softened around the edges.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “She does.”
Tommy stepped closer to the counter, whisk still held carefully in both hands.
He studied the flowers the same way he studied weather radar and pancake batter.
Then his tablet spoke again.
“Pretty.”
Jack glanced at them.
“Thought so too.”
Tommy tilted his head slightly, still staring at the tulips.
“Like Sun.”
Jack looked at him.
“You know what? They are kinda sunny.”
Tommy nodded once like this was obvious.
Jack reached for the kitchen scissors and carefully cut the paper away from the stems.
Tommy immediately stopped whisking to watch.
Jack noticed.
“Flower inspection?”
Tommy pressed the button without looking away from the flowers.
“Watching you.”
“Right,” Jack said seriously. “Can’t proceed without supervision.”
Jack trimmed the stems one at a time over the sink.
Snip. Snip. Snip.
Tommy watched each stem fall into the sink.
“Flowers need water.”
Jack nodded. “Exactly. Can’t have thirsty tulips.”
Tommy’s shoulders lifted slightly with quiet pride.
Jack pulled down a tall glass from the cabinet, filled it halfway with water, and arranged the flowers inside. Tommy watched him adjust one tulip that leaned too far forward.
“You know,” Jack said, stepping back, “I think we crushed it.”
Tommy looked at the flowers.
Then at the batter.
Then toward your bedroom door.
His tablet spoke.
“Mom day.”
“Yeah.”
“Mom sleeping.”
“Still sleeping.”
Tommy considered that.
“Cooking breakfast.”
Jack glanced toward the stove. “Everything’s almost ready to go.”
Tommy watched the pan carefully.
“Hot now.”
Jack nodded.
“Perfect pancake temperature.” Then he picked up the bowl again. “You ready?”
Tommy immediately straightened.
Jack poured batter into the pan.
Soft hiss.
Tommy watched closely as the edges started to cook.
“Now,” Jack said quietly, “we wait for bubbles.”
Tommy leaned in slightly.
A tiny bubble appeared near the middle.
Tommy pointed instantly.
“Bubble.”
“First bubble sighting.”
Another one appeared near the edge.
Then another.
Tommy’s whole focus narrowed onto the pancake like he was personally responsible for monitoring its development.
Jack crossed his arms loosely beside him.
“Now we wait until the bubbles spread a little more.”
Tommy watched the pancake carefully.
A few more bubbles appeared.
Jack slid the spatula beneath it.
“Okay. Now we flip.”
Lift.
Turn.
The pancake settled back into the pan with a soft hiss.
Tommy watched it carefully.
“Looks good.”
Jack glanced down at the uneven edge and smiled slightly.
“Yeah. Homemade always looks a little imperfect.”
Tommy accepted this immediately.
Jack nudged the spatula toward him. “You wanna try the next flip with me?”
Tommy looked at the spatula.
Then at Jack.
Then nodded once.
“Alright. Team effort.”
Jack moved the next pancake into the pan.
Tommy watched the batter spread, round and pale against the buttered surface.
“Now we wait,” Jack said quietly.
Tommy leaned lightly against the counter, eyes fixed on the pancake.
A few quiet seconds passed before he pointed toward the pan.
Jack glanced down. “Yeah. First bubble.”
Tommy watched another one appear near the edge.
Jack nodded. “Now we’re close.”
The bubbles spread slowly across the surface after that.
Jack picked up the spatula and slid it carefully beneath the pancake.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Now we flip.”
Jack kept one hand loosely over Tommy’s.
“Alright, chef,” he said quietly. “Slow and careful.”
Tommy focused on the pancake with complete concentration.
Together, they slid the spatula under the pancake.
Jack kept his touch light.
Tommy did most of it.
“Lift,” Jack murmured.
Tommy lifted.
“Turn.”
The pancake folded slightly on one side as it flipped, landing a little crooked in the pan.
Tommy froze.
Jack looked down at it.
The pancake sat there, half-perfect, half-wrinkled.
Jack nodded slowly. “Abstract.”
Tommy blinked.
“That means fancy weird.”
Tommy’s shoulders bounced once.
Jack used the spatula to smooth the edge back out.
“There we go.”
Tommy stared at the pancake another second.
“Mom pancake.”
Jack’s expression softened.
“Yeah, buddy,” he said quietly. “For Mom.”
Tommy stared at the pan another second.
“Mom still sleep.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “We’ll let her sleep.”
Tommy nodded once.
A plan he could hold.
Jack could almost see it settle in him.
The morning made sense now. Not regular routine, but a special one. A different pattern with clear rules.
Mom sleeps.
Jack cooks.
Tommy helps.
Breakfast waits.
Mother’s Day.
Jack transferred a pancake to the growing stack.
Tommy watched him line it up with the others. The stack was getting taller now, warm steam curling beneath the kitchen lights.
“More pancakes.”
Jack looked over. “Still not enough pancakes?”
Tommy nodded his head once.
Jack nodded solemnly. “Excellent. I’m glad we agree.”
They made more.
Tommy stayed close while it cooked, quieter now, just existing beside Jack in that easy morning rhythm.
The kind Tommy only settled into with people he trusted.
The Weather Channel shifted into a radar update in the living room. Tommy’s attention flicked automatically toward the sound before returning to the pan.
Jack caught it.
“No storms today.”
Tommy shook his head once.
“It is sunny.”
“That’s the rumor.”
Tommy looked toward the flowers again.
“Yellow flowers are sunny.”
Jack smiled slightly. “They are, aren't they.”
Another bubble appeared.
Then another.
“Ready.”
Jack looked down.
“You’re getting real good at this.”
Tommy looked mildly pleased with himself.
Jack handed him the spatula.
“This one’s yours.”
Tommy’s eyes widened slightly.
“I’ll help if you need it,” Jack said.
Tommy wrapped both hands around the handle and slid the spatula under the pancake slowly.
Too slowly at first.
The edge bent.
Tommy paused.
Jack didn’t correct him right away.
“Little farther,” he said quietly. “You got it.”
Tommy adjusted.
The spatula slid fully underneath this time.
Jack nodded once.
“There you go.”
Tommy lifted.
Turned.
The pancake flipped cleanly.
Tommy froze in place, staring at it.
Jack looked at the pancake.
Then at Tommy.
“Perfect flip, buddy.”
Tommy’s entire face changed.
Not huge.
Not dramatic.
Just that quick brightening around the eyes that always felt earned with him.
Jack felt it land somewhere directly behind his ribs.
Tommy looked back at the pancake.
“Chef.”
Jack pointed at him immediately. “Correct. You are absolutely the chef now.”
Tommy stood a little taller beside the stove.
Jack leaned against the counter watching him for a second.
Hair still flattened from sleep. Dinosaur pajama pants. Serious expression while guarding pancakes like it was a real responsibility.
Something in Jack’s chest pulled tight in the quietest way.
Tommy looked toward your bedroom again.
Still closed.
Still sleeping.
Then his tablet spoke softly into the warm kitchen.
“Mom surprise.”
Jack glanced toward the hallway too.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Big surprise.”
Tommy looked down at the pancake stack.
Then the flowers.
Then the card still sitting unfinished on the table.
Tommy looked from the pancakes to the flowers.
“Mom will smile.”
Jack’s expression softened.
“Yeah, buddy. I think Mom’s gonna smile.”
Tommy nodded once, like that was the correct outcome.
Tommy looked down at the flowers.
Then the pancakes.
Then toward your room.
Processing.
Finally, he nodded once.
“Mom day.”
Jack looked at him for a second longer than necessary.
Then smiled softly.
“Yep,” he said. “It’s Mother’s Day.”
Tommy seemed satisfied.
He looked at the pancake stack again, then at the pan, then back at Jack.
“More pancakes.”
Jack followed his gaze to the plate.
The stack was already high enough to qualify as a structural concern.
“Chef, I respect the ambition,” Jack said, “but unless we’re feeding the entire building, I think we’ve reached pancake capacity.”
Tommy stared at him.
“That means too many pancakes.”
Tommy counted silently.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
Then nodded once.
“A lot pancakes.”
“Exactly.”
Jack turned off the burner and slid the pancakes into the warm oven.
Tommy watched the pancakes disappear behind the oven door.
“Wait for Mom.”
Jack’s expression softened immediately.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Now we wait.”
Tommy watched the stack for a second, then looked toward the table.
His tablet spoke.
“Need card.”
Jack glanced over. “Yeah? You wanna make one now?”
Tommy nodded once and immediately climbed down from the chair.
Jack stepped aside automatically as Tommy crossed the kitchen with quiet purpose, still holding the tablet against his chest.
He went straight for the cabinet where you kept the craft supplies.
Jack watched him open it carefully.
Construction paper. Markers. Sticker sheets. Safety scissors. A small plastic container overflowing with things you had clearly bought over time because Tommy liked making things with his hands.
Tommy stood there for a second deciding.
Then he reached for the yellow construction paper first.
Jack smiled to himself as Tommy carried the paper carefully to the table, then went back for the markers.
He paused in front of the sticker sheets, studying them with serious concentration before selecting two and tucking them beneath his arm.
Jack glanced over his shoulder. “You planning something special over there?”
Tommy pressed:
“Mom day card.”
Jack nodded solemnly. “Sounds like a good plan.”
Tommy ignored him completely and returned to the table to organize everything into careful little rows. Yellow paper centered. Markers lined up beside it. Sticker sheets stacked neatly.
Jack watched him arrange everything with the same focused precision he used for weather maps and routines.
Then Tommy looked up.
“Need help fold.”
Jack set the spatula down immediately and crossed to the table.
Tommy held out the construction paper.
Jack helped fold it carefully in half, pressing along the crease while Tommy watched closely to make sure the edges lined up right.
“There,” Jack said softly, handing it back.
Tommy studied the fold for a second. Then nodded once, satisfied.
“Good.”
Jack smiled faintly.
Tommy pulled the card closer, selected the yellow marker, and began to write.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Not because he didn’t know how. He knew exactly what he wanted to say. It just took time to make the letters look right.
HAPPY MOM DAY
Jack stayed quiet while he worked.
The marker squeaked softly against the paper. Tommy paused after each word, checking the spacing with serious concentration before continuing.
When he finished the first line, he sat back and studied it.
Then he picked up the tablet.
“Mom will like.”
Jack looked at the card.
The yellow paper. The careful letters. The marker smudge on Tommy’s thumb.
“She’s gonna love it.”
Tommy looked at him.
Jack softened the wording.
“She will like it very much.”
Tommy nodded once.
Then he wrote another sentence underneath.
MOM LIKES YELLOW FLOWERS.
Jack glanced at the flowers on the counter.
“That she does.”
Tommy chose a sun sticker and placed it beside the sentence.
Tommy picked out a turtle sticker and studied it carefully before peeling it off the sheet.
Jack raised an eyebrow. “Interesting choice.”
Tommy pressed:
“Turtle slow.”
Jack nodded once. “Very calm energy.”
Tommy added the turtle to the corner of the card.
Jack pointed toward it. “That Mom today?”
Tommy glanced toward your room, then nodded.
“Sleeping.”
Jack huffed softly through his nose. “As she should.”
Then Tommy picked out a second turtle.
Jack looked at him. “Turtle friend?”
Tommy nodded once while sticking it beside the first.
The kitchen stayed warm and quiet around them.
Coffee steamed on the counter. The pancakes stayed tucked in the oven to keep warm. The flowers stood bright and sunny in the tall glass Tommy had chosen.
Tommy looked over the card again.
Then, at the bottom, he wrote:
MOM HAPPY.
He paused.
Then added:
MOM LOVE ME.
Jack went still. Only for a second. Long enough for the words to settle somewhere deep in his chest.
Tommy capped the marker carefully and looked at the card.
Then he looked at Jack.
“Mom day.”
Jack swallowed, then smiled softly.
“Yeah, buddy,” he said quietly. “Mom day.”
Tommy placed the card carefully beside the flowers, angling it so the front faced your bedroom door.
He adjusted it once.
Then again.
Then a third time.
Finally, he stepped back.
“Ready.”
Jack looked over the setup.
Yellow flowers in the tall glass. Mother’s Day card propped open. Pancakes waiting warm in the oven. Coffee on the counter. Tommy’s Pop-Tart half-eaten beside his tablet.
“Almost,” Jack said.
Tommy looked at him immediately.
Jack pointed gently toward the table. “You still have meds.”
Tommy glanced down like he had forgotten his own morning existed. Then he returned to his chair without complaint.
Jack didn’t hover. He stayed near the sink, rinsing the mixing bowl while Tommy finished his milk and took his meds the way he always did. One step at a time. No rush. No audience.
When Tommy was done, his tablet spoke.
“Done.”
Jack turned from the sink. “Nice work.”
Tommy picked up the last piece of his Pop-Tart and ate it in two careful bites, eyes still flicking toward the flowers like he was guarding the surprise from the apartment itself.
Jack dried his hands.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Next part of the mission.”
Tommy straightened.
“We let Mom wake up by herself.”
Tommy looked toward your closed bedroom door.
“Mom still sleep.”
“Yep.”
“Breakfast ready.”
“Also yep.”
Tommy frowned faintly.
Jack nodded like he understood the problem. “I know. This is the hard part.”
Tommy waited.
Jack lowered his voice.
“Waiting.”
Tommy looked deeply unimpressed.
Jack sighed. “I agree. Terrible system. But those are the rules.”
A small amused sound slipped out of Tommy.
Jack pointed toward the couch. “Do you want to watch the weather while we wait?”
Tommy considered that. Then nodded once.
Jack followed him into the living room and kept the volume low when he turned up the TV just enough for Tommy to hear the forecast. Tommy settled on the couch with his tablet in his lap, still alert, still glancing toward the hallway every so often.
Jack sat beside him. Not too close. Close enough.
For a little while, neither of them spoke.
The apartment held steady around them.
Pancakes warm.
Flowers ready.
Card waiting.
You sleeping.
Then Tommy’s tablet spoke softly.
“Jack wait here.”
Jack looked over at him.
Tommy wasn’t looking at Jack. His eyes stayed on the weather map.
But his hand rested on the tablet like the words mattered.
Jack’s chest warmed.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’ll wait with you.”
Tommy nodded once.
Like that answered something.
Like Jack waiting was now part of the plan too.
The forecast shifted to a map of afternoon temperatures. Tommy watched it with quiet focus, one thumb resting near the corner of his tablet. Every few seconds, his eyes flicked toward the hallway.
Jack noticed.
“She’s still there,” he said softly.
Tommy looked at him.
“Mom sleep.”
“Mom’s still sleeping,” Jack confirmed.
Tommy’s shoulders lowered.
A few minutes passed.
Then Tommy pressed:
“Mom surprise.”
Jack smiled faintly. “Yeah.”
Tommy pressed again.
“Mom surprise.”
“I know,” Jack said. “It’s hard to wait when you’re excited.”
Tommy looked toward the kitchen.
The flowers were just visible from the couch, bright yellow over the counter.
“Flowers.”
“They’re not going anywhere.”
Tommy considered this.
Then pressed:
“Pancakes ready.”
Jack nodded. “Ready when she is.”
Tommy’s mouth twitched faintly.
Then quiet again. Not an uncomfortable quiet. Waiting quietly. The kind with shape.
Jack let it sit.
He didn’t fill it just because he could. He didn’t try to make Tommy talk or entertain him or turn the morning into something bigger than Tommy could hold.
He just stayed there.
Weather low.
Hallway quiet.
Tommy beside him.
Then, after a while, Tommy reached over and placed two fingers lightly against Jack’s wrist.
Not grabbing.
Not pulling.
Just checking.
Jack looked down at the touch, then back at Tommy.
Tommy’s eyes stayed on the TV.
“Jack still here.”
Jack’s throat tightened.
He kept his voice even.
“Yeah, buddy,” he said. “I’m still here.”
Tommy nodded.
His hand stayed there another second.
Then he pulled it back and returned both hands to his tablet, like the fact had been confirmed and filed where it belonged.
Jack looked toward your bedroom door.
Still closed.
Still quiet.
And for the first time that morning, he hoped you slept for hours. Not because he didn’t want to see your face when you saw all of this.
He did. God, he did.
But because Tommy was okay. Because breakfast could wait. Because the house wasn’t falling apart without you awake and carrying it.
Because maybe that was the whole point.
—
The panic hit before your eyes even opened fully.
Wrong.
Something was wrong.
Your body knew it immediately.
Too much light through the blinds. Too warm under the blankets. Too quiet.
You jerked awake hard enough that your heart stumbled against your ribs.
The clock on the nightstand came into focus.
10:52 AM.
Your stomach dropped.
“No, no, no—”
You shoved the blankets back too fast, already spiraling.
Tommy’s meds.
Breakfast.
Routine.
Did he wake up alone?
Why didn’t your alarm—
Why didn’t he—
Your hand flew toward the nightstand.
The alarm was off.
Not snoozed.
Off.
You stared at it for half a second like betrayal lived inside the clock itself.
Then you were out of bed.
The apartment was still quiet.
That almost made it worse.
No TV blasting. No pacing. No dysregulated sounds. No overwhelmed AAC repetition.
Just low voices.
You froze with your hand on the doorframe.
Jack’s voice was low near the window.
“That one’s moving fast.”
“It is a big cloud.”
“It is,” Jack said gently. “You’re right.”
A small laugh followed.
Not Jack’s.
Tommy’s.
Your breath caught.
You stepped into the hallway.
The apartment smelled like pancakes and coffee and butter.
Sunlight spilled warm across the living room floor.
And there they were.
Tommy sat cross-legged on the couch in dinosaur pajama pants, tablet in his lap, completely calm. Jack sat beside him in a gray t-shirt and sweats, one arm stretched along the back of the couch while the Weather Channel played quietly on the television.
Both of them looked over at the same time.
Tommy lit up first.
“Mom is up.”
Jack’s eyes moved over your face immediately.
Panic. Confusion. The lingering edge of sleep.
His expression softened at once.
“Easy sweetheart,” he said gently.
You looked between them. Then toward the kitchen. And stopped dead.
Flowers on the counter. Yellow tulips.
A card propped carefully beside them.
Coffee waiting.
The oven light glowing warm.
Your brain genuinely could not catch up.
“You—” you started, then stopped.
You looked immediately at Tommy. “Baby, I’m sorry, I slept through—”
“Mom sleep. First rule.” Tommy said it immediately, like he’d been prepared for this exact response.
You blinked.
Jack stood slowly from the couch.
“Your alarm mysteriously encountered technical difficulties,” he said.
You stared at him. “Jack.”
He came closer, calm and unhurried.
“You were exhausted,” he said softly.
“I never sleep this late.”
“I know.”
“That’s not— Tommy’s routine—”
“Handled.”
Your eyes flicked instantly toward Tommy again.
He was completely regulated.
Your chest tightened so fast it hurt.
Jack saw the exact second it landed.
“Breakfast happened,” he said quietly. “Meds happened. Pancakes happened.”
Tommy immediately pressed:
“I made pancakes.”
Jack nodded toward him. “You did a great job.”
Tommy’s shoulders bounced once in silent amusement.
You looked back at Jack helplessly.
He smiled a little. “C’mere.”
Your body moved before your brain caught up.
Jack’s hands settled warm at your waist the second you reached him, grounding and steady and familiar. He pulled you in easily, like this belonged to him now too. Your forehead brushed his shoulder as one of his hands slid slowly up your back.
Then he kissed the top of your head. Soft. Thoughtless. Instinctive.
His other hand stayed firm at your waist while his thumb moved once against your side, steadying you through the leftover panic still buzzing beneath your skin.
“You’re okay,” he murmured against your hair.
And God.
That almost undid you right there. Because nobody took mornings off your shoulders. Nobody saw the invisible machinery running in your head all the time and quietly stepped in before it could start.
Your eyes burned suddenly.
Jack noticed immediately.
“Hey,” he said softly.
He leaned back just enough to look at you, one hand sliding up to cradle your jaw for a second before he pressed another quick kiss against your temple.
“No crying before breakfast.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Wet around the edges.
Tommy looked between both of you carefully. Then held up the tablet.
“Mom day.”
Jack huffed quietly beside you, one arm still looped loosely around your waist.
“Yeah, buddy,” he said. “Still Mother’s Day.”
Tommy climbed off the couch immediately, tablet hugged against his chest like he had been waiting for permission to begin the next part.
“Made mom breakfast.”
You wiped under one eye quickly. “I see that.”
Tommy stopped in front of you and looked up.
Then he pressed again, firmer this time.
“Mom eat breakfast.”
Jack’s hand slid gently along your waist.
“That’s not a suggestion,” he murmured.
You looked up at him. “Apparently not.”
“Chef’s orders.”
Tommy nodded once.
“Chef.”
Jack pointed toward him. “See? Chain of command.”
You laughed softly, still overwhelmed, still not fully awake, still standing in the middle of your own apartment like you had walked into someone else’s dream.
Jack guided you toward the kitchen with one hand at your back.
“Come on,” he said. “Before the pancakes get cold.”
Tommy followed close behind.
The flowers looked even prettier up close.
Yellow tulips in a tall glass because of course you didn’t own a vase you could immediately find. White ranunculus tucked between them. Greenery spilling over the rim in a way that somehow looked intentional.
Your hand lifted toward them, but stopped just short.
“You got these?”
Jack stood beside you, watching your face more than the flowers.
“Picked them up after work yesterday,” he said. “Been hiding them across the hall.”
Your throat tightened. “You planned this?”
Jack’s brow furrowed faintly, like the question itself confused him.
“Yeah.”
Simple.
No performance.
No big speech.
Just ‘Yeah’.
Tommy stepped closer and pressed:
“Mom likes yellow flowers.”
You looked down at him.
His face was serious, proud, expectant.
Your chest went soft.
“I do,” you whispered. “I love yellow flowers.”
Tommy’s shoulders lifted a little.
Jack reached past you and took the pancakes from the warm oven, setting the plate on the counter.
The smell of butter and vanilla rose immediately.
“Oh,” you breathed.
Jack glanced over. “That a decent oh or a concerning oh?”
You smiled despite yourself. “A very decent oh.”
Tommy pressed:
“Lot of pancakes.”
You looked at the stack.
“There are a lot of pancakes.”
Jack nodded gravely. “We showed restraint.”
Tommy looked at him.
Jack added, “Eventually.”
Tommy made that quiet, breathy laugh again, and the sound hit you harder than the flowers.
You looked between them.
Tommy, still in dinosaur pajama pants, hair messy from sleep, standing barefoot in the kitchen with yellow marker smudged on one thumb.
Jack, comfortable and steady beside him, moving around your kitchen like he knew exactly where he belonged.
For a second, you couldn’t say anything.
Jack noticed.
His hand found yours under the counter, fingers brushing once before holding on.
“Sit,” he said quietly.
You opened your mouth to argue on instinct.
Tommy beat you to it.
“Mom sit.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Tough room.”
You looked down at Tommy. “I usually make breakfast.”
Tommy pressed without hesitation:
“Not today.”
Jack lifted his eyebrows. “The chef has spoken.”
You laughed again, a little watery, and let Jack pull out the chair for you.
The second you sat down, something inside you loosened. Not all the way. Just enough to feel dangerous. Enough to feel like rest.
Tommy placed the card in front of you with both hands.
Careful.
Reverent.
Then he stepped back and watched.
Jack leaned against the counter, arms loosely folded, pretending he wasn’t watching just as closely.
You looked down.
Yellow construction paper.
A sun sticker.
Two turtles in the corner.
One of them slightly crooked.
In Tommy’s careful letters:
HAPPY MOM DAY
MOM LIKES YELLOW FLOWERS.
MOM HAPPY.
MOM LOVE ME.
Your breath caught so sharply it almost hurt.
“Oh, baby.”
Tommy watched your face.
Very carefully.
Like he was checking whether this was the right kind of Mother’s Day.
You pressed your fingers to your mouth, blinking hard.
Tommy looked at you.
“Why mom cry?”
Jack nodded toward you. “Don’t worry. They're happy tears.”
Tommy’s gaze shifted back to you.
You nodded quickly, reaching for his hand.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “Happy tears. I’m not sad, I'm really happy.”
Tommy let you take his hand. Just for a second.
Then he pressed:
“Mom happy.”
You pulled in a shaky breath and smiled at him.
“I’m very happy.”
Tommy studied you another moment. Then nodded once, satisfied.
“I love you Mom.”
Before he could pull away fully, you leaned forward and pressed a kiss gently into his messy hair.
“I love you too baby,” you whispered. “This is perfect.”
Tommy’s shoulders lifted a little beneath the praise, quiet and pleased.
Then you looked up at Jack. Really looked at him.
At the flour still dusted faintly along one sleeve. The sleepy softness around his eyes. The way he’d somehow walked into your apartment before sunrise and carried the entire morning for you without asking for credit once.
Your chest tightened all over again.
You reached for him before you could overthink it, fingers catching lightly in the front of his shirt to pull him closer.
Jack came easily.
Your hand slid up along his jaw as you kissed his cheek slowly, lingering just long enough to feel him smile against your skin.
“Happy Mother’s Day,” he murmured quietly when you pulled back.
The words hit harder than they should have.
Because he meant them. Not politely. Not casually. Like the whole morning had been his way of saying it.
Your eyes burned again, softer this time.
You laughed quietly through it and shook your head once.
“This is the best one,” you whispered.
Jack’s expression changed a little at that. Softer. Warmer. Like something inside him had gone completely still.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” you said quietly. “Any of it.”
Jack frowned faintly like the idea genuinely didn’t make sense to him.
“Yeah, I did.”
“Jack—”
“It’s not every day we get to celebrate how amazing you are.”
Your breath caught.
Jack glanced toward Tommy automatically before looking back at you.
“You make everything work,” he said softly. “You know exactly how he likes things. You remember every routine, every food, every medicine, every tiny thing that keeps his world steady.” His thumb brushed lightly against your side again. “And you do it while taking care of everybody else too.”
You blinked hard.
“Jack…”
“I’m serious.” His voice stayed quiet, certain. “You make this place feel safe. You make him feel safe.” A small smile touched the corner of his mouth. “You somehow know where everybody’s stuff is all the time. You check weather reports like it’s a military operation. You remember things before they even become problems.”
A watery laugh escaped you.
Jack smiled a little wider when he heard it.
“And you know exactly how many Pop-Tarts are left at any given time.”
“That’s called being prepared.”
“That’s called running a very tight ship.”
You laughed again, wiping quickly beneath your eyes.
Jack’s expression softened all over again at the sound.
“So yeah,” he said quietly. “I wanted to do this for you.”
For a second you couldn’t say anything at all.
Then Tommy climbed back into the chair beside you, proud and calm and utterly certain of the morning’s success while Jack finally turned toward the counter.
“Alright,” he said, voice deliberately lighter. “Let’s eat before the pancakes get cold.”
You laughed through the tears as he reached for the plate.
Tommy sat close beside you. Jack set pancakes in front of you first. The flowers caught the morning light from the counter, bright and yellow and impossible to miss.
For once, nobody needed you to move first.
Nobody needed you to fix the mood, start the routine, remember the next thing, or hold the morning together with both hands.
Jack had the plate. Tommy had the card. The coffee was warm.
Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch & Platonic GN Resident Reader
Original Ending Here
Summary: After Pittfest, everyone at The Pitt changes, but Robby changes the most. He used to be the mentor who could catch you before you fell. Now he’s colder, sharper, and crueler, acting like cruelty is the same thing as teaching. But on the Fourth of July, when Robby uses the part of you he once helped save against you, you end up on the wrong side of the hospital roof railing, and he’s forced to see just how far he pushed you.
WC: 15K
Tags: Character Death, Heavy Angst, All Hurt No Comfort, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempt, Platonic Relationship, Rooftop Scene, No Y/N, Gender Neutral Reader, Alternate Ending to Original Version
A/N: Due to popular demand by my beloved masochist readers I give you an alternate ending to the original Liability story. The plot and everything leading up to the final moments are still the same but the outcome and consequences have changed. I hope I did this justice and exceeded all expectations.
P.S. Everyone that requested this owes me one tooth rotting fluff rec. to read. I need a palate cleanser. 😭
The first few weeks after Pittfest, everyone understood why Robby was different.
How could they not?
The department itself felt different. Same scuffed floors. Same monitors. Same nurses’ station with its bad coffee, half-dead pens, and discharge paperwork that somehow reproduced when no one was looking.
But something had shifted. Something had cracked open and never fully closed. People spoke softer for a while. Not all the time. Not when EMS rolled in hot or room twelve decided the laws of physics didn’t apply to him. The Pitt was still The Pitt. It demanded motion before grief, charting before sleep, competence before breakdown.
But in the quiet spaces, you could feel it. In the way Dana paused a second longer before snapping at someone. In the way Mohan stared at the board like she could will the names into something less tragic. In the way laughter came back slowly, like everyone had forgotten where they’d left it.
And Robby… Robby had always been hard to read. That was part of him. He had built himself out of sarcasm, caffeine, bad posture, and the kind of medical instinct people either trusted immediately or resented on principle. He could save your patient, insult your differential, and somehow teach you three things before you realized your pride was bleeding.
But before Pittfest, there had been lightness under it. A grin beneath the sarcasm. A flash of amusement when you got mouthy with him. A low, pleased hum when you caught something before he did. A kind of trust that made you stand taller, because Robby didn’t hand it out cheaply.
When he teased you, it used to feel like permission. Like you belonged close enough to be annoyed by him. When he corrected you, it used to feel like teaching. Like he saw the doctor you were becoming and was stubborn enough to drag you the rest of the way there. And when you pushed too hard, which you always did, Robby noticed before you hit the ground.
He was good at that. Catching you before the fall. Not dramatically. Never dramatically. Robby would rather staple his own hand to a discharge packet than have an earnest emotional conversation in public.
But he caught you anyway. A granola bar dropped beside your chart without comment.
A firm, “Go drink water before you become my next patient.”
A hand closing around the back of your scrub top when you swayed after twelve hours, steering you into the nearest chair with a muttered, “Very inspiring. Try fainting somewhere with fewer witnesses next time.”
A consult room door closed quietly behind him after a bad case.
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re vertical. Those are different things.”
You had trusted him with that version of you. The not-fine version.
You were an R3 during Pittfest. Experienced enough to know what you were doing. Not experienced enough for what happened. No one was experienced enough for what happened.
Afterward, everyone became a different version of themselves. Langdon went to rehab. Collins moved to Washington. The spaces they left behind became part of the department’s new anatomy. You became an R4. Mohan became an R4. And Robby was still there. Except he wasn’t. Not the way he used to be.
At first, you told yourself it was grief. Then exhaustion. Then trauma. Then the department falling apart in small, specific ways. But eventually, there was no softer name for it. Robby stopped catching you.
That was the first thing. Not the sharpness. Not the corrections. Not even the impatience. It was the silence where a dry joke used to be. The empty space beside you at the board where he used to appear, coffee in hand, already reading your face before you could fix it.
As an R4, you knew you were supposed to need less. You were supposed to move faster. Think cleaner. Lead without looking over your shoulder every time the room got loud. You were supposed to become the person the lower-level residents looked to, not the person still searching for reassurance from the attending who had taught you how to survive the place. You knew that. But knowing you had to stand alone didn’t make it hurt less when Robby stopped standing nearby.
Mohan handled it better than you did. Or maybe she was just better at looking like she did. She felt Robby’s distance too. You saw it in the pinch around her mouth when he cut her off during rounds, in the way her fingers tightened around a chart when he redirected an intern away from her.
But Mohan had Abbot now. Not officially. Not sentimentally. Abbot was not built for sentimental mentorship unless the soundtrack involved a cardiac monitor and someone bleeding on his shoes. But he had become a place for her to land anyway. A steady voice. A second opinion. A dry comment at just the right time to cut through panic without making her feel stupid for having it. You were happy for her. Mostly. Some days.
Other days, you watched Abbot lean against the counter while Mohan talked through a complicated case, watched him listen like her thinking mattered, watched him correct without carving her open, and something small and ugly twisted behind your ribs. Not because Mohan didn’t deserve it. Because you missed having that. And the worst part was, you used to.
Robby had been the one, years ago, when you were still a med student running on three hours of sleep and a dangerous amount of perfectionism, who pulled you into an empty consult room after you nearly passed out during a shift.
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re vertical. Those are different things.”
You had laughed then, because it was easier than crying.
Robby hadn’t.
He had leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching you with that exhausted, X-ray stare of his.
“You seeing anyone?”
You blinked. “Like dating?”
“Like a professional who gets paid to listen to the things you’re clearly not saying.”
Your face had gone hot.
“I don’t need—”
“Don’t do that.”
Two words.
Quiet.
Cutting.
And somehow kinder than all the soft concern everyone else had tried to give you.
“You don’t get bonus points for white-knuckling your way through life,” he’d said. “You don’t get a better residency match because you refused help. You just get tired. And then you get dangerous.”
That had shut you up. Because dangerous was the word that scared you. Not sad. Not anxious. Dangerous. Robby had seen that. He had seen you.
Two weeks later, you made the appointment. A month after that, you started medication. Robby had been the first person to make help sound less like failure and more like maintenance. Like medicine. Like something you deserved before you collapsed. Which was why the last ten months had felt so much like punishment.
Because now, when you faltered, Robby didn’t pull you aside. He called it out in front of people. Not loudly. Robby didn’t need volume to humiliate you. He had precision.
“If I have to remind you about disposition at this stage, we have a bigger problem.”
“Either run the trauma or step aside for someone who can.”
“Don’t call it caution because you’re afraid to commit.”
“You’re an R4. Stop looking at me like a med student waiting to be rescued.”
Each comment, on its own, was defensible. That was the problem. Any one of them could be explained away as teaching. Tough love. High standards. Emergency medicine not being a place for ego or indecision.
But together, day after day, they formed a shape you couldn’t ignore. He did not trust you anymore. You could feel it in the way he stepped around your orders instead of asking about them. The way he redirected R1s and R2s before they reached you. The way his eyes moved past you at the board, landing on Whitaker instead.
Whitaker, brand-new R1, got the version of Robby you used to know. The patient one. The almost-cheerful one. The one who could take a mistake apart without making the person feel like the mistake had swallowed them whole.
“Walk me through it,” Robby would say, standing beside him at the bedside.
And Whitaker would. Haltingly at first. Then stronger. There was room in it. Room to be wrong. Room to learn. Room to become.
You watched it happen from across the floor with a chart open in your hand and an awful heat behind your eyes. You hated yourself for resenting him. Whitaker had done nothing wrong. But some bitter, exhausted part of you wanted to ask where that version of Robby had gone when you still needed him. Not to hold your hand. Not to save you. Just to stop looking at you like you had already disappointed him.
Mohan noticed. She found you one afternoon in the stairwell between shifts, your back against the wall, one hand pressed hard against your sternum like you could physically hold yourself together. She didn’t ask if you were okay. You loved her for that. Instead, she sat down beside you and handed you a granola bar from her pocket.
“It’s the gross kind,” she said.
You opened one eye. “Why do you have it?”
“Because I keep thinking emergency hunger will make it taste better.”
“Does it?”
“No.”
You huffed something that almost became a laugh. For a minute, neither of you said anything. Beyond the stairwell door, The Pitt carried on without you. Overhead pages. Cart wheels. Someone calling for respiratory. A place that did not care if you were falling apart, as long as you could do it quietly and come back useful.
Mohan rested her elbows on her knees.
“He’s doing it to you too,” she said.
You didn’t pretend not to understand.
“Yeah.”
“He’s harder on us.”
“He expects more from us.”
“That’s one explanation.”
You looked over at her.
Mohan stared ahead, jaw tight. “Not the only one.”
Something in your chest sank.
“He doesn’t want us here,” you said.
Mohan didn’t answer right away. That was answer enough.
Finally, she sighed. “I don’t know what he wants anymore.”
You looked down at the granola bar in your hand. The wrapper crinkled under your thumb.
“Abbot thinks it’s trauma,” Mohan said.
You laughed once, flat and humorless. “Abbot thinks everything is trauma.”
“Abbot is usually right.”
“Annoying habit.”
“Deeply.”
Another silence.
Mohan looked at you carefully. “Are you okay?”
There it was. The question you hated.
You forced a shrug. “I’m tired.”
Mohan’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes softened.
“That’s not what I asked.”
You looked away. For a second, you thought about telling her.
That you could feel yourself getting worse. That every shift felt like walking into a room where everyone knew you were failing but nobody had decided who would say it first. That you were sleeping less, eating worse, forgetting stupid things, crying in your car before shifts and fixing your face with the resigned efficiency of someone cleaning up a spill.
That Robby’s voice had started following you home.
“R4s should not need reminders for things interns figure out by winter.”
“That’s hesitation, not judgment.”
“You’re too far into this program to look this unsure every time the room gets loud.”
Instead, you said, “I’m fine.”
Mohan looked at you for a long moment. Then she nodded once. Not because she believed you. Because she knew what it looked like to need the lie.
“Okay,” she said quietly.
And somehow, that made you feel worse.
By July, the department had accepted the new shape of things. Collins was still gone. Robby was still Robby, except sharper now. More distant. More impatient with anything that looked like need. And Langdon was back. Technically. He came in on the Fourth of July with his badge clipped to his scrubs and something guarded around his eyes, looking almost like himself if you didn’t know where to look. But you knew where to look.
The room shifted around him differently now. People smiled too carefully. Jokes landed half a second late. Nobody said rehab. Nobody said welcome back too loudly. And Robby rode him all day. Not cruelly, not exactly. Nothing anyone could point to and say too much. But enough.
Enough that Langdon’s jaw kept tightening. Enough that Mohan looked away more than once. Enough that you felt something inside you fold in on itself, because Langdon was back and it still didn’t feel right.
If anything, it felt worse. Because for months, some desperate part of you had told itself that maybe the problem was absence. Langdon gone. Collins gone. Pittfest still echoing. Too many empty spaces. But Langdon was here now, standing ten feet away from you, alive and sober and trying, and Robby still looked like a man determined to make sure nobody got comfortable enough to need him.
Not Langdon. Not Mohan. Not you. Especially not you. And you had learned to stop looking over your shoulder for someone who was no longer there. Mostly. Almost. Except some stupid, stubborn part of you kept waiting for him to notice. Not the mistakes. Not the hesitation. You.
The way your laugh had gotten thinner. The way you stopped eating during shift. The way you volunteered for the hardest cases because at least exhaustion felt like something you had earned. The way you flinched now when Robby said your name.
He noticed. That was the worst part. You knew he noticed. Robby noticed everything. So when his eyes flicked to you after you went too quiet at the board, when his gaze paused on your untouched coffee, when his mouth tightened after you blinked too fast at one of his corrections…
He knew. He had to know. He just didn’t come closer. And every day he didn’t, something in you learned to believe that meant he had chosen not to.
—
By the morning of the Fourth of July, you were already tired before you reached the ambulance bay doors. The city had been restless all night. Heat trapped between buildings. Sirens layered over distant fireworks. People testing their luck with alcohol, grills, illegal explosives, and the kind of confidence that kept emergency departments in business.
Inside, The Pitt was already awake and angry. Mohan stood near the board, hair pulled back, eyes shadowed but alert. She looked over when you came in and offered you the smallest smile. You gave one back. A weak one. A functional one.
Across the department, Whitaker was talking to Robby near room four, nodding intently while Robby pointed something out on a chart. Robby looked tired. More tired than usual. His sabbatical started after today. Three months away from The Pitt. Three months without him. You had spent weeks telling yourself that should feel like relief. Instead, it felt like abandonment with a calendar invite.
Langdon stood near the medication room, one hand braced against the counter, listening while Dana said something low and practical to him. He nodded once, mouth tight, eyes down. He was back. He was really back. And still, somehow, the department felt emptier than it had before.
Robby glanced up. His eyes met yours across the floor. For one second, something moved over his face. Something almost like concern. Then Whitaker asked a question, and Robby looked away. Your chest tightened.
Mohan followed your gaze.
“Don’t,” she said softly.
You swallowed. “I didn’t say anything.”
“I know.”
That was the problem with old friends. They heard you anyway.
—
By noon, The Pitt had become a fireworks safety commercial written by someone with a personal grudge against emergency medicine.
Room three had a second-degree burn across his palm because he “wanted to see if the fuse was still hot.” Room seven had heat exhaustion, sunburn, and the kind of husband who kept saying she was “being dramatic” until Dana threatened to make him wait outside with the smokers. Room twelve was drunk, bleeding from the eyebrow, and loudly insisting he had been attacked by a folding chair.
You had not stopped moving in six hours. Not really. You had signed charts standing up, eaten half a protein bar in two bites, lost your coffee somewhere between radiology and trauma two, and washed someone else’s blood off your wrist in the sink by the med room because the bathroom felt too far away.
It was fine. You were fine. You were an R4. That was what R4s did. They moved. They handled things. They closed loops before someone had to ask. They anticipated problems before they became Robby-shaped corrections at the nurses’ station. So you kept moving.
Room six needed discharge papers. Room ten needed repeat labs. Room fourteen’s family wanted an update. Whitaker had a question about a possible ectopic, and you answered it quickly, carefully, without looking over your shoulder to see if Robby had heard. You did not need him to hear. You did not need him to approve. You did not need anything from him. That was the lie you had been carrying all morning, tucked under your ribs like a blade.
Across the department, Robby stood at the board with one hand on his hip, scanning the names with that tired, sharp focus that made everyone around him straighten without realizing it. His eyes moved over you once. Paused. Then moved on. Somehow, that was worse than being corrected.
You turned back to the chart in front of you and forced yourself to read the same line three times until it made sense.
“Hey.”
Mohan appeared beside you, voice low.
You didn’t look up. “I’m good.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“That’s why I’m saving time.”
She didn’t laugh. That made your throat tighten.
“You’ve been on your feet all morning,” she said.
“So have you.”
“I ate.”
“Congratulations.”
“Don’t be charming. It’s disorienting.”
That almost got you. Almost. Your mouth twitched, but it didn’t hold.
Mohan’s eyes softened in the way you hated lately. Like she could see too much. Like she was standing too close to a bruise.
“Go sit for five minutes,” she said.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I said I can’t.”
It came out sharper than you meant it to. Mohan went quiet. You hated yourself immediately.
You looked down at the chart, blinking hard. “Sorry.”
“I’m not offended.”
“That’s annoying of you.”
“I know.”
The corner of her mouth lifted slightly, but her eyes stayed worried. Before she could say anything else, Robby’s voice cut across the station.
“Room ten.”
Your spine went rigid. Not because he yelled. He didn’t. Robby never needed to.
You turned.
He stood by the board, looking at the tablet in his hand.
“Repeat potassium?”
Your brain supplied the answer too late. Ordered. Not resulted. No. Resulted. You had seen it. Hadn’t you? Your fingers tightened around the chart.
“Pending,” you said.
Robby looked up. A tiny pause. The kind nobody else would notice. You noticed.
“Resulted twenty minutes ago,” he said.
Heat crawled up your neck.
Right. Right, because you had opened it when radiology called. The potassium was fine. You had meant to sign off on it after updating room fourteen’s daughter, but then Whitaker had asked about the ectopic, and room three’s dressing needed.
“I saw it,” you said. “It’s normal. I’m closing it now.”
Robby’s expression didn’t change.
“That would’ve been more useful twenty minutes ago.”
The station quieted around the edges. Not fully. The Pitt never gave anyone the dignity of full silence. But enough. Enough for Dana to glance over from the desk. Enough for Mohan to go still beside you. Enough for Whitaker to suddenly become fascinated by the supply cart.
Your stomach dipped.
“I’m closing it now,” you repeated.
“I heard you.”
There was nothing cruel in his tone. That was the worst part. It was flat. Clinical. Tired. Like you were another problem on the board he didn’t have time to solve.
You nodded once and turned back to the computer. Your fingers moved too fast over the keys. Password wrong. Of course. You swallowed, cleared the field, typed it again. Wrong. Your pulse picked up. Not now. Not here.
You could feel Mohan beside you, not touching, not crowding. Just there. That somehow made it harder. You typed the password a third time. The screen opened. You exhaled through your nose, clicked into room ten’s chart, signed off the lab, updated the plan, closed the loop.
There. Done. Easy. Basic. Minimum expectation.
Your vision blurred for half a second. You blinked it clear. Robby had already moved on. Of course he had. He was with Whitaker now, leaning over a chart, voice lower. Still firm. Still teaching. But there was patience in it. Space.
“Start with what you’re worried about,” Robby said. “Then tell me what you can prove.”
Whitaker nodded, nervous but focused. Robby waited. He actually waited. Something inside you twisted so hard you had to press your palm against the edge of the counter.
Mohan noticed.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Then maybe believe me.”
The words landed badly.
You heard it as soon as they left your mouth.
Mohan’s face closed a little. Not hurt exactly. Careful. That was worse.
You looked away. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I’m just—”
Tired. Overwhelmed. Embarrassed. Jealous of an R1 who had done nothing wrong except receive the version of Robby you missed so badly it felt pathetic.
You shook your head. “I’m just trying to get through the shift.”
Mohan watched you for another second before nodding.
“Okay,” she said.
There it was again. That soft, terrible ‘okay’. The one that meant she knew you were lying and loved you enough not to corner you with it.
You grabbed the next chart. Room fifteen. Anxiety after a firework exploded too close. Chest tightness. Tingling fingers. Shortness of breath. You almost laughed. Of course. Of course the universe had a sense of humor.
You walked into the room before anyone could tell you not to. The patient was young. Early twenties, maybe. Sitting upright, knees pulled close, one hand pressed to her chest while her mother hovered beside the bed.
“I can’t get a full breath,” the patient said, eyes wide. “I know it’s probably panic. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I know you’re busy.”
The words hit too close. Not because of the panic. Because of the apology.
You softened before you could stop yourself.
“Don’t apologize for needing help,” you said.
Her eyes flicked to yours. For one second, you believed yourself.
Then Robby’s voice echoed in your head.
“R4s should not need reminders.”
You pushed it down.
You assessed her carefully. Vitals. History. Risk factors. Pain description. Breath sounds. You ordered an EKG, basic labs, chest X-ray. Nothing excessive. Nothing careless. You were not over-identifying. You were not projecting. You were not seeing yourself in her wide eyes and shaking hands. You were being thorough. That was all.
Still, by the time you stepped out, Robby was waiting near the desk.
“What’s your plan?” he asked.
You gave it to him. Clean. Organized. Defensible.
His eyes stayed on you. “And your impression?”
“Likely panic response after the firework scare, but I’m ruling out cardiac and pulmonary causes.”
“Likely panic,” he repeated.
Your jaw tightened. “With appropriate workup.”
“I heard you.”
“You said it like that.”
Something flickered in his face. Warning. You should have stopped. You knew you should have stopped. But the whole day had been made of swallowing things, and something in you had run out of room.
Robby stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I’m asking you to separate the patient from yourself.”
The words punched through you. For a second, all the noise around you thinned.
“What?”
His expression hardened. His eyes looked exhausted, but there was no softness in them.
“You heard me.”
Mohan turned slightly from the board. Dana looked up. You felt it. Every glance you weren’t supposed to notice.
You kept your voice low. “That has nothing to do with this.”
“I hope not.”
Your face went hot.
No. No, no, no. He didn’t get to do that. Not him. Not with this.
“You hope not?” you repeated.
Robby’s mouth tightened.
“You’re an R4. I need your clinical judgment clean. I need to know you’re looking at the patient in front of you, not filtering it through your own history.”
Your hand curled tighter around the chart. “My history?”
His eyes sharpened. “Don’t twist my words.”
“It’s exactly what you said.”
“You’re personalizing a panic presentation.”
“I ordered a standard workup.”
“You reassured her before you assessed.”
Your breath caught. The cruelty of it was so quiet. So clinical. Like kindness was a symptom. Like compassion was contamination.
“You’re criticizing me for reassuring her?”
“I’m criticizing you for seeing yourself and calling it medicine.”
Mohan said your name softly. You barely heard her.
Your chest felt hollowed out.
“That is not what happened.”
“Then make sure it doesn’t.”
Your voice dropped. “You don’t get to use that against me.”
Robby went still. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“No,” he said, colder now. “I’m doing my job.”
“Your job is accusing me of being unstable?”
His eyes flicked briefly toward the staff, toward the people pretending not to listen. When he looked back at you, whatever restraint he had left snapped into something uglier.
“My job is making sure my residents are safe to practice.”
The floor dropped out from under you.
“Safe to practice.”
Your throat tightened so fast it hurt. “I am safe.”
“Are you?”
The question landed like a slap. Small enough that he could deny it. Sharp enough that everyone understood.
You stared at him. He didn’t stop. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe some broken part of him had found momentum and decided cruelty was easier than fear.
“Because lately I don’t know if I’m supervising an R4 or managing someone who’s one bad shift away from unraveling in the middle of my department.”
Mohan moved. “Robby—”
He didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed on you.
“You’re hesitating. You’re overcorrecting. You’re taking everything personally. You flinch every time I give you feedback, and now you’re walking into a psych-adjacent case with your own history written all over your face.”
Your lips parted. Nothing came out.
Robby’s voice lowered further. “That is dangerous.”
There it was. The word. The same word he had used years ago to make you get help. The word that had scared you into saving yourself. Now he was holding it like a weapon.
Your hand tightened on the chart until the edge bent.
“You told me getting help made me safer.”
“It does,” he said.
“Then why are you acting like it makes me a liability?”
For half a second, something moved over his face. Regret. Fear. Then he buried it.
“Because I can’t keep wondering whether you’re making a medical call or having a mental health episode.”
The department went too quiet around the edges.
Your breath stopped.
Mohan whispered your name again, this time like something had broken.
Robby kept going, and that was the worst part.
“I need an R4 I can trust when the floor turns bad. I need someone who can lead without making me question whether their illness is driving the call.”
Your vision blurred. You blinked it clear.
“You don’t get to call it that.”
“What?”
“My illness,” you said, voice barely holding. “You don’t get to throw that word at me like I’m something you’re diagnosing in front of the board.”
His jaw tightened.
“You want to be treated like a 4th year resident? Then act like one.”
The last piece of you went very still. Not calm. Still.
You set the chart down carefully. Too carefully.
“Room fifteen has appropriate workup pending,” you said. “I’ll follow results.”
Robby’s face shifted. Just barely. Like he heard it. Like some part of him realized he had not corrected you. He had cut you open. But it was too late.
You stepped back.
“You were the one person who wasn’t supposed to make it sound ugly,” you said.
Then you walked away before your face could betray you.
Behind you, Mohan said something low to Robby. You didn’t turn around. You couldn’t. Because if you looked back and saw regret on his face, you might break. And if you looked back and didn’t, you knew you would.
You made it to the bathroom before your hands started shaking. The door clicked shut behind you, and for a second, you just stood there staring at the sink like you had forgotten how to move.
Then your body caught up. Your breath hitched hard enough that you gripped the counter. Not here. Not at work. Not because of him.
You turned the faucet on, letting the water hit the porcelain loud enough to cover the sound that broke out of you. Not a sob. You refused to call it that. Just air leaving wrong.
Your reflection looked pale under the fluorescent lights. Tired. Cracked. Exactly like the kind of person Robby couldn’t trust.
No. That was his voice. His damage. His cruelty. You knew that. You knew it, and still his words sat under your skin.
“Because I can’t keep wondering whether you’re making a medical call or having a mental health episode.”
You splashed cold water over your wrists, fixed your face, and went back out. Because if you fell apart now, it would prove him right.
The department swallowed you whole again. Monitors. Phones. Voices. Alarms chimed faintly around you. No one looked directly at you. That was how you knew everyone knew.
Mohan found your eyes from the board.
You gave her one small look.
Don’t.
She stopped.
Room fifteen’s workup came back clean. EKG normal. Labs normal. Chest X-ray clear. Panic, most likely. You updated the patient with a voice so calm it almost sounded real.
“You did the right thing coming in,” you told her. “Fear can feel physical. That doesn’t make it fake.”
The patient’s eyes filled. “Thank you.”
You smiled. It hurt.
When you stepped out, Robby was at the board. He saw you. For one suspended second, it looked like he might say something. Then EMS called in another burn, Dana shouted for trauma two, and Robby turned away.
So you kept working.
You signed orders. Closed charts. Caught a med interaction before pharmacy called. Talked Whitaker through a discharge summary even though some ugly part of you resented how grateful he looked afterward.
“Thanks,” he said. “I know you’re busy.”
You swallowed. “Don’t apologize for learning.”
The words tasted bitter.
Across the room, Robby watched you. Not openly. But you felt it. Worry wearing a muzzle.
By the time the sun went down, your whole body felt far away. Someone brought red, white, and blue cupcakes to the nurses’ station. You stared at them until Dana appeared beside you.
“Eat something.”
You blinked. “What?”
“You’re spiritually buzzing.”
A weak laugh escaped before you could stop it.
Dana’s face softened. That almost undid you.
“I’m okay,” you said.
Dana hummed. “Sure.”
Before she could push, fireworks cracked outside, loud enough to rattle the windows. Half the department flinched. Nobody said anything. Another burst followed.
Mohan closed her eyes at the board. Robby went still. You saw it. The way his shoulders locked. The way his hand tightened around the tablet. The way his face emptied.
For one second, Pittfest came back too clearly. Noise. Blood. Bodies. Robby’s voice cutting through the chaos. You and Mohan as R3s, moving because stopping would mean understanding.
After the last patient was transported out, Robby had found you in a supply room, knees to your chest, scrubs stiff with someone else’s blood. He had sat beside you and held out a water bottle.
“Drink.”
You had stared at him.
“Don’t make me do bedside manner. We’ll both hate it.”
You had laughed. Then cried. And he had stayed. That was the part you couldn’t let go of. He had stayed.
Another firework cracked. Robby looked up. His eyes met yours. Something broken moved across his face. Then he looked away first. And the last hopeful thing in you went quiet.
—
Later, when the rush finally thinned, Dana sent the day shift up to the roof.
“Morale,” she said, like that explained anything.
Mohan found you near the elevators. “Come up with us.”
“I should finish charts.”
“You can finish them after.”
“I’m behind.”
“You’re not,” she said softly. “I checked.”
You looked at her. For a second, you wanted to tell her everything.
Instead, you smiled. “I’ll come up later.”
Mohan didn’t believe you. But someone called her name, and the elevator opened, and the moment passed. She stepped inside.
You stood there for half a second. Then, before the doors could close, you moved. Mohan’s eyes lifted in surprise.
You forced a small smile. “Changed my mind.”
Dana gave a satisfied hum. “There you are.”
You stepped into the elevator beside them. Robby wasn’t there. You were grateful. You were devastated.
The roof was warmer than it should have been, the concrete still holding onto the heat from the day. It was quieter than you expected. Not empty. Just intimate.
Dana stood near the low wall with a paper cup in hand, shoulders finally dropped from around her ears. McKay leaned beside her, arms folded loosely, face tilted toward the sky. Mel stood a little apart, still and quiet, watching the horizon like she was letting the colors settle somewhere safe. Santos sat on the edge of an old utility box, trying to look unimpressed and failing every time gold split open above the city.
Javadi had her hands tucked into her scrub pockets, eyes wide behind each flash. Perlah and Princess stood near a cluster of nurses, speaking softly between tired bursts of laughter. Mohan stayed beside you. Not touching. Just there.
It was a small pocket of people from the floor, all of you trying to make something beautiful out of a day that had been anything but.
The fireworks bloomed over Pittsburgh in bursts of red, white, and gold. For a while, no one really spoke. Not because there was nothing to say. Because there was too much.
The first explosion of color washed across Dana’s face, and you saw it, the tiny release. Not happiness. Not really. Something quieter. Relief, maybe. The kind that came when you were too tired for joy but still grateful the world could make something pretty.
McKay exhaled slowly. Mel’s shoulders dropped. Santos forgot to pretend she didn’t care. Javadi blinked up like she was trying to memorize it. Perlah and Princess smiled softly at them.
Everyone looked peaceful. Not fixed. Not untouched. Just… peaceful. And you couldn’t get there. That was what scared you. Not the noise. Not the height. Not even Robby’s words still embedded under your skin.
It was this.
Standing beside people you cared about, watching them find something gentle at the end of an awful day. And feeling nothing but distance. Like they were on the roof. And you were already somewhere else.
A firework burst overhead, gold spilling open like light through a wound.
“That one was nice,” McKay said quietly.
“It was,” Mel agreed.
It was.
You knew it was. You could recognize the shape of beauty. You just couldn’t feel it.
Your hands curled into your scrub pockets.
Mohan glanced over. “You okay?”
You kept your eyes on the sky. “Yeah.”
Mohan let the answer sit between you for a second before she said quietly, “You don’t have to lie to me up here.”
Your chest tightened. Your demons pressed in harder. Because she was kind. Because everyone else looked like they could breathe again. Because you couldn’t.
Another burst cracked overhead. You flinched before you could stop it.
Mohan noticed.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“I’m fine.”
Too quick. Too sharp.
The peace in her face shifted into worry. You hated yourself for taking it from her. Dana glanced over, brief and knowing, but didn’t push. No one did. They let you stand there. Let you pretend.
The fireworks kept going. Louder. Closer. Then softer. Slower. Until finally, the last one bloomed. Faded. Left the sky dark again.
For a few seconds, no one moved. Then Dana pushed off the wall.
“All right,” she said, voice rough but steady. “That’s it.”
Everyone looked at her. Dana glanced around at all of you, something firm settling back into place.
“Go home,” she said.
No argument. No softness. Just Dana.
“You all did enough today.”
The words landed heavier than they should have.
McKay nodded first, like she’d been waiting for permission. Mel followed, quiet but immediate. Santos rolled her shoulders and hopped down from her spot, muttering something about finally sitting somewhere that wasn’t hospital-issued. Javadi gave the sky one last look before turning. Perlah squeezed Princess’ hands gently before heading for the door.
One by one, they moved. Not rushed. Just… done.
Dana passed you last. She nudged your shoulder lightly.
“Don’t stay up here all night.”
You forced a small smile. “I won’t.”
Dana gave you a look. The kind that said she didn’t believe you. The kind that said she knew better than to push. She nodded once anyway. Then she left. The door closed behind her.
Eventually, it was just you and Mohan. The quiet shifted. Heavier now. Closer. Mohan stayed beside you. Still not touching. Still there.
“You coming back down?” she asked.
“In a minute.”
She hesitated. You could feel it. The pull between staying and trusting you.
“You scared me today,” she said softly.
Your throat tightened. “I know.”
“I don’t think you do.”
She was right. That made it worse.
“I just need a second alone,” you said.
Mohan watched you for a long moment. Then she nodded, even though everything in her said she didn’t want to.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
She lingered. Then stepped back and turned. The door opened. Closed. And the quiet changed again. No longer shared. Just yours.
You didn’t move at first. You just stood there after Mohan left, staring at the dark sky where the fireworks had been. The smoke still lingered. Thin gray ribbons drifting over the roofline, breaking apart in the humid night air.
For a while, you listened. To the distant traffic. To the muffled noise of the hospital below. To the soft mechanical hum from the roof units behind you. Everything sounded far away. Even you.
Your hands were still in your scrub pockets. Your shoulders were still loose. Your face was still arranged into something that could pass for fine if anyone opened the door and checked. But no one did.
The roof stayed quiet. And the quiet got inside you.
One step. That was all it was at first. Your shoe scraped lightly against the concrete. Then another. Slow. Unhurried. Almost curious. Like your body had decided to go look at something your mind had not agreed to yet.
The edge waited ahead of you. But there was a railing first. A low metal barrier bolted into the roof, meant to make the boundary obvious. Meant to tell people where safety ended. Meant to be enough.
You stopped in front of it. For a moment, you only looked. One hand lifted. Your fingers curled around the top rail. The metal was still warm from the day, but cooler than the concrete. Smooth in places where weather and hands had worn it down.
It should have stopped you. That was the point of it. A line. A warning. A small, practical mercy built into the roof of a hospital where people spent all day trying not to die.
You stepped closer. Then, slowly, carefully, you lifted one leg over. Your shoe found the narrow strip of concrete on the other side. Then the other leg followed.
The railing was behind you now. That should have meant something. Maybe it did. Maybe that was why your chest went so quiet.
You stood on the wrong side of it, a few feet from the edge. No wall now. No barrier. Just warm concrete. Open air. Nothing dramatic about it. Nothing cinematic. Just a ledge at the top of a hospital where people spent all day trying not to die.
You stopped close enough to see over. Close enough to feel the air change against your skin. The parking lot spread beneath you, bright in patches beneath the lamps. Cars lined up neatly. Ambulance bay glowing. The city carrying on like it had not noticed you standing above it, wondering if there was any version of tomorrow you could still survive.
Your breathing stayed even. That frightened you distantly. You thought panic would come with noise. With tears. With shaking. But this was quieter than that. This was your body finally going still after months of begging to be heard.
You took another step. Then another. Until your toes touched the base of the ledge. You looked at it. No wall. No barrier now. Just the ledge. Lower than you expected. Or maybe you had known that. Maybe some part of you had known all along.
Your hands came out of your pockets. For a second, they hovered uselessly at your sides. Then you sat down. Slowly. Carefully. Like if your movements were calm enough, this could still be called something else. Just sitting. Just air. Just needing quiet.
The concrete was still warm from the day beneath you. Human-warm. Alive-warm. That almost made you stand back up. Almost.
Instead, you shifted closer. One inch. Then another. Your palms pressed flat against the ledge on either side of your thighs, steadying yourself as the backs of your legs met the edge.
For one second, your feet were still on the roof. Safe enough to pretend this was nothing. Then you moved them. One foot forward. Then the other. Your shoes found nothing. Just open space.
Your stomach dipped, but not enough. Not enough to make you scramble back. Not enough to make you choose. Your feet hung over the side of the building.
Below, the hospital looked small. Orderly. Distant. Like a place you used to belong to. Like a place that would keep functioning without you because places always did.
Your chest felt calm. Too calm. Like something inside you had stopped trying to be saved.
Robby’s voice came back, quiet and sharp.
“I don’t know if I can trust you.”
Your fingers rested against the ledge. Not gripping. Not yet. Just resting. You swallowed.
And for the first time…
You believed him.
“Neither do I.”
The words barely made it out of your mouth. Then you looked down. Not quickly. Not all at once.
Your eyes moved from your shoes to the side of the building, then lower, following the long drop until the parking lot came into focus beneath you.
Ambulance bay lights. White and sterile. Cars lined in neat rows. Painted lines. Concrete islands. A world still organized enough to feel insulting.
For the first time, the height became real. Not symbolic. Not dramatic. Real. The kind of real your body understood before your mind could make language out of it.
Your stomach dipped. Your fingers flexed against the ledge. Below you, the hospital kept breathing. Doors opening. Lights shifting. A figure crossing the lot with keys in hand. Everything ordinary. Everything continuing.
Death looked different from up here. Downstairs, it had noise. Blood. Hands moving fast. Someone calling time. A family member making a sound that stayed in the walls long after they were gone.
Downstairs, death arrived like an emergency. Up here, it waited. Quiet. Patient. Polite. And for one awful, honest second…
You wanted the quiet.
Not death. Not exactly. You didn’t think you wanted to die. You wanted the hurting to stop.
You wanted five seconds where your chest didn’t feel carved open. Five seconds where you didn’t have to be the strong one, the steady one, the almost-attending who could close every loop except the one tightening around your own throat.
You wanted to stop waking up already tired. Stop swallowing pills with shaking hands and calling it maintenance. Stop sitting in therapy trying to explain a loneliness so old it had started to feel like a personality trait. Stop walking into The Pitt every day hoping Robby would look at you like he used to. Stop hating yourself for still needing him to.
Your hands had been resting on the ledge. Barely holding. Now your fingers loosened. Just a little. The concrete pressed into the backs of your thighs. The open air pulled at your shoes.
One lean. One breath. One second where you stopped fighting. A tear slid down your cheek. You didn’t wipe it away. You were so tired. So tired that the thought of falling almost felt like being held.
Behind you, the roof door opened. You didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. For a moment, there was only the scrape of the door. The distant hum of traffic. The last faint echoes of fireworks fading into smoke.
Then everything behind you went still.
“Hey.”
Robby.
Your eyes closed. Of course it was him.
The person who had taught you how to survive yourself. The person who had made you believe help wasn’t weakness. The person who had looked at the softest part of you today and called it unreliable.
His voice carried carefully across the roof. Not too loud. Not too soft. Like he was trying not to startle you back into your own body too fast.
“Heard Dana sent everyone home after the fireworks,” he said. “You left your bag and phone downstairs.”
You didn’t move. Your eyes stayed fixed somewhere below the parking lot lights. Behind you, he rubbed the back of his neck. You heard the faint scrape of his palm against skin, the restless shift of his fingers into his hair before they dropped away.
“Figured I’d come find you before your stuff disappeared into the nurses’ station permanently.”
Nothing. No answer. No shift of your shoulders. No sign you had heard him at all. And somehow, that scared him more.
For once, Robby didn’t fill the silence with sarcasm. He just stood there. Seeing you. Seeing the ledge. Seeing the open air beneath your feet. Seeing the way your hands were barely touching the concrete at all.
Whatever he had come up here planning to say disappeared. Completely. His mouth opened. Nothing came out. You heard it. That tiny failure. That impossible silence from the man who always had a next step.
He swallowed.
“You’re probably ready to pass out,” he added, trying for light. “Hell of a shift.”
Still nothing. The silence stretched. But he kept talking anyway. Not because he thought it was working. Because stopping felt worse. Because if he could keep the conversation ordinary long enough, maybe you would remember how to be part of it.
“Your phone keeps lighting up,” he said. “A ton of texts. Apparently you’re very popular.”
A breath pulled in behind you. Too careful. Too controlled. Like he was trying to manage himself before he could manage you.
“Pretty sure if you don’t reply soon, the battery’s gonna die.”
Your hand didn’t move. Your feet hung over open air. The roof went quiet except for the city below and the uneven rhythm of Robby trying to breathe normally.
“I was thinking we could walk down,” he said, still trying to sound like this was normal. “Get your bag. Get you out of here before the night shift crazies start multiplying.”
Your fingers flexed against the concrete. He saw it. The movement was small, but it hit him like a monitor alarm. His shoe scraped once against the roof. Stopped. He’d almost moved. Almost.
You heard him drag a hand over the back of his head, fingers catching in his hair before falling to his side.
“You left your pen downstairs,” he said quietly. “The good one.”
Your fingers twitched weakly against the ledge.
Robby swallowed hard.
“Honestly, if we don’t go down soon, someone might steal it.”
A shaky breath left him that almost sounded like a laugh.
“I heard Ellis has been trying to steal that pen for months.”
Your right hand lifted from the concrete. Not purposeful. That was the worst part. It looked absentminded. Like you had forgotten why it was there in the first place.
Robby’s breath caught. The sound was small. Sharp. Impossible to miss. His voice came back thinner than before.
“Don’t move forward.”
The words landed carefully. Terrified.
“If you move, move back. Just back.”
A small, broken laugh left you.
“That’s usually my line.”
Robby went quiet long enough for you to hear his hand return to the back of his neck, rubbing once, twice, harder than before.
“Yeah,” he said, voice catching. “Hope you don’t mind me borrowing it tonight.”
He moved. Not closer. Not yet. Just a shift of weight. One hand lifted slightly, dropped again because even that felt like too much. His fingers flexed at his side, useless and frantic, looking for something to do when there was nothing he could safely touch.
You stared down at the ground. Your heart should have been racing. It wasn’t. That scared you more than anything.
“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” you said.
Soft. Almost peaceful.
The breath behind you disappeared. For one awful second, there was nothing from him at all. No movement. No correction. No sound except the city below. But he didn’t say no. He swallowed it. Forced it down hard enough you could hear the breath catch in his throat.
“Okay,” he said instead.
His voice shook on the word. He rubbed the back of his neck again, faster this time, like he was trying to keep himself inside his own body.
“Okay. You don’t have to do this anymore tonight.”
You didn’t look at him.
“You can try again tomorrow,” he said, careful with every syllable. “Not the whole thing. Not all of it. Just tomorrow.”
His breath hitched.
“Tonight, you just have to move back.”
“I’m tired.”
“I know.”
“You don’t.”
“You’re right.” His voice shook. “You’re right, I don’t. Not exactly. Not yours. But I know enough. I know enough to know that quiet you’re chasing is lying to you.”
Your fingers loosened. Just a little.
Robby saw it. His whole body went still. Too still.
“Okay,” he said carefully, fighting to keep his voice even. “I need both hands on the ledge.”
You didn’t.
His breath caught, but he swallowed it down.
“Not fast,” he added. “Just put them back where they were.”
For one suspended second, you didn’t.
His breathing changed. Fast. Ragged. The kind of breathing Robby corrected in patients and ignored in himself.
“Please,” he said.
That got through. Not enough to bring you back. Enough to make your fingers twitch.
Robby took one step closer. You shifted. He stopped so hard his shoes scraped against the roof.
“Okay. Okay. I’m stopping.” He lifted both hands, palms out. “See? I’m not coming closer. I’m not touching you. Just—hands back on the ledge.”
“I don’t trust myself.”
The words hollowed him out. You heard it in the silence behind you. The way his breathing stopped for half a second. The soft scrape of his shoe against the roof as he caught himself from moving too quickly.
His hand dragged over the back of his neck again, fingers pressing hard into the muscle there before catching briefly in his hair.
“Okay,” he said carefully.
His voice sounded lower now. Pulled tight.
“That’s okay.”
You stared down at the parking lot lights. Your right hand hovered slightly above the concrete again.
Robby’s breath caught. You heard him swallow it back down.
“You don’t have to trust yourself for the whole night,” he said. “Just the next ten seconds.”
A wet laugh left you. Wrong. Empty.
“You told me you couldn’t trust me.”
Robby went quiet. Not defensive. Not angry. Just quiet. You heard him breathe in too sharply through his nose.
“I was wrong.”
“You meant it.”
His hand scraped over the back of his neck again.
“I’m sorry.”
Your fingers flexed weakly against the ledge.
“You were ugly.”
“I know.”
“You were cruel.”
His breath hitched.
“I know.”
Your voice thinned into something smaller.
“You made me feel like the sickest part of me was the truest part.”
Behind you, Robby made a sound like the words had gone straight through him. Not loud. Worse. Human.
“I’m sorry,” he said, rough now. “I’m so sorry.”
Behind you, his breathing turned uneven.
His hand dragged over the back of his neck again, rough and restless. Not the attending everyone feared. Not the teacher with impossible standards. Not the man who could run a trauma bay on instinct and fury. Just a person. Terrified. Choking on the damage he had done.
“I needed my teacher,” you whispered. “And you punished me for it.”
His breath broke. A sound came out of him like he had tried to swallow a sob and failed halfway.
“I know.”
Your right hand slipped off the ledge. Fully. Dropped into your lap. Your body tilted forward. One inch. Maybe less. Enough.
The metal rail rattled under his hand. His shoe scraped once against the roof and stopped. For one second, even his breathing vanished. This wasn’t a conversation anymore. You were going to fall. Even you knew it.
Robby moved before thought could stop him, then caught himself halfway, every muscle locked so hard he was trembling.
“Left hand stays,” he said, voice raw, urgent. “Left hand stays on the ledge. Do you hear me?”
You stared down. Your other hand started to lift. Slowly. Like your body had decided something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.
“Kid.” Robby’s voice cracked. “Hands. Both hands back now.”
Kid.
The word hit somewhere old. Somewhere trained by years of following his voice through chaos.
Your palm slammed back onto the concrete. Then the other. Hard. Desperate. Your knuckles went white.
Robby bent forward slightly, hands braced on his own knees for half a second, like relief had nearly taken him down. But he didn’t let himself stay there. Couldn’t. He straightened, breathing too fast.
“Good,” he said, voice shaking. “Good. That’s good. Stay there.”
A sob caught in your throat.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Sound like you still know how to take care of me.”
His voice twisted. “I do know how.”
His voice broke on the last word. For a second, neither of you moved.
The roof hummed around you. The city below kept breathing. Your hands stayed loose against the concrete, not gripping hard enough to feel safe.
Robby dragged a hand over the back of his head.
“I just stopped doing it.”
That was worse. Somehow, that was worse. Because it wasn’t that he had forgotten how to take care of you. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen you. He had known. He had seen. He had stopped anyway.
Your breath fractured. “I hate you.”
The words came out small. Tired. Not angry enough to protect you.
Behind you, Robby went very still. “I know.”
Your throat tightened. A tear slipped down your face, warm and quiet. “I don’t.”
His breath caught. “I know that too.”
Your fingers curled faintly against the ledge. “I wanted you to come back.”
The words barely made it past your mouth.
Robby’s voice sounded scraped raw. “I’m here now.”
Your eyes stayed on the parking lot below. The lights blurred.
“Too late.”
He took it. No defense. No correction. No sharp little Robby answer to make it easier for either of you. Just silence. His hand moved to the back of his neck again. Rubbed once. Stopped. Dropped uselessly to his side.
Behind you, his hand found the metal rail between you and him. The line. The awful, visible line. Safe roof on his side. Open air on yours. For the first time, Robby seemed to understand exactly where he was standing. On the wrong side of the lesson.
For years, he had been the one telling residents not to freeze. Not to panic. Not to let fear make their hands stupid. Now his hands were shaking. Now his chest was heaving. Now he was staring at one of his own residents and trying to convince them that life was still worth staying for.
“Maybe it is too late,” he said, voice hoarse. “Maybe I don’t get to fix what I did tonight. Maybe I don’t get to fix the last ten months.”
You cried silently, staring down.
“But late is what I have,” he said. “So I’m going to use it.”
He took another careful step. Then stopped. Waited.
You didn’t tell him no.
His throat worked.
“You told that girl downstairs fear could be physical and still matter.”
Your fingers tightened slightly.
He saw it. Held onto it.
“You were right. You were right when you said it to her, and you’re right now. This fear matters. Your pain matters. But it does not get to make the decision alone.”
“I don’t want tomorrow.”
“I know.” Robby swallowed hard. “Then don’t take tomorrow. Take the next minute.”
“I don’t know what’s left.”
“You are.”
“That’s not enough.”
“It is to Samira.”
Your face crumpled.
“It is to Dana,” he pressed, voice shaking but stronger now. “It is to McKay. Mel. Perlah. Princess. Everyone who stood on this roof tonight and breathed a little easier because you were standing with them.”
“They don’t need me.”
“They do. Not because you’re useful. Not because you’re an R4. Not because you catch mistakes and close charts and make scared patients feel less stupid for being scared.”
He took another step. Closer now. Close enough to reach the railing. His hand closed around it. The metal clanged softly under his grip. The sound made both of you flinch.
He froze. You froze. Your hands stayed down. Barely.
Robby’s voice dropped. “They need you because you are not just what you can do for people.”
You sobbed once. Hard. “I don’t believe that.”
“I know,” he said. “So I believe it for you tonight.”
His hand curled tighter around the metal until his knuckles blanched.
“You want a reason to stay?” he asked, choking on it now. “Stay because Samira is going to come back looking for you, and she deserves to find you breathing. Stay because Dana told you to go home, and she meant home, not gone.”
Your shoulders shook.
“Stay because Langdon still owes you at least one terrible joke. Stay because Javadi needs someone to tell her she’s allowed to still make mistakes. Stay because there is still coffee that tastes like burnt plastic and patients who apologize for needing help and people who love you badly, stupidly, imperfectly, but still love you.”
You shook your head. Barely. But your body went with it. Your shoulder dipped. Your weight shifted.
The open air seemed to notice before you did.
Robby’s grip on the railing tightened hard enough that the metal gave a small, sharp sound under his hand.
“Don’t,” he said.
The word came out too fast. He swallowed, forced his voice lower.
“Don’t move your head like that. Not while you’re sitting there.”
Your breath shook. “I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I can’t.”
“You can,” he said, and there was panic under the steadiness now, cracking through despite him. “Because you’re stubborn as hell.”
His hand scraped over the back of his neck, then dropped back to the railing.
“And because you’ve been correcting my terrible bedside manner since you were a med student.”
Your fingers twitched against the ledge.
His breath snapped when your fingers twitched. He stayed exactly where he was. Waited. Your hand held. Barely. A broken sound left you. Not a laugh. Not really. But close enough that Robby looked like he might come apart from relief.
“That’s it,” he whispered, nearly breaking.
Then your fingers slipped again. Both of them. Not fully. But enough. The tiny laugh died. The world lurched. Your body tilted forward. The metal rail jerked under his grip.
His breath tore out of him.
“Kid—”
This time it wasn’t command. It was begging.
You looked at him then. Really looked. And suddenly the calm was gone.
All of it.
The height rushed back into your body at once. The drop. The air. The fact that your feet were hanging over nothing. The fact that your hands were failing. The fact that some part of you had wanted this, and now every living piece of you was screaming.
Your eyes went wide. Your voice came out small. Childlike.
“I’m scared.”
The words changed everything.
Robby saw it happen. The emptiness in your face cracked. The awful stillness broke apart. Your eyes widened, and suddenly you were there again. Not gone. Not calm. Not chasing the quiet anymore.
There. Terrified. Alive.
Your breath caught hard enough for him to hear it. Your fingers, loose against the ledge a second ago, clawed suddenly at the concrete. Searching for purchase. Searching for anything.
Your shoulders jerked backward like your body had finally understood what your mind had tried to leave behind.
You didn’t want to fall. Not anymore.
“Robby—”
His name barely made it out of your mouth. Then your weight shifted. Too far. The ledge slipped beneath your palms.
Your eyes locked on his. And the fear in them gutted him. It wasn’t peace. It wasn’t surrender. It wasn’t a choice anymore. It was panic. Regret. Please.
Your hand shot out toward him. Not gracefully. Not dramatically. Desperate. Fingers spread. Reaching for him. Reaching for the man who had taught you how to stay upright in chaos. Reaching like some part of you still believed he could catch you if you asked him to.
Robby moved. No thought. No plan. No careful distance. Just panic wearing his body. He lunged across the railing hard enough for the metal to slam into his ribs, one arm shooting out toward your hand.
For half a second, your fingers brushed his. Skin against skin. Almost. His hand closed too late. He caught fabric instead. The back of your scrub top bunched in his fist, tight and real and impossible. For one breath, he had you.
He felt your weight pull against his arm. Felt the sharp drag of cloth through his fingers. Felt your body jolt like maybe, maybe, maybe…
Your eyes stayed on his. Wide. Wet. Terrified. You were still reaching. Still trying. Your mouth opened around one last broken sound. Not his name this time. Just fear.
Then the fabric gave. Not in one clean motion. Slowly. Cruelly. Thread by thread, inch by inch, slipping through his fist while his hand clenched harder, while his nails scraped uselessly against cloth, while every muscle in his body screamed no.
Your fingers slid away from his wrist. Your face changed. You knew. He saw the exact second you knew. That there was no ground beneath you anymore. That he was too late. That wanting to live had come back one heartbeat too late.
Robby’s mouth opened. Nothing came out at first. Your hand reached for him again, smaller now, farther away than it should have been. Then your name tore out of him. Raw. Destroyed. Begging the air to give you back.
And then you were gone.
Robby hit the railing so hard the metal screamed beneath him. His arm plunged into empty space, fingers closing over nothing, then opening again, reaching again, like some broken part of him still thought there was a way to catch you if he just refused to stop trying.
But there was only air. Only the drop. Only the place where your terrified eyes had been. Only the terrible truth that you had changed your mind. And he had still been too late.
Below, the world cracked open. Not the fall itself. The sound after. For one impossible second, there was nothing. Then the scream came.
It ripped upward from the ambulance bay so sharply that Robby’s whole body jerked against the railing. Not one voice. Several. Overlapping. Different pitches of horror colliding into each other.
Someone screamed like they had seen something no human being should ever have to see. Another voice shouted. Then another.
A sound of shock moved through the crowd beneath him in waves. Not words anymore. Just raw human devastation. Gasps. Cries. Someone sobbing openly. Someone shouting directions with panic cracking through every syllable.
Robby heard all of it. Every second. Every horrible sound. And he couldn’t make himself move. His hands stayed locked around the railing so tightly they hurt. His breathing came apart in shallow, uneven bursts.
“No,” he whispered.
The word disappeared into the noise below. Another scream tore through the ambulance bay. Closer together now. More frantic. More people arriving. More voices reacting to what they were seeing.
And through all of it, Robby stayed bent over the railing, staring into the dark space where you had disappeared.
His arm still reached downward. Still searching. His fingers opening and closing around nothing. His brain refused to catch up.
You had been there. Right there. Your fingers had touched his. Your eyes had locked onto his with sudden, terrible fear.
“I’m scared.”
He had heard it. He had watched you come back to yourself. Watched the calm vanish. Watched survival hit you too late. And now below him, the entire ambulance bay sounded like grief before grief even had a name yet.
A stretcher rattled violently somewhere beneath him. Someone shouted. Someone cried out so hard it turned into sobbing halfway through. Robby’s stomach twisted. Because he knew those sounds. He knew what people sounded like when hope collapsed in real time.
“No,” he said again, louder now.
But his voice broke apart. Below, the noise only grew. More footsteps. More panic. More horror spreading outward from one terrible point on the concrete.
And somewhere inside all of it was the unbearable truth his mind still refused to hold completely…
You had changed your mind. You had wanted to live. And he had still been too late.
The roof door burst open behind him.
“Robby?”
Dana’s voice hit the night hard.
Mohan was right behind her, breathless and already scared in the specific way people got scared when they sensed disaster before they understood it.
“What happened?”
Robby didn’t turn.
Dana’s stomach dropped immediately. He was bent halfway over the railing, one hand still stretched out into empty space like his body hadn’t realized yet there was nothing left to grab.
“Robby,” Dana said again, sharper now.
Still nothing.
Then the screams below reached them. Not clear enough to understand. Not close enough to separate into words. Just sound. Human panic rising up the side of the building in waves.
Mohan froze. Not fully understanding yet. Just enough. Her eyes darted across the roof. The ledge. The empty stretch of concrete beside it. The railing. The wrong side of the railing. And not you.
“No,” she said immediately. Small. Reflexive.
She looked toward the utility boxes. The corners of the roof. The door. Like maybe you had moved. Like maybe this was some horrible misunderstanding and you were sitting against a wall crying somewhere.
“No,” she said again, faster now, turning in a full circle. “Where are they?”
Dana’s face changed.
Mohan looked back at Robby. “You were with them.”
Robby finally turned around. His face wasn’t a face anymore. Just shock stretched over skin.
Mohan’s pulse spiked. “Where are they!”
Robby’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Below them, the noise kept rising. Not voices anymore. Not anything Mohan could make sense of. Just alarm. Horror. A terrible rush of movement and sound spreading somewhere beneath them.
Dana’s eyes shut for half a second. That was enough.
Mohan shoved past her. “No.”
Dana grabbed for her arm too late. “Samira—”
“No.”
Mohan ran for the railing. Not because she believed it. Because she didn’t.
Because her brain refused it so violently that some part of her still expected to look over the edge and see you standing on a lower landing or crouched somewhere crying or hurt but alive. Anything except what the sounds below were trying to tell her.
Dana caught the back of Mohan’s scrub top just as she reached the ledge.
“Don’t.”
Mohan fought her instantly. “Let me go!”
“No.”
“Dana, let me see!”
“You do not need to see that.”
Mohan twisted violently in her grip, trying to force herself toward the edge anyway.
“I left them here!” she screamed. “I left them alone!”
Her voice cracked apart on the last word.
Dana wrapped both arms around her waist now, physically holding her back from the railing.
“Samira, stop.”
“No!”
Mohan’s eyes were fixed on the edge like if she looked hard enough reality would change.
“They were right here,” she whispered frantically. “They were right here.”
Below, the sound kept swelling. Distant. Distorted. Devastated. The kind of noise people made when something irreversible happened in front of them.
Mohan heard it. And still her brain kept rejecting it.
“No,” she whispered again.
Then her eyes found Robby. He was still standing there beside the railing. Still shaking. Still staring downward like part of him had gone over with you and never come back.
Mohan saw his empty hand. Saw the shape of guilt already crushing him alive. And suddenly her denial found somewhere to go.
“You.”
Robby flinched hard enough that Dana saw it.
“You were with them.”
His throat moved. No words.
Mohan’s eyes narrowed through her tears.
“Why were you up here?”
Robby’s face twitched.
Her voice shook harder.
“Why were you here?”
Dana closed her eyes.
Mohan’s face crumpled, anger folding into panic all over again.
“I left them alone,” she said. “I left because they asked me to. Because they looked me in the eye and told me they needed a minute.”
Her eyes flicked to the railing. The empty ledge. The wrong side of it.
“And somehow you were the one who found them?”
Robby’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Mohan shook her head.
“No. No, that doesn’t make sense.”
Then she looked back at him, and the grief sharpened into something brutal.
“What did you say to them?”
Robby looked like the words cut straight through him.
“What did you say!” she screamed.
Dana’s grip tightened around Mohan’s waist. “Samira.”
“No!” Mohan snapped. “Why else would he be here?”
Robby couldn’t answer.
Mohan laughed once, broken and horrified.
“What, did you come up here to push them over the edge one last time? Is that it?”
Robby’s face collapsed.
“Did you need one more chance to tell them they weren’t good enough before you left?” she spat. “One more private correction? One more way to make them feel unstable and useless where nobody else could hear?”
“Samira,” Dana warned, but her own voice was shaking now.
“No,” Mohan choked out. “No, he knew. He knew they were hurting.”
Below them, another wave of sound rose from the ambulance bay.
Mohan heard it and broke completely. Because no one sounded like that unless there was nothing left to hope for. Her knees buckled. Dana caught her weight immediately, dragging her back from the railing while Mohan sobbed against her shoulder.
“I knew better!” Her voice echoed across the roof. “I knew something was wrong. I knew they weren’t okay. I knew and I still walked away!”
Then she looked at Robby again. And whatever mercy she might have had left disappeared.
“You did this.”
Robby didn’t deny it. That made it worse.
“You knew they were hurting,” Mohan sobbed. “You knew they were getting smaller every single day, and you kept going. You kept pushing. You kept cutting them open in front of everyone like it was teaching.”
Robby stared at her like he deserved every word.
“You made them think being sick made them dangerous,” Mohan said, voice breaking into something almost unrecognizable. “You made them think the part of them they trusted you with was ugly.”
His breath hitched.
Mohan shoved weakly at Dana’s arms, desperate now, grief turning frantic because there was nowhere for it to go.
“They just wanted you to be proud of them!” she screamed. “That’s all they wanted. God, Robby, they wanted your approval so badly they didn’t even know how to stand without it anymore!”
Dana’s face crumpled.
Robby looked back toward the ledge. His voice came out hollow.
“I didn’t want them in emergency medicine.”
Mohan went still. Dana’s grip loosened slightly.
Robby stared at nothing.
“This place was going to kill them.”
“I thought if they couldn’t be happy they’d leave,” Robby whispered. “If I made them angry enough. If I made them hate me enough. They’d get out before this place took the rest of them.”
His face twisted.
“And I didn’t want them to miss me when I was gone.”
Mohan looked at him like he had slapped her.
“You selfish son of a bitch.”
Robby closed his eyes.
“I know.”
“You don’t know!” she spat through tears. “You don’t get to know! They’re gone, and you’re still standing here!”
That was the word that finally landed.
Gone.
Robby’s knees buckled. Dana let go of Mohan only long enough to catch him.
“Robby.”
He didn’t respond.
“Robby, look at me.”
He stared past her.
Dana grabbed both sides of his jacket and forced herself into his line of sight.
“You are coming off this roof.”
“I can’t.”
“You are.”
“I have to—”
“No,” Dana said, voice breaking now. “The only thing you have to do is to come down.”
His face collapsed. For a second, it looked like grief might take him physically apart. His mouth opened around a sound that didn’t become words. His hands lifted uselessly, still shaking, still curled like they remembered losing hold.
Dana pulled him against her before he could fall. Robby went stiff at first. Then he broke. Not loudly. Not at first. Just one ruined breath against Dana’s shoulder. Then another. Then his whole body folded into it.
Dana held him with one arm around his back and one hand at the back of his head, her own face wet, her jaw trembling with the effort of staying upright.
“I didn’t catch them,” he choked.
Dana squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s okay.”
“I had them.”
“Breathe.”
“I had them, Dana.”
“It’s okay. Just breathe.”
Mohan stood a few feet away, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe.
For one awful second, all three of them were just bodies on a roof, surrounded by smoke and heat and the echo of fireworks, listening to the world below rearrange itself around your absence.
Then another set of footsteps hit the roof.
Abbot.
He stopped at the door. Took in Dana holding Robby. Mohan folded over herself. The empty ledge. His face went slack.
“No.”
Dana looked at him. That was all it took. Abbot crossed the roof and caught Robby by the back of the neck, firm and grounding.
“Michael.”
Robby made a broken sound. Abbot’s hand tightened.
“Look at me.”
Robby didn’t. Abbot stepped closer, voice low and rough.
“Michael. You are walking off this roof.”
Robby shook his head once, barely. Abbot’s face cracked. Then he moved in beside Dana and held him too. Not carefully. Not professionally. Like if he and Dana put enough hands on him, they could keep what was left of him from following you over the edge.
Robby’s knees gave anyway. Dana and Abbot went down with him. Mohan screamed into both hands. Robby knelt on the concrete between them, sobbing now, fully and violently, his hands fisted in Dana’s sleeve and Abbot’s jacket like he was drowning on dry land.
“They changed their mind,” he choked. “They wanted to live.”
Abbot’s eyes filled. He looked at Dana over Robby’s bowed head. Neither of them knew what to say. Because ‘no’ wasn’t enough. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
So Abbot pressed his forehead briefly against the side of Robby’s head and said the only true thing left.
“Breathe.”
Robby couldn’t. Dana held tighter.
“Breathe anyway.”
The rest came apart in fragments. The walk downstairs. Dana on one side. Abbot on the other. Mohan behind them, shaking so badly someone had to guide her by the elbow.
Police. Hospital administration. Questions. Statements. Hands on his shoulders. Voices saying his name. Robby remembered none of it clearly. Only pieces.
Dana saying, “Not now,” to someone who wanted answers.
Abbot saying, “Back off,” in a voice so cold the hallway went silent.
Mohan was crying somewhere he couldn’t see.
Your name spoken too gently by strangers. Your bag under the desk. Your phone lighting up again and again. Your good pen clipped to the front pocket.
At some point, someone told him there was nothing they could do. Or maybe no one did. Maybe he just knew from the way everyone stopped looking directly at him.
—
Later that night, Robby found himself sitting beside your bed.
He didn’t remember walking there. Didn’t remember asking. Didn’t remember Dana’s hand leaving his shoulder or Abbot’s voice telling someone to give him a minute.
There was a blanket over you. White. Pulled all the way up. Not carelessly. Not like someone was hiding you. Carefully. Tenderly. With the kind of mercy people offered when there was nothing left to fix except dignity.
Only one hand had been left uncovered. Just one. Your hand rested against the sheet, still and cold and unbearably familiar. And around your wrist was your watch.
The one you always wore. The one Robby had seen a hundred times while you checked pulses, signed charts, reached for coffee, stole your pen back with a muttered threat under your breath. The glass was cracked now. The hands had stopped.
Robby stared at it until his vision blurred.
That was how they had known. Not your face. Not your voice. Not any of the things that made you you. A watch. A broken watch on a still wrist. Your time of death held there in shattered glass.
His breath folded in on itself.
Your hands had always been doing something. Typing. Charting. Stealing your pen back. Holding coffee you never finished. Pressing against your chest when the world got too loud. Now your hand did nothing.
Robby sat beside the bed and tried to understand a world where that was allowed. Where you could be still and he could be breathing. Where your watch could be broken at the exact minute your life ended, and his heart could keep going anyway, steady and obscene inside his chest.
His hands curled between his knees until his knuckles went pale.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
The room didn’t answer. There was no one left in it who could.
His eyes stayed on your uncovered hand. On the cracked watch face. On the stopped hands beneath the fractured glass. Time had ended for you. And somehow, impossibly, it had not ended for him.
“No,” he whispered. “No, that’s not enough.”
His breath shook.
“I did this.”
The words barely made it out.
“I keep wanting there to be another explanation. Trauma. Grief. The job. Anything that makes it sound less like a choice.”
His eyes burned.
“But I chose it.”
A tear dropped onto the floor.
“I saw you getting worse, and I kept going.”
His mouth twisted like the words made him sick.
“I told myself I didn’t want you here because emergency medicine was killing you. Because you cared too much. Because this place takes people like you and teaches them to confuse being useful with being alive.”
He swallowed hard.
“And maybe part of that was true.”
His voice cracked.
“But it wasn’t all of it.”
He looked down at his hands.
“I didn’t want you to need me. I didn’t want you waiting for me after I left. I didn’t want to look back from that sabbatical and know I mattered enough to hurt you.”
His face folded.
“So I hurt you first.”
The silence pressed in.
“I thought if I made you hate me, you’d survive me leaving.”
His breath broke.
“But I didn’t make you hate me.”
He looked at the hospital white covering you. The single hand left uncovered. The watch that had become the only proof anyone could bear to name.
“I made you hate yourself.”
A sob caught in his throat.
“I made you believe the sickest part of you was the truest part. I made you believe you were dangerous. I made you believe I was right.”
His hand lifted like he wanted to touch yours. Then stopped.
“I was supposed to know better.”
His voice shattered.
“I did know better.”
The room hummed around him. Your hand stayed still. And now there was nothing left inside him trying to survive. That was the worst part. Not the grief. Not even the horror.
The relief.
Because your death had finally given him what he had been reaching toward for months. A reason. A sentence. A punishment that felt clean enough to deserve.
Robby stared at the blanket covering your body. At the careful mercy of it. At the way they had hidden what the fall had taken because dignity was the last thing anyone could still give you.
His fingers drifted to the Star of David at his throat. The metal was warm from his skin. He gripped it hard enough for the points to bite into his palm. He wanted it to hurt.
He had pushed God out years ago. Out of trauma bays. Out of death. Out of every prayer that came too late to matter.
But this almost felt like judgment. Not from God. From you. From the empty room. From the stopped watch on your wrist.
“You died because of me,” he whispered.
No denial came. No voice in his head argued back. Just the truth sitting beside him, covered in white.
“I killed you.”
The words wrecked him because he meant them. Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. Completely. And the second he said it, some ruined part of him went quiet. Because if he had killed you, then maybe he deserved to die too. Not eventually. Not abstractly. Now.
The thought did not scare him. His grief had narrowed the world until there was only you, still and covered, and him, breathing when he shouldn’t be.
He thought of his sabbatical. Three months gone. Three months everyone already expected him to disappear into. An exit that had been waiting for him long before tonight. Before the roof. Before your hand slipped through his.
He had told himself he was tired. Burned out. Done. He had told himself leaving would be quieter if everyone hated him first. Now he knew the truth. He had been rehearsing his own absence. And your death had given him permission to stop pretending it was anything else.
His grip tightened around the star until pain sparked through his palm.
“You wanted to live,” he choked out.
That was the part that destroyed him. Not only that you died. That at the end, you changed your mind. He had seen it happen.
The terror crashing back into your face. Your hand reaching for him. Your body trying, too late, to come back from the edge. You had wanted to live. And by the time you did, he had already made dying feel easier.
A sob tore out of him.
He bent forward until his forehead nearly touched the edge of the bed.
“I’m sorry, kid,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
Your hand did not move. The watch did not start again. The room gave him nothing. He didn’t want comfort. He didn’t want forgiveness. He wanted consequence. He wanted the kind of punishment that ended.
The door opened quietly. Robby didn’t turn.
Mohan stepped inside. Her face was destroyed. Eyes swollen. Hair loose around her face. She looked younger than she had that morning. Younger and older and hollowed out.
For a while, she just stood there looking at you.
Then her mouth trembled.
“They asked me to leave,” she said.
She closed her eyes.
“They told me they needed a second alone.”
Her body shook once.
“I should’ve stayed anyway.”
Robby looked down.
Mohan wiped at her face roughly, almost angry at the tears for being there.
“I keep hearing them say ‘okay’.”
Her voice cracked once.
“I keep hearing myself say it back.”
Robby said nothing.
Mohan looked at him then. There was no softness in her face anymore. Only grief sharpened into something clean and merciless.
“I talked to Dana and Abbot.”
Robby went still.
“They think your sabbatical is suicide mission.”
His eyes lifted slowly.
Mohan stepped closer.
“If you are sitting here thinking their death gives you permission to end yours, stop.”
Robby flinched.
Her voice stayed cold.
“You don’t get that.”
“Mohan—”
“No.” Her voice cut through his like a blade. “You do not get that.”
His mouth closed.
“You don’t get to hurt them, lose them, and then use their death as your exit. You don’t get to make yourself the second tragedy and pretend it’s guilt. You don’t get to make the rest of us bury you too because living with what you did feels unbearable.”
Robby’s breath hitched.
“Good,” Mohan said.
His eyes flicked to hers.
“Let it be unbearable.”
The words landed hard.
Mohan’s jaw trembled, but she didn’t look away.
“They don’t get to leave this room. They don’t get tomorrow. They don’t get therapy. They don’t get to heal from what you did or what this place did or how tired they were.”
A tear slipped down her cheek.
“You do.”
Robby’s face crumpled.
“So no,” she said, voice lower now. Blunter. “You don’t get to be free by dying.”
He looked away.
Mohan stepped closer anyway.
“You live. That is your punishment.”
His breath fractured.
“You wake up tomorrow, and they don’t. You walk into work, and they don’t. You hear their voice every time the building gets quiet. You remember their hand slipping through yours. You remember that they were scared. You remember that at the very end, all they wanted was to live.”
Robby’s shoulders shook.
“And you were too late.”
He bent forward like the words had gone through him.
Mohan didn’t soften. Not this time.
“And then you get help,” she said. “Real help. The help they don’t get anymore.”
His eyes burned.
“You go to therapy. You take a break. You come back. You tell the truth. You let Dana and Abbot watch you. You let people be angry. You let me hate you.”
Robby looked up.
Her face was wet. Cold. Furious.
“I hate you right now. I hate you so much I can barely stand in this room with you.”
His face folded.
“And you don’t get to run from that either.”
Silence.
The room hummed around them. Your hand stayed still against the blanket.
Mohan’s voice dropped, each word blunt enough to bruise.
“You live so everyone who loved them gets to hate you.”
Robby’s breath broke.
“You live so we get to be furious. So we get to look at you and remember what you did. So you don’t get the mercy of disappearing before anyone can hold you responsible.”
“Mohan,” he whispered.
“No.” She shook her head once. “You asked for this when you decided your fear mattered more than their life.”
The words hit so hard he looked physically sick.
Mohan blinked through tears.
“And the worst part?” Her voice cracked, but the anger stayed. “The worst part is they would still want you to get help.”
Robby shut his eyes.
“They would hate what I’m saying to you right now.”
Her mouth twisted.
“They’d probably tell me I’m being cruel. They’d probably tell me you’re hurting too. They’d probably still find a way to make room for you, because that’s what they did. That’s what killed them.”
A sob tried to break through her voice. She swallowed it down.
“After everything you said to them, after everything you made ugly, they would still want you to live long enough to become better.”
Her voice hardened again.
“So do it.”
Robby stared at her.
“Not because you deserve peace. Not because this makes anything right. Not because you get to forgive yourself someday and call it healing.”
She stepped closer.
“Because they don’t get to heal, and you do. Because they wanted to live, and you still can. Because the only decent thing left for you to do is become someone who never would have done this to them.”
Robby whispered, “I don’t know how.”
Mohan’s face twisted.
“Then figure it out,” she said. “They don’t get to anymore.”
Silence. That one landed differently.
He looked toward your hand. The broken watch. The stillness.
Mohan followed his gaze, and for one second, the anger cracked. Grief broke through raw and ugly. She stepped to the bed and touched your uncovered hand with two fingers. Barely. Carefully. Like anything more might break what was left of her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to you. “I should’ve stayed.”
Robby’s eyes filled.
Mohan pulled her hand back.
At the door, she stopped and looked at him one last time.
“They just wanted you to be proud of them.”
Robby bowed his head.
“And they were still trying,” Mohan said, voice raw. “Even after you made it hurt. Even after you made it ugly. They were still trying to become the doctor you told them they could be.”
Her face hardened through the tears.
“So do it.”
Robby looked up.
“Become the man they thought you were,” she said. “And live with knowing they will never be able to see it.”
Then she left.
Robby sat alone beside your bed. The room hummed around him. Your hand stayed still. For a long time, he thought punishment should feel like an ending. Something sharp. Something final. Something he could walk into and be done with.
But Mohan was right. Punishment was not an ending. Punishment was tomorrow. Waking up in a world where you didn’t. Walking into work and knowing exactly where the air changed. Hearing your voice in every silence.
Knowing your last word to him had been scared. Knowing his last touch had not been enough. Maybe punishment was living long enough to become someone who would have never let this happen.
Robby reached out. His hand hovered over yours. Then, finally, he touched your fingers. Cold. Still. Real.
A sob bent him forward until his forehead nearly touched the edge of the bed.
“I’m sorry, kid,” he whispered.
No answer. There would never be an answer again.
Eventually, Robby stood. Not because he was ready. Not because grief had loosened.
Because Dana and Abbot were waiting outside. Because Mohan was right. Because you were gone. Because he was not.
He looked at you one last time. At the single hand they had left uncovered. At the broken watch circling your wrist. At the stillness of fingers that had once reached for him and found nothing.
The rest of you was hidden beneath hospital white. Carefully. Mercifully. Like even in death, someone had tried to protect you from what the fall had taken.
And Robby understood, with a grief so heavy it felt physical, that this was all he would ever be allowed to see of you again.
For one wild second, he wanted to take the watch. The only piece of you still visible. The only proof that time had once belonged to you too. His fingers twitched. Then stopped.
No. He didn’t get to keep part of you just because he couldn’t survive leaving with nothing. Your time had stopped. The watch stayed with you.
Then he walked out. Dana was in the hall. Abbot stood beside her. Neither of them asked if he was okay. Dana only reached for his hand. Abbot put a palm against the back of his neck. For one second, Robby almost collapsed between them. Then he didn’t.
He kept standing. That was all. That was the punishment. That was the beginning. Behind him, the door stayed closed.
And this time, when Robby walked away, he understood that the punishment was not the moment he lost you. It was every moment after. It was knowing he had put the pain in your voice.
Knowing he had made the roof feel quieter than living. Knowing you had reached for him in the end because some part of you still believed he could save you.
And knowing that, for the rest of his life, he would look for you in every doorway, every shift change, every impossible silence and you would never be there again.
Because he had done this. Because he had pushed you too far. Because by the time he finally reached for you, there was no you left to bring back.
Hey! In love with your ‘Liability’ piece as many others were! May I please ask if you’re really gonna write an alternate ending where she does succeed in killing herself intentionally? As in she doesn’t fall because she shifts her weight the wrong way on the ledge, but she falls because she does it intentionally. Or another method.
Or were you joking/ teasing in the comments 😅
Soooo due to popular demand I’m currently working on an alternative ending now…🫣 I just don’t know if I want to make the final moment intentional or accidental. Both drafts have hurt me in different ways so I’m going back and forth on it. But don’t worry I wouldn’t play with your feelings like that. 😅
Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch & Platonic GN Resident Reader
Alternate Ending Here
Summary: After Pittfest, everyone at The Pitt changes, but Robby changes the most. He used to be the mentor who could catch you before you fell. Now he’s colder, sharper, and crueler, acting like cruelty is the same thing as teaching. But on the Fourth of July, when Robby uses the part of you he once helped save against you, you end up on the wrong side of the hospital roof railing, and he’s forced to see just how far he pushed you.
WC: 11K
Tags: Heavy Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempt, Platonic Relationship, Rooftop Scene, No Y/N, Gender Neutral Reader
A/N: This was a request a while back, but I think I accidentally deleted the message. Sorry! So hopefully the person that requested this sees it.
The first few weeks after Pittfest, everyone understood why Robby was different.
How could they not?
The department itself felt different. Same scuffed floors. Same monitors. Same nurses’ station with its bad coffee, half-dead pens, and discharge paperwork that somehow reproduced when no one was looking.
But something had shifted. Something had cracked open and never fully closed.
People spoke softer for a while. Not all the time. Not when EMS rolled in hot or room twelve decided the laws of physics didn’t apply to him. The Pitt was still The Pitt. It demanded motion before grief, charting before sleep, competence before breakdown.
But in the quiet spaces, you could feel it. In the way Dana paused a second longer before snapping at someone. In the way Mohan stared at the board like she could will the names into something less tragic. In the way laughter came back slowly, like everyone had forgotten where they’d left it.
And Robby… Robby had always been hard to read.
That was part of him. He had built himself out of sarcasm, caffeine, bad posture, and the kind of medical instinct people either trusted immediately or resented on principle. He could save your patient, insult your differential, and somehow teach you three things before you realized your pride was bleeding.
But before Pittfest, there had been lightness under it. A grin beneath the sarcasm. A flash of amusement when you got mouthy with him. A low, pleased hum when you caught something before he did. A kind of trust that made you stand taller, because Robby didn’t hand it out cheaply.
When he teased you, it used to feel like permission. Like you belonged close enough to be annoyed by him. When he corrected you, it used to feel like teaching. Like he saw the doctor you were becoming and was stubborn enough to drag them the rest of the way there. And when you pushed too hard, which you always did, Robby noticed before you hit the ground.
He was good at that. Catching you before the fall. Not dramatically. Never dramatically. Robby would rather staple his own hand to a discharge packet than have an earnest emotional conversation in public.
But he caught you anyway.
A granola bar dropped beside your chart without comment.
A firm, “Go drink water before you become my next patient.”
A hand closing around the back of your scrub top when you swayed after twelve hours, steering you into the nearest chair with a muttered, “Very inspiring. Try fainting somewhere with fewer witnesses next time.”
A consult room door closed quietly behind him after a bad case.
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re vertical. Those are different things.”
You had trusted him with that version of you. The not-fine version.
You were an R3 during Pittfest. Experienced enough to know what you were doing. Not experienced enough for what happened. No one was experienced enough for what happened.
Afterward, everyone became a different version of themselves. Langdon went to rehab. Collins moved to Washington. The spaces they left behind became part of the department’s new anatomy. You became an R4. Mohan became an R4.
And Robby was still there. Except he wasn’t. Not the way he used to be.
At first, you told yourself it was grief. Then exhaustion. Then trauma. Then the department falling apart in small, specific ways. But eventually, there was no softer name for it. Robby stopped catching you.
That was the first thing. Not the sharpness. Not the corrections. Not even the impatience. It was the silence where a dry joke used to be. The empty space beside you at the board where he used to appear, coffee in hand, already reading your face before you could fix it.
As an R4, you knew you were supposed to need less. You were supposed to move faster. Think cleaner. Lead without looking over your shoulder every time the room got loud. You were supposed to become the person the lower-level residents looked to, not the person still searching for reassurance from the attending who had taught them how to survive the place.
You knew that. But knowing you had to stand alone didn’t make it hurt less when Robby stopped standing nearby.
Mohan handled it better than you did. Or maybe she was just better at looking like she did. She felt Robby’s distance too. You saw it in the pinch around her mouth when he cut her off during rounds, in the way her fingers tightened around a chart when he redirected an intern away from her.
But Mohan had Abbot now. Not officially. Not sentimentally. Abbot was not built for sentimental mentorship unless the soundtrack involved a cardiac monitor and someone bleeding on his shoes.
But he had become a place for her to land anyway. A steady voice. A second opinion. A dry comment at just the right time to cut through panic without making her feel stupid for having it.
You were happy for her. Mostly. Some days.
Other days, you watched Abbot lean against the counter while Mohan talked through a complicated case, watched him listen like her thinking mattered, watched him correct without carving her open, and something small and ugly twisted behind your ribs.
Not because Mohan didn’t deserve it. Because you missed having that. And the worst part was, you used to.
Robby had been the one, years ago, when you were still a med student running on three hours of sleep and a dangerous amount of perfectionism, who pulled you into an empty consult room after you nearly passed out during a shift.
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re vertical. Those are different things.”
You had laughed then, because it was easier than crying.
Robby hadn’t.
He had leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching you with that exhausted, X-ray stare of his.
“You seeing anyone?”
You blinked. “Like dating?”
“Like a professional who gets paid to listen to the things you’re clearly not saying.”
Your face had gone hot.
“I don’t need—”
“Don’t do that.”
Two words.
Quiet.
Cutting.
And somehow kinder than all the soft concern everyone else had tried to give you.
“You don’t get bonus points for white-knuckling your way through life,” he’d said. “You don’t get a better residency match because you refused help. You just get tired. And then you get dangerous.”
That had shut you up.
Because dangerous was the word that scared you. Not sad. Not anxious.
Dangerous.
Robby had seen that. He had seen you.
Two weeks later, you made the appointment. A month after that, you started medication.
Robby had been the first person to make help sound less like failure and more like maintenance.
Like medicine. Like something you deserved before you collapsed. Which was why the last ten months had felt so much like punishment.
Because now, when you faltered, Robby didn’t pull you aside. He called it out in front of people. Not loudly. Robby didn’t need volume to humiliate you. He had precision.
“If I have to remind you about disposition at this stage, we have a bigger problem.”
“Either run the trauma or step aside for someone who can.”
“Don’t call it caution because you’re afraid to commit.”
“You’re an R4. Stop looking at me like a med student waiting to be rescued.”
Each comment, on its own, was defensible. That was the problem.
Any one of them could be explained away as teaching. Tough love. High standards. Emergency medicine not being a place for ego or indecision.
But together, day after day, they formed a shape you couldn’t ignore. He did not trust you anymore.
You could feel it in the way he stepped around your orders instead of asking about them. The way he redirected R1s and R2s before they reached you. The way his eyes moved past you at the board, landing on Whitaker instead.
Whitaker, brand-new R1, got the version of Robby you used to know. The patient one. The almost-cheerful one. The one who could take a mistake apart without making the person feel like the mistake had swallowed them whole.
“Walk me through it,” Robby would say, standing beside him at the bedside.
And Whitaker would. Haltingly at first. Then stronger. There was room in it. Room to be wrong. Room to learn. Room to become.
You watched it happen from across the floor with a chart open in your hand and an awful heat behind your eyes. You hated yourself for resenting him. Whitaker had done nothing wrong.
But some bitter, exhausted part of you wanted to ask where that version of Robby had gone when you still needed him.
Not to hold your hand. Not to save you. Just to stop looking at you like you had already disappointed him.
Mohan noticed.
She found you one afternoon in the stairwell between shifts, your back against the wall, one hand pressed hard against your sternum like you could physically hold yourself together.
She didn’t ask if you were okay. You loved her for that. Instead, she sat down beside you and handed you a granola bar from her pocket.
“It’s the gross kind,” she said.
You opened one eye. “Why do you have it?”
“Because I keep thinking emergency hunger will make it taste better.”
“Does it?”
“No.”
You huffed something that almost became a laugh. For a minute, neither of you said anything.
Beyond the stairwell door, The Pitt carried on without you. Overhead pages. Cart wheels. Someone calling for respiratory. A place that did not care if you were falling apart, as long as you could do it quietly and come back useful.
Mohan rested her elbows on her knees.
“He’s doing it to you too,” she said.
You didn’t pretend not to understand.
“Yeah.”
“He’s harder on us.”
“He expects more from us.”
“That’s one explanation.”
You looked over at her.
Mohan stared ahead, jaw tight. “Not the only one.”
Something in your chest sank.
“He doesn’t want us here,” you said.
Mohan didn’t answer right away.
That was answer enough.
Finally, she sighed. “I don’t know what he wants anymore.”
You looked down at the granola bar in your hand. The wrapper crinkled under your thumb.
“Abbot thinks it’s trauma,” Mohan said.
You laughed once, flat and humorless. “Abbot thinks everything is trauma.”
“Abbot is usually right.”
“Annoying habit.”
“Deeply.”
Another silence.
Mohan looked at you carefully. “Are you okay?”
There it was. The question you hated.
You forced a shrug.
“I’m tired.”
Mohan’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes softened.
“That’s not what I asked.”
You looked away.
For a second, you thought about telling her.
That you could feel yourself getting worse. That every shift felt like walking into a room where everyone knew you were failing but nobody had decided who would say it first. That you were sleeping less, eating worse, forgetting stupid things, crying in your car before shifts and fixing your face with the resigned efficiency of someone cleaning up a spill.
That Robby’s voice had started following you home.
“R4s should not need reminders for things interns figure out by winter.”
“That’s hesitation, not judgment.”
“You’re too far into this program to look this unsure every time the room gets loud.”
Instead, you said, “I’m fine.”
Mohan looked at you for a long moment. Then she nodded once.
Not because she believed you. Because she knew what it looked like to need the lie.
“Okay,” she said quietly.
And somehow, that made you feel worse.
By July, the department had accepted the new shape of things. Collins was still gone. Robby was still Robby, except sharper now. More distant. More impatient with anything that looked like need. And Langdon was back.
Technically.
He came in on the Fourth of July with his badge clipped to his scrubs and something guarded around his eyes, looking almost like himself if you didn’t know where to look. But you knew where to look.
The room shifted around him differently now. People smiled too carefully. Jokes landed half a second late. Nobody said rehab. Nobody said welcome back too loudly.
And Robby rode him all day. Not cruelly, not exactly. Nothing anyone could point to and say too much.
But enough.
Enough that Langdon’s jaw kept tightening. Enough that Mohan looked away more than once. Enough that you felt something inside you fold in on itself, because Langdon was back and it still didn’t feel right.
If anything, it felt worse. Because for months, some desperate part of you had told itself that maybe the problem was absence.
Langdon gone. Collins gone. Pittfest still echoing. Too many empty spaces.
But Langdon was here now, standing ten feet away from you, alive and sober and trying, and Robby still looked like a man determined to make sure nobody got comfortable enough to need him.
Not Langdon. Not Mohan. Not you.
Especially not you.
And you had learned to stop looking over your shoulder for someone who was no longer there.
Mostly. Almost.
Except some stupid, stubborn part of you kept waiting for him to notice.
Not the mistakes. Not the hesitation.
You.
The way your laugh had gotten thinner. The way you stopped eating during shift. The way you volunteered for the hardest cases because at least exhaustion felt like something you had earned. The way you flinched now when Robby said your name.
He noticed. That was the worst part. You knew he noticed. Robby noticed everything.
So when his eyes flicked to you after you went too quiet at the board, when his gaze paused on your untouched coffee, when his mouth tightened after you blinked too fast at one of his corrections…
He knew. He had to know. He just didn’t come closer.
And every day he didn’t, something in you learned to believe that meant he had chosen not to.
By the morning of the Fourth of July, you were already tired before you reached the ambulance bay doors.
The city had been restless all night. Heat trapped between buildings. Sirens layered over distant fireworks.
People testing their luck with alcohol, grills, illegal explosives, and the kind of confidence that kept emergency departments in business.
Inside, The Pitt was already awake and angry.
Mohan stood near the board, hair pulled back, eyes shadowed but alert. She looked over when you came in and offered you the smallest smile. You gave one back. A weak one. A functional one.
Across the department, Whitaker was talking to Robby near room four, nodding intently while Robby pointed something out on a chart.
Robby looked tired. More tired than usual. His sabbatical started after today. Three months away from The Pitt. Three months without him.
You had spent weeks telling yourself that should feel like relief. Instead, it felt like abandonment with a calendar invite.
Langdon stood near the medication room, one hand braced against the counter, listening while Dana said something low and practical to him. He nodded once, mouth tight, eyes down. He was back. He was really back. And still, somehow, the department felt emptier than it had before.
Robby glanced up. His eyes met yours across the floor. For one second, something moved over his face. Something almost like concern. Then Whitaker asked a question, and Robby looked away.
Your chest tightened.
Mohan followed your gaze.
“Don’t,” she said softly.
You swallowed.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“I know.”
That was the problem with old friends.
They heard you anyway.
—
By noon, The Pitt had become a fireworks safety commercial written by someone with a personal grudge against emergency medicine.
Room three had a second-degree burn across his palm because he “wanted to see if the fuse was still hot.”
Room seven had heat exhaustion, sunburn, and the kind of husband who kept saying she was “being dramatic” until Dana threatened to make him wait outside with the smokers.
Room twelve was drunk, bleeding from the eyebrow, and loudly insisting he had been attacked by a folding chair.
You had not stopped moving in six hours. Not really. You had signed charts standing up, eaten half a protein bar in two bites, lost your coffee somewhere between radiology and trauma two, and washed someone else’s blood off your wrist in the sink by the med room because the bathroom felt too far away.
It was fine. You were fine. You were an R4. That was what R4s did.
They moved. They handled things. They closed loops before someone had to ask. They anticipated problems before they became Robby-shaped corrections at the nurses’ station.
So you kept moving.
Room six needed discharge papers. Room ten needed repeat labs. Room fourteen’s family wanted an update. Whitaker had a question about a possible ectopic, and you answered it quickly, carefully, without looking over your shoulder to see if Robby had heard.
You did not need him to hear. You did not need him to approve. You did not need anything from him. That was the lie you had been carrying all morning, tucked under your ribs like a blade.
Across the department, Robby stood at the board with one hand on his hip, scanning the names with that tired, sharp focus that made everyone around him straighten without realizing it.
His eyes moved over you once. Paused. Then moved on. Somehow, that was worse than being corrected.
You turned back to the chart in front of you and forced yourself to read the same line three times until it made sense.
“Hey.”
Mohan appeared beside you, voice low.
You didn’t look up. “I’m good.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“That’s why I’m saving time.”
She didn’t laugh. That made your throat tighten.
“You’ve been on your feet all morning,” she said.
“So have you.”
“I ate.”
“Congratulations.”
“Don’t be charming. It’s disorienting.”
That almost got you. Almost. Your mouth twitched, but it didn’t hold.
Mohan’s eyes softened in the way you hated lately. Like she could see too much. Like she was standing too close to a bruise.
“Go sit for five minutes,” she said.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I said I can’t.”
It came out sharper than you meant it to. Mohan went quiet. You hated yourself immediately.
You looked down at the chart, blinking hard. “Sorry.”
“I’m not offended.”
“That’s annoying of you.”
“I know.”
The corner of her mouth lifted slightly, but her eyes stayed worried.
Before she could say anything else, Robby’s voice cut across the station.
“Room ten.”
Your spine went rigid. Not because he yelled. He didn’t. Robby never needed to.
You turned.
He stood by the board, looking at the tablet in his hand. “Repeat potassium?”
Your brain supplied the answer too late.
Ordered. Not resulted. No. Resulted. You had seen it. Hadn’t you?
Your fingers tightened around the chart.
“Pending,” you said.
Robby looked up. A tiny pause. The kind nobody else would notice. You noticed.
“Resulted twenty minutes ago,” he said.
Heat crawled up your neck.
Right.
Right, because you had opened it when radiology called. The potassium was fine. You had meant to sign off on it after updating room fourteen’s daughter, but then Whitaker had asked about the ectopic, and room three’s dressing needed.
“I saw it,” you said. “It’s normal. I’m closing it now.”
Robby’s expression didn’t change.
“That would’ve been more useful twenty minutes ago.”
The station quieted around the edges. Not fully. The Pitt never gave anyone the dignity of full silence.
But enough.
Enough for Dana to glance over from the desk. Enough for Mohan to go still beside you. Enough for Whitaker to suddenly become fascinated by the supply cart.
Your stomach dipped.
“I’m closing it now,” you repeated.
“I heard you.”
There was nothing cruel in his tone. That was the worst part. It was flat. Clinical. Tired. Like you were another problem on the board he didn’t have time to solve.
You nodded once and turned back to the computer. Your fingers moved too fast over the keys.
Password wrong. Of course. You swallowed, cleared the field, typed it again. Wrong. Your pulse picked up. Not now. Not here.
You could feel Mohan beside you, not touching, not crowding. Just there. That somehow made it harder.
You typed the password a third time. The screen opened. You exhaled through your nose, clicked into room ten’s chart, signed off the lab, updated the plan, closed the loop.
There. Done. Easy. Basic. Minimum expectation.
Your vision blurred for half a second. You blinked it clear. Robby had already moved on.
Of course he had.
He was with Whitaker now, leaning over a chart, voice lower. Still firm. Still teaching. But there was patience in it. Space.
“Start with what you’re worried about,” Robby said. “Then tell me what you can prove.”
Whitaker nodded, nervous but focused. Robby waited. He actually waited. Something inside you twisted so hard you had to press your palm against the edge of the counter.
Mohan noticed.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Then maybe believe me.”
The words landed badly.
You heard it as soon as they left your mouth.
Mohan’s face closed a little. Not hurt exactly. Careful. That was worse.
You looked away. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I’m just—”
Tired. Overwhelmed. Embarrassed. Jealous of an R1 who had done nothing wrong except receive the version of Robby you missed so badly it felt pathetic.
You shook your head.
“I’m just trying to get through the shift.”
Mohan watched you for another second before nodding.
“Okay,” she said.
There it was again. That soft, terrible ‘okay’. The one that meant she knew you were lying and loved you enough not to corner you with it.
You grabbed the next chart. Room fifteen. Anxiety after a firework exploded too close. Chest tightness. Tingling fingers. Shortness of breath. You almost laughed. Of course. Of course the universe had a sense of humor.
You walked into the room before anyone could tell you not to. The patient was young. Early twenties, maybe. Sitting upright, knees pulled close, one hand pressed to her chest while her mother hovered beside the bed.
“I can’t get a full breath,” the patient said, eyes wide. “I know it’s probably panic. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I know you’re busy.”
The words hit too close. Not because of the panic. Because of the apology.
You softened before you could stop yourself.
“Don’t apologize for needing help,” you said.
Her eyes flicked to yours. For one second, you believed yourself.
Then Robby’s voice echoed in your head.
“R4s should not need reminders.”
You pushed it down.
You assessed her carefully. Vitals. History. Risk factors. Pain description. Breath sounds. You ordered an EKG, basic labs, chest X-ray. Nothing excessive. Nothing careless.
You were not over-identifying. You were not projecting. You were not seeing yourself in her wide eyes and shaking hands. You were being thorough.
That was all.
Still, by the time you stepped out, Robby was waiting near the desk.
“What’s your plan?” he asked.
You gave it to him.
Clean. Organized. Defensible.
His eyes stayed on you.
“And your impression?”
“Likely panic response after the firework scare, but I’m ruling out cardiac and pulmonary causes.”
“Likely panic,” he repeated.
Your jaw tightened.
“With appropriate workup.”
“I heard you.”
“You said it like that.”
Something flickered in his face.
Warning.
You should have stopped. You knew you should have stopped. But the whole day had been made of swallowing things, and something in you had run out of room.
Robby stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I’m asking you to separate the patient from yourself.”
The words punched through you. For a second, all the noise around you thinned.
“What?”
His expression hardened. His eyes looked exhausted, but there was no softness in them.
“You heard me.”
Mohan turned slightly from the board. Dana looked up. You felt it. Every glance you weren’t supposed to notice.
You kept your voice low. “That has nothing to do with this.”
“I hope not.”
Your face went hot.
No.
No, no, no.
He didn’t get to do that. Not him. Not with this.
“You hope not?” you repeated.
Robby’s mouth tightened.
“You’re an R4. I need your clinical judgment clean. I need to know you’re looking at the patient in front of you, not filtering it through your own history.”
Your hand curled tighter around the chart.
“My history?”
His eyes sharpened.
“Don’t twist my words.”
“It’s exactly what you said.”
“You’re personalizing a panic presentation.”
“I ordered a standard workup.”
“You reassured her before you assessed.”
Your breath caught.
The cruelty of it was so quiet. So clinical. Like kindness was a symptom. Like compassion was contamination.
“You’re criticizing me for reassuring her?”
“I’m criticizing you for seeing yourself and calling it medicine.”
Mohan said your name softly. You barely heard her.
Your chest felt hollowed out.
“That is not what happened.”
“Then make sure it doesn’t.”
Your voice dropped. “You don’t get to use that against me.”
Robby went still.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“No,” he said, colder now. “I’m doing my job.”
“Your job is accusing me of being unstable?”
His eyes flicked briefly toward the staff, toward the people pretending not to listen. When he looked back at you, whatever restraint he had left snapped into something uglier.
“My job is making sure my residents are safe to practice.”
The floor dropped out from under you.
“Safe to practice.”
Your throat tightened so fast it hurt.
“I am safe.”
“Are you?”
The question landed like a slap. Small enough that he could deny it. Sharp enough that everyone understood.
You stared at him.
He didn’t stop. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe some broken part of him had found momentum and decided cruelty was easier than fear.
“Because lately I don’t know if I’m supervising an R4 or managing someone who’s one bad shift away from unraveling in the middle of my department.”
Mohan moved. “Robby—”
He didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed on you.
“You’re hesitating. You’re overcorrecting. You’re taking everything personally. You flinch every time I give you feedback, and now you’re walking into a psych-adjacent case with your own history written all over your face.”
Your lips parted. Nothing came out.
Robby’s voice lowered further.
“That is dangerous.”
There it was. The word. The same word he had used years ago to make you get help. The word that had scared you into saving yourself.
Now he was holding it like a weapon.
Your hand tightened on the chart until the edge bent.
“You told me getting help made me safer.”
“It does,” he said.
“Then why are you acting like it makes me a liability?”
For half a second, something moved over his face. Regret. Fear. Then he buried it.
“Because I can’t keep wondering whether you’re making a medical call or having a mental health episode.”
The department went too quiet around the edges.
Your breath stopped.
Mohan whispered your name again, this time like something had broken.
Robby kept going, and that was the worst part.
“I need an R4 I can trust when the floor turns bad. I need someone who can lead without making me question whether their illness is driving the call.”
Your vision blurred. You blinked it clear.
“You don’t get to call it that.”
“What?”
“My illness,” you said, voice barely holding. “You don’t get to throw that word at me like I’m something you’re diagnosing in front of the board.”
His jaw tightened.
“You want to be treated like a 4th year resident? Then act like one.”
The last piece of you went very still.
Not calm.
Still.
You set the chart down carefully. Too carefully.
“Room fifteen has appropriate workup pending,” you said. “I’ll follow results.”
Robby’s face shifted. Just barely. Like he heard it. Like some part of him realized he had not corrected you.
He had cut you open.
But it was too late.
You stepped back.
“You were the one person who wasn’t supposed to make it sound ugly,” you said.
Then you walked away before your face could betray you.
Behind you, Mohan said something low to Robby.
You didn’t turn around.
You couldn’t.
Because if you looked back and saw regret on his face, you might break.
And if you looked back and didn’t, you knew you would.
You made it to the bathroom before your hands started shaking.
The door clicked shut behind you, and for a second, you just stood there staring at the sink like you had forgotten how to move.
Then your body caught up.
Your breath hitched hard enough that you gripped the counter.
Not here.
Not at work.
Not because of him.
You turned the faucet on, letting the water hit the porcelain loud enough to cover the sound that broke out of you.
Not a sob.
You refused to call it that.
Just air leaving wrong.
Your reflection looked pale under the fluorescent lights. Tired. Cracked. Exactly like the kind of person Robby couldn’t trust.
No.
That was his voice.
His damage.
His cruelty.
You knew that.
You knew it, and still his words sat under your skin.
“Because I can’t keep wondering whether you’re making a medical call or having a mental health episode.”
You splashed cold water over your wrists, fixed your face, and went back out.
Because if you fell apart now, it would prove him right.
The department swallowed you whole again.
Monitors. Phones. Voices. Alarms chimed faintly around you.
No one looked directly at you.
That was how you knew everyone knew.
Mohan found your eyes from the board.
You gave her one small look.
Don’t.
She stopped.
Room fifteen’s workup came back clean. EKG normal. Labs normal. Chest X-ray clear.
Panic, most likely.
You updated the patient with a voice so calm it almost sounded real.
“You did the right thing coming in,” you told her. “Fear can feel physical. That doesn’t make it fake.”
The patient’s eyes filled.
“Thank you.”
You smiled.
It hurt.
When you stepped out, Robby was at the board.
He saw you.
For one suspended second, it looked like he might say something.
Then EMS called in another burn, Dana shouted for trauma two, and Robby turned away.
Of course he did.
So you kept working.
You signed orders. Closed charts. Caught a med interaction before pharmacy called. Talked Whitaker through a discharge summary even though some ugly part of you resented how grateful he looked afterward.
“Thanks,” he said. “I know you’re busy.”
You swallowed.
“Don’t apologize for learning.”
The words tasted bitter.
Across the room, Robby watched you.
Not openly.
But you felt it.
Worry wearing a muzzle.
By the time the sun went down, your whole body felt far away.
Someone brought red, white, and blue cupcakes to the nurses’ station. You stared at them until Dana appeared beside you.
“Eat something.”
You blinked. “What?”
“You’re spiritually buzzing.”
A weak laugh escaped before you could stop it.
Dana’s face softened.
That almost undid you.
“I’m okay,” you said.
Dana hummed. “Sure.”
Before she could push, fireworks cracked outside, loud enough to rattle the windows.
Half the department flinched.
Nobody said anything.
Another burst followed.
Mohan closed her eyes at the board.
Robby went still.
You saw it.
The way his shoulders locked. The way his hand tightened around the tablet. The way his face emptied.
For one second, Pittfest came back too clearly.
Noise.
Blood.
Bodies.
Robby’s voice cutting through the chaos.
You and Mohan as R3s, moving because stopping would mean understanding.
Afterward, he had found you in a supply room, knees to your chest, scrubs stiff with someone else’s blood.
He had sat beside you and held out a water bottle.
“Drink.”
You had stared at him.
“Don’t make me do bedside manner. We’ll both hate it.”
You had laughed.
Then cried.
And he had stayed.
That was the part you couldn’t let go of.
He had stayed.
Another firework cracked.
Robby looked up.
His eyes met yours.
Something broken moved across his face.
Then he looked away first.
And the last hopeful thing in you went quiet.
—
Later, when the rush finally thinned, Dana sent the day shift up to the roof.
“Morale,” she said, like that explained anything.
Mohan found you near the elevators.
“Come up with us.”
“I should finish charts.”
“You can finish them after.”
“I’m behind.”
“You’re not,” she said softly. “I checked.”
You looked at her.
For a second, you wanted to tell her everything.
Instead, you smiled.
“I’ll come up later.”
Mohan didn’t believe you.
But someone called her name, and the elevator opened, and the moment passed.
She stepped inside.
You stood there for half a second. Then, before the doors could close, you moved.
Mohan’s eyes lifted in surprise.
You forced a small smile. “Changed my mind.”
Dana gave a satisfied hum. “There you are.”
You stepped into the elevator beside them.
Robby wasn’t there. You were grateful. You were devastated.
The roof was warmer than it should have been, the concrete still holding onto the heat from the day.
It was quieter than you expected. Not empty. Just intimate.
Dana stood near the low wall with a paper cup in hand, shoulders finally dropped from around her ears. McKay leaned beside her, arms folded loosely, face tilted toward the sky. Mel stood a little apart, still and quiet, watching the horizon like she was letting the colors settle somewhere safe. Santos sat on the edge of an old utility box, trying to look unimpressed and failing every time gold split open above the city.
Javadi had her hands tucked into her scrub pockets, eyes wide behind each flash. Perlah and Princess stood near a cluster of nurses, speaking softly between tired bursts of laughter.
Mohan stayed beside you. Not touching. Just there.
It was a small pocket of women from the floor, all of you trying to make something beautiful out of a day that had been anything but.
The fireworks bloomed over Pittsburgh in bursts of red, white, and gold.
For a while, no one really spoke. Not because there was nothing to say. Because there was too much.
The first explosion of color washed across Dana’s face, and you saw it, the tiny release. Not happiness. Not really. Something quieter. Relief, maybe. The kind that came when you were too tired for joy but still grateful the world could make something pretty.
McKay exhaled slowly. Mel’s shoulders dropped. Santos forgot to pretend she didn’t care. Javadi blinked up like she was trying to memorize it. Perlah and Princess smiled softly at them.
Everyone looked peaceful.
Not fixed. Not untouched.
Just… peaceful.
And you couldn’t get there. That was what scared you.
Not the noise. Not the height. Not even Robby’s words still embedded under your skin.
It was this.
Standing beside people you cared about, watching them find something gentle at the end of an awful day. And feeling nothing but distance.
Like they were on the roof. And you were already somewhere else.
A firework burst overhead, gold spilling open like light through a wound.
“That one was nice,” McKay said quietly.
“It was,” Mel agreed.
It was.
You knew it was. You could recognize the shape of beauty. You just couldn’t feel it.
Your hands curled into your scrub pockets.
Mohan glanced over. “You okay?”
You kept your eyes on the sky.
“Yeah.”
Mohan let the answer sit between you for a second before she said quietly, “You don’t have to lie to me up here.”
Your chest tightened.
Your demons pressed in harder. Because she was kind. Because everyone else looked like they could breathe again. Because you couldn’t.
Another burst cracked overhead. You flinched before you could stop it.
Mohan noticed.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“I’m fine.”
Too quick. Too sharp.
The peace in her face shifted into worry. You hated yourself for taking it from her. Dana glanced over, brief and knowing, but didn’t push.
No one did.
They let you stand there.
Let you pretend.
The fireworks kept going.
Louder. Closer. Then softer. Slower.
Until finally, the last one bloomed. Faded. Left the sky dark again.
For a few seconds, no one moved.
Then Dana pushed off the wall.
“All right,” she said, voice rough but steady. “That’s it.”
Everyone looked at her.
Dana glanced around at all of you, something firm settling back into place.
“Go home,” she said.
No argument. No softness. Just Dana.
“You all did enough today.”
The words landed heavier than they should have.
McKay nodded first, like she’d been waiting for permission. Mel followed, quiet but immediate. Santos rolled her shoulders and hopped down from her spot, muttering something about finally sitting somewhere that wasn’t hospital-issued. Javadi gave the sky one last look before turning. Perlah squeezed Princess’ hands gently before heading for the door.
One by one, they moved.
Not rushed.
Just… done.
Dana passed you last.
She nudged your shoulder lightly.
“Don’t stay up here all night.”
You forced a small smile. “I won’t.”
Dana gave you a look. The kind that said she didn’t believe you. The kind that said she knew better than to push.
She nodded once anyway.
Then she left.
The door closed behind her.
Eventually, it was just you and Mohan.
The quiet shifted. Heavier now. Closer.
Mohan stayed beside you. Still not touching. Still there.
“You coming back down?” she asked.
“In a minute.”
She hesitated.
You could feel it. The pull between staying and trusting you.
“You scared me today,” she said softly.
Your throat tightened.
“I know.”
“I don’t think you do.”
She was right. That made it worse.
“I just need a second alone,” you said.
Mohan watched you for a long moment. Then she nodded, even though everything in her said she didn’t want to.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
She lingered. Then stepped back. Then turned.
The door opened.
Closed.
And the quiet changed again. No longer shared.
Just yours.
You didn’t move at first. You just stood there after Mohan left, staring at the dark sky where the fireworks had been.
The smoke still lingered. Thin gray ribbons drifting over the roofline, breaking apart in the humid night air.
For a while, you listened.
To the distant traffic. To the muffled noise of the hospital below. To the soft mechanical hum from the roof units behind you.
Everything sounded far away.
Even you.
Your hands were still in your scrub pockets. Your shoulders were still loose. Your face was still arranged into something that could pass for fine if anyone opened the door and checked.
But no one did.
The roof stayed quiet.
And the quiet got inside you.
One step.
That was all it was at first.
Your shoe scraped lightly against the concrete.
Then another.
Slow. Unhurried. Almost curious.
Like your body had decided to go look at something your mind had not agreed to yet.
The edge waited ahead of you. But there was a railing first. A low metal barrier bolted into the roof, meant to make the boundary obvious. Meant to tell people where safety ended. Meant to be enough.
You stopped in front of it. For a moment, you only looked. One hand lifted. Your fingers curled around the top rail.
The metal was still warm from the day, but cooler than the concrete. Smooth in places where weather and hands had worn it down.
It should have stopped you. That was the point of it. A line. A warning.
A small, practical mercy built into the roof of a hospital where people spent all day trying not to die.
You stepped closer. Then, slowly, carefully, you lifted one leg over.
Your shoe found the narrow strip of concrete on the other side. Then the other leg followed.
The railing was behind you now. That should have meant something.
Maybe it did. Maybe that was why your chest went so quiet.
You stood on the wrong side of it, a few feet from the edge.
No wall now. No barrier.
Just warm concrete.
Open air.
Nothing dramatic about it. Nothing cinematic.
Just a ledge at the top of a hospital where people spent all day trying not to die.
You stopped close enough to see over. Close enough to feel the air change against your skin.
The parking lot spread beneath you, bright in patches beneath the lamps. Cars lined up neatly. Ambulance bay glowing. The city carrying on like it had not noticed you standing above it, wondering if there was any version of tomorrow you could still survive.
Your breathing stayed even. That frightened you distantly. You thought panic would come with noise. With tears. With shaking.
But this was quieter than that.
This was your body finally going still after months of begging to be heard.
You took another step. Then another. Until your toes touched the base of the ledge.
You looked at it.
No wall. No barrier now. Just the ledge. Lower than you expected. Or maybe you had known that. Maybe some part of you had known all along.
Your hands came out of your pockets. For a second, they hovered uselessly at your sides. Then you sat down.
Slowly. Carefully.
Like if your movements were calm enough, this could still be called something else.
Just sitting. Just air. Just needing quiet.
The concrete was still warm from the day beneath you.
Human-warm. Alive-warm. That almost made you stand back up.
Almost.
Instead, you shifted closer. One inch. Then another.
Your palms pressed flat against the ledge on either side of your thighs, steadying yourself as the backs of your legs met the edge.
For one second, your feet were still on the roof. Safe enough to pretend this was nothing.
Then you moved them. One foot forward. Then the other. Your shoes found nothing.
Just open space.
Your stomach dipped, but not enough. Not enough to make you scramble back. Not enough to make you choose. Your feet hung over the side of the building.
Below, the hospital looked small. Orderly. Distant.
Like a place you used to belong to. Like a place that would keep functioning without you because places always did.
Your chest felt calm. Too calm.
Like something inside you had stopped trying to be saved.
Robby’s voice came back, quiet and sharp.
“I don’t know if I can trust you.”
Your fingers rested against the ledge. Not gripping. Not yet. Just resting.
You swallowed.
And for the first time…
You believed him.
“Neither do I.”
The words barely made it out of your mouth. Then you looked down.
Not quickly. Not all at once.
Your eyes moved from your shoes to the side of the building, then lower, following the long drop until the parking lot came into focus beneath you.
Ambulance bay lights. White and sterile. Cars lined in neat rows. Painted lines. Concrete islands.
A world still organized enough to feel insulting.
For the first time, the height became real.
Not symbolic. Not dramatic.
Real.
The kind of real your body understood before your mind could make language out of it.
Your stomach dipped. Your fingers flexed against the ledge.
Below you, the hospital kept breathing.
Doors opening. Lights shifting. A figure crossing the lot with keys in hand. Everything ordinary. Everything continuing.
Death looked different from up here. Downstairs, it had noise. Blood. Hands moving fast. Someone calling time. A family member making a sound that stayed in the walls long after they were gone.
Downstairs, death arrived like an emergency.
Up here, it waited.
Quiet. Patient. Polite.
And for one awful, honest second…
You wanted the quiet.
Not death. Not exactly.
You didn’t think you wanted to die. You wanted the hurting to stop.
You wanted five seconds where your chest didn’t feel carved open. Five seconds where you didn’t have to be the strong one, the steady one, the almost-attending who could close every loop except the one tightening around her own throat.
You wanted to stop waking up already tired.
Stop swallowing pills with shaking hands and calling it maintenance. Stop sitting in therapy trying to explain a loneliness so old it had started to feel like a personality trait. Stop walking into The Pitt every day hoping Robby would look at you like he used to. Stop hating yourself for still needing him to.
Your hands had been resting on the ledge. Barely holding.
Now your fingers loosened. Just a little.
The concrete pressed into the backs of your thighs.
The open air pulled at your shoes.
One lean. One breath. One second where you stopped fighting.
A tear slid down your cheek.
You didn’t wipe it away.
You were so tired. So tired that the thought of falling almost felt like being held.
Behind you, the roof door opened.
You didn’t turn around.
Couldn’t.
For a moment, there was only the scrape of the door. The distant hum of traffic. The last faint echoes of fireworks fading into smoke.
Then everything behind you went still.
“Hey.”
Robby.
Your eyes closed. Of course it was him.
The person who had taught you how to survive yourself. The person who had made you believe help wasn’t weakness. The person who had looked at the softest part of you today and called it unreliable.
His voice carried carefully across the roof. Not too loud. Not too soft. Like he was trying not to startle you back into your own body too fast.
“Heard Dana sent everyone home after the fireworks,” he said. “You left your bag and phone downstairs.”
You didn’t move. Your eyes stayed fixed somewhere below the parking lot lights.
Behind you, he rubbed the back of his neck. You heard the faint scrape of his palm against skin, the restless shift of his fingers into his hair before they dropped away.
“Figured I’d come find you before your stuff disappeared into the nurses’ station permanently.”
Nothing. No answer. No shift of your shoulders. No sign you had heard him at all.
And somehow, that scared him more.
For once, Robby didn’t fill the silence with sarcasm. He just stood there. Seeing you. Seeing the ledge. Seeing the open air beneath your feet. Seeing the way your hands were barely touching the concrete at all.
Whatever he had come up here planning to say disappeared. Completely.
His mouth opened. Nothing came out.
You heard it. That tiny failure. That impossible silence from the man who always had a next step.
He swallowed.
“You’re probably ready to pass out,” he added, trying for light. “Hell of a shift.”
Still nothing. The silence stretched. But he kept talking anyway. Not because he thought it was working. Because stopping felt worse.
Because if he could keep the conversation ordinary long enough, maybe you would remember how to be part of it.
“Your phone keeps lighting up,” he said. “A ton of texts. Apparently you’re very popular.”
A breath pulled in behind you. Too careful. Too controlled. Like he was trying to manage himself before he could manage you.
“Pretty sure if you don’t reply soon, the battery’s gonna die.”
Your hand didn’t move. Your feet hung over open air.
The roof went quiet except for the city below and the uneven rhythm of Robby trying to breathe normally.
“I was thinking we could walk down,” he said, still trying to sound like this was normal. “Get your bag. Get you out of here before the night shift crazies start multiplying.”
Your fingers flexed against the concrete. He saw it. The movement was small, but it hit him like a monitor alarm.
His shoe scraped once against the roof. Stopped. He’d almost moved. Almost.
You heard him drag a hand over the back of his head, fingers catching in his hair before falling to his side.
“You left your pen downstairs,” he said quietly. “The good one.”
Your fingers twitched weakly against the ledge.
Robby swallowed hard.
“Honestly, if we don’t go down soon, someone might steal it.”
A shaky breath left him that almost sounded like a laugh.
“I heard Ellis has been trying to steal that pen for months.”
Your right hand lifted from the concrete. Not purposeful. That was the worst part. It looked absentminded. Like you had forgotten why it was there in the first place.
Robby’s breath caught. The sound was small. Sharp. Impossible to miss.
His voice came back thinner than before.
“Don’t move forward.”
The words landed carefully. Terrified.
“If you move, move back. Just back.”
A small, broken laugh left you.
“That’s usually my line.”
Robby went quiet long enough for you to hear his hand return to the back of his neck, rubbing once, twice, harder than before.
“Yeah,” he said, voice catching. “Hope you don’t mind me borrowing it tonight.”
He moved. Not closer. Not yet.
Just a shift of weight. One hand lifted slightly, dropped again because even that felt like too much. His fingers flexed at his side, useless and frantic, looking for something to do when there was nothing he could safely touch.
You stared down at the ground. Your heart should have been racing. It wasn’t. That scared you more than anything.
“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” you said.
Soft. Almost peaceful.
The breath behind you disappeared. For one awful second, there was nothing from him at all. No movement. No correction. No sound except the city below.
But he didn’t say no. He swallowed it. Forced it down hard enough you could hear the breath catch in his throat.
“Okay,” he said instead.
His voice shook on the word. He rubbed the back of his neck again, faster this time, like he was trying to keep himself inside his own body.
“Okay. You don’t have to do this anymore tonight.”
You didn’t look at him.
“You can try again tomorrow,” he said, careful with every syllable. “Not the whole thing. Not all of it. Just tomorrow.”
His breath hitched.
“Tonight, you just have to move back.”
“I’m tired.”
“I know.”
“You don’t.”
“You’re right.” His voice shook. “You’re right, I don’t. Not exactly. Not yours. But I know enough. I know enough to know that quiet you’re chasing is lying to you.”
Your fingers loosened. Just a little.
Robby saw it. His whole body went still. Too still.
“Okay,” he said carefully, fighting to keep his voice even. “I need both hands on the ledge.”
You didn’t.
His breath caught, but he swallowed it down.
“Not fast,” he added. “Just put them back where they were.”
For one suspended second, you didn’t.
His breathing changed. Fast. Ragged. The kind of breathing Robby corrected in patients and ignored in himself.
“Please,” he said.
That got through. Not enough to bring you back. Enough to make your fingers twitch.
Robby took one step closer.
You shifted.
He stopped so hard his shoes scraped against the roof.
“Okay. Okay. I’m stopping.” He lifted both hands, palms out. “See? I’m not coming closer. I’m not touching you. Just—hands back on the ledge.”
“I don’t trust myself.”
The words hollowed him out.
You heard it in the silence behind you.
The way his breathing stopped for half a second. The soft scrape of his shoe against the roof as he caught himself from moving too quickly.
His hand dragged over the back of his neck again, fingers pressing hard into the muscle there before catching briefly in his hair.
“Okay,” he said carefully.
His voice sounded lower now. Pulled tight.
“That’s okay.”
You stared down at the parking lot lights. Your right hand hovered slightly above the concrete again.
Robby’s breath caught.
You heard him swallow it back down.
“You don’t have to trust yourself for the whole night,” he said. “Just the next ten seconds.”
A wet laugh left you. Wrong. Empty.
“You told me you couldn’t trust me.”
Robby went quiet. Not defensive. Not angry. Just quiet.
You heard him breathe in too sharply through his nose.
“I was wrong.”
“You meant it.”
His hand scraped over the back of his neck again.
“I’m sorry.”
Your fingers flexed weakly against the ledge.
“You were ugly.”
“I know.”
“You were cruel.”
His breath hitched.
“I know.”
Your voice thinned into something smaller.
“You made me feel like the sickest part of me was the truest part.”
Behind you, Robby made a sound like the words had gone straight through him. Not loud. Worse. Human.
“I’m sorry,” he said, rough now. “I’m so sorry.”
Behind you, his breathing turned uneven.
His hand dragged over the back of his neck again, rough and restless. Not the attending everyone feared. Not the teacher with impossible standards. Not the man who could run a trauma bay on instinct and fury. Just a person. Terrified. Choking on the damage he had done.
“I needed my teacher,” you whispered. “And you punished me for it.”
His breath broke. A sound came out of him like he had tried to swallow a sob and failed halfway.
“I know.”
Your right hand slipped off the ledge.
Fully.
Dropped into your lap. Your body tilted forward. One inch. Maybe less. Enough.
The metal rail rattled under his hand. His shoe scraped once against the roof and stopped. For one second, even his breathing vanished. This wasn’t a conversation anymore. You were going to fall. Even you knew it.
Robby moved before thought could stop him, then caught himself halfway, every muscle locked so hard he was trembling.
“Left hand stays,” he said, voice raw, urgent. “Left hand stays on the ledge. Do you hear me?”
You stared down. Your other hand started to lift. Slowly. Like your body had decided something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.
“Kid.” Robby’s voice cracked. “Hands. Both hands back now.”
Kid.
The word hit somewhere old. Somewhere trained by years of following his voice through chaos.
Your palm slammed back onto the concrete. Then the other. Hard. Desperate. Your knuckles went white.
Robby bent forward slightly, hands braced on his own knees for half a second, like relief had nearly taken him down. But he didn’t let himself stay there. Couldn’t. He straightened, breathing too fast.
“Good,” he said, voice shaking. “Good. That’s good. Stay there.”
A sob caught in your throat.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Sound like you still know how to take care of me.”
His voice twisted.
“I do know how.”
His voice broke on the last word. For a second, neither of you moved.
The roof hummed around you. The city below kept breathing. Your hands stayed loose against the concrete, not gripping hard enough to feel safe.
Robby dragged a hand over the back of his head.
“I just stopped doing it.”
That was worse. Somehow, that was worse. Because it wasn’t that he had forgotten how to take care of you. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen you. He had known. He had seen. He had stopped anyway.
Your breath fractured.
“I hate you.”
The words came out small. Tired. Not angry enough to protect you.
Behind you, Robby went very still.
“I know.”
Your throat tightened. A tear slipped down your face, warm and quiet.
“I don’t.”
His breath caught.
“I know that too.”
Your fingers curled faintly against the ledge.
“I wanted you to come back.”
The words barely made it past your mouth.
Robby’s voice sounded scraped raw.
“I’m here now.”
Your eyes stayed on the parking lot below. The lights blurred.
“Too late.”
He took it. No defense. No correction. No sharp little Robby answer to make it easier for either of you. Just silence.
His hand moved to the back of his neck again. Rubbed once. Stopped. Dropped uselessly to his side.
Behind you, his hand found the metal rail between you and him. The line. The awful, visible line. Safe roof on his side.
Open air on yours.
For the first time, Robby seemed to understand exactly where he was standing. On the wrong side of the lesson.
For years, he had been the one telling residents not to freeze. Not to panic. Not to let fear make their hands stupid.
Now his hands were shaking. Now his chest was heaving. Now he was staring at one of his own residents and trying to convince them that life was still worth staying for.
“Maybe it is too late,” he said, voice hoarse. “Maybe I don’t get to fix what I did tonight. Maybe I don’t get to fix the last ten months.”
You cried silently, staring down.
“But late is what I have,” he said. “So I’m going to use it.”
He took another careful step. Then stopped. Waited.
You didn’t tell him no.
His throat worked.
“You told that girl downstairs fear could be physical and still matter.”
Your fingers tightened slightly.
He saw it. Held onto it.
“You were right. You were right when you said it to her, and you’re right now. This fear matters. Your pain matters. But it does not get to make the decision alone.”
“I don’t want tomorrow.”
“I know.” Robby swallowed hard. “Then don’t take tomorrow. Take the next minute.”
“I don’t know what’s left.”
“You are.”
“That’s not enough.”
“It is to Samira.”
Your face crumpled.
“It is to Dana,” he pressed, voice shaking but stronger now. “It is to McKay. Mel. Perlah. Princess. Everyone who stood on this roof tonight and breathed a little easier because you were standing with them.”
“They don’t need me.”
“They do. Not because you’re useful. Not because you’re an R4. Not because you catch mistakes and close charts and make scared patients feel less stupid for being scared.”
He took another step. Closer now. Close enough to reach the railing. His hand closed around it. The metal clanged softly under his grip. The sound made both of you flinch.
He froze. You froze.
Your hands stayed down. Barely.
Robby’s voice dropped.
“They need you because you are not just what you can do for people.”
You sobbed once. Hard.
“I don’t believe that.”
“I know,” he said. “So I believe it for you tonight.”
His hand curled tighter around the metal until his knuckles blanched.
“You want a reason to stay?” he asked, choking on it now. “Stay because Samira is going to come back looking for you, and she deserves to find you breathing. Stay because Dana told you to go home, and she meant home, not gone.”
Your shoulders shook.
“Stay because Langdon still owes you at least one terrible joke. Stay because Javadi needs someone to tell her she’s allowed to still make mistakes. Stay because there is still coffee that tastes like burnt plastic and patients who apologize for needing help and people who love you badly, stupidly, imperfectly, but still love you.”
You shook your head. Barely. But your body went with it. Your shoulder dipped. Your weight shifted.
The open air seemed to notice before you did.
Robby’s grip on the railing tightened hard enough that the metal gave a small, sharp sound under his hand.
“Don’t,” he said.
The word came out too fast. He swallowed, forced his voice lower.
“Don’t move your head like that. Not while you’re sitting there.”
Your breath shook.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I can’t.”
“You can,” he said, and there was panic under the steadiness now, cracking through despite him. “Because you’re stubborn as hell.”
His hand scraped over the back of his neck, then dropped back to the railing.
“And because you’ve been correcting my terrible bedside manner since you were a med student.”
Your fingers twitched against the ledge.
His breath snapped when your fingers twitched. He stayed exactly where he was. Waited.
Your hand held. Barely. A broken sound left you. Not a laugh. Not really. But close enough that Robby looked like he might come apart from relief.
“That’s it,” he whispered, nearly breaking.
Then your fingers slipped again. Both of them. Not fully. But enough. The tiny laugh died. The world lurched. Your body tilted forward. The metal rail jerked under his grip.
His breath tore out of him.
“Kid—”
This time it wasn’t command. It was begging.
You looked at him then. Really looked. And suddenly the calm was gone.
All of it.
The height rushed back into your body at once. The drop. The air. The fact that your feet were hanging over nothing. The fact that your hands were failing. The fact that some part of you had wanted this, and now every living piece of you was screaming.
Your eyes went wide. Your voice came out small. Childlike.
“I’m scared.”
Then your balance tipped. Too far.
Robby moved. No calculation. No careful step. No safe distance. He lunged across the railing, one arm hooking hard around your waist, the other catching the back of your scrub top as your body pitched forward.
For half a second, there was nothing under you.
Nothing.
Your shoes kicked empty air. A scream tore out of you.
Robby made a sound like an animal. He hauled you back with everything he had.
Your hip struck the ledge, pain flashing white-hot through the numbness. Your hands clawed at his sleeve, his wrist, the front of his shirt, anything.
He pulled you fully onto the roof. Not gracefully. Not cleanly. Momentum took both of you down hard. His back hit first. You landed against him, half on his chest, half on the concrete, breath knocked loose in a broken gasp.
For one second, there was no sound.
No city. No hospital. No fireworks. Just the brutal, animal silence after almost.
Robby’s arms closed around you so tightly you couldn’t move. Not enough to hurt. Enough to anchor. Enough to make sure every part of you was on the roof with him.
His hand pressed against the back of your head, fingers trembling in your hair. His other arm stayed locked around your ribs, holding you against him like the ledge was still trying to pull you away.
Your face was crushed against his chest. You could feel his heartbeat through his scrub top. Fast. Violent. Terrified. Alive. Then his breath broke. Once. Twice.
A rough, strangled sound that didn’t belong to him. Not Robby. Not the man who ran codes with steady hands and cut through chaos like fear was something that happened to other people.
This sound was wrecked. Human. Small. His fingers curled tighter at the back of your head.
“I’m sorry,” he choked.
You froze.
“I’m sorry.”
His voice cracked on it. Then again.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
The words hit harder than the fall. Because he wasn’t saying them like a man trying to be forgiven.
He was saying them like he had finally seen the edge he’d walked you toward and couldn’t survive the sight of it.
You felt his body shake beneath yours. Not from effort. Not anymore. From sobs he was trying and failing to swallow.
“Robby,” you tried, but your voice came out broken beyond use.
He shook his head against the roof, eyes squeezed shut, one tear slipping sideways into his hairline.
“No. No, I did this. I did this.”
His arms tightened again, and his breath hitched like the words hurt coming out.
“I pushed you away. I saw you getting smaller and I told myself it was training. I told myself you were becoming stronger. I told myself if you hated me, maybe you’d leave before this place ate you alive.”
A sob tore through him.
“And then you almost—”
He couldn’t finish it. His whole chest caved beneath your cheek.
You started crying then. Not the quiet tears from the ledge. Not the numb, distant kind. This was ugly. Panicked.
A sound ripped out of you because your body had finally caught up with what had almost happened.
You had almost fallen. You had almost let yourself.
Robby’s hand moved from the back of your head to the side of it, pressing you closer while his thumb shook against your temple.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, shredded and breathless. “I’m sorry, kid. I’m so sorry. I never should’ve said it. I never should’ve touched that part of you. I knew better. I knew better.”
You clutched his scrub top in both fists. The fabric twisted in your hands.
“I thought I was going to fall,” you sobbed.
His breath collapsed above you.
“I know.”
“I thought I was going to do it.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t want to want it.”
“I know.” His voice broke completely. “God, I know.”
He bent over you as much as he could from where he lay, forehead pressing into your hair. And then Robby cried. Really cried. Not one controlled tear. Not a rough breath he could pass off as exhaustion.
He cried into your hair with his arms around you and his shoulders shaking, the sound muffled and helpless and devastatingly unlike him.
“I almost lost you,” he said, barely understandable. “I almost lost you because I was too proud to admit I was wrong.”
You cried harder.
He pulled in a ruined breath.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Over and over. Like repetition could build a wall between you and the ledge. Like if he said it enough, he could go back ten months and stay.
You pressed your face harder into his chest, your body trembling violently now.
“I’m scared,” you whispered.
Robby’s arms tightened.
“I know.”
“No, I’m scared,” you sobbed. “I’m scared because I wanted it to stop. I’m scared because it felt quiet. I’m scared because I don’t know what happens when I stand up.”
His breath shuddered against your hair.
“Then we don’t stand up yet.”
“I can’t go back down there.”
“Then we don’t go yet.”
“I can’t see everyone.”
“You don’t have to. Not all at once.”
“I can’t be alone.”
That one broke him all over again. He pressed his face into your hair, voice muffled and wrecked.
“You won’t be. Not tonight. Not after this. I swear to you.”
“You’re leaving.”
“I’m not.”
“You were.”
His breathing hitched.
“I was.”
You went still against him. Robby swallowed hard, and when he spoke again, his voice was raw enough to bleed.
“I was leaving wrong.”
The words sat between you. Heavy. Terrible. True.
“I thought disappearing would be cleaner,” he said. “I thought if I made everyone angry enough, disappointed enough, you’d all let me go easier.”
His hand shook against your shoulder.
“I thought grief was something I could manage for people if I made sure they hated me first.”
Your throat closed.
“That’s horrible.”
“I know.”
“That’s stupid.”
A wet, broken sound left him. Almost a laugh. Almost a sob.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “It’s very stupid.”
You cried again, softer this time, but still shaking.
His palm moved slowly over your back, not soothing exactly. More like checking.
There. There. There.
Like he needed to prove to himself you were still under his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
Quieter now. More exhausted.
“I should’ve protected you from me.”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
The roof was cold beneath your leg. His scrub top was damp under your cheek. Your knee throbbed. Your hands ached from how hard you’d grabbed him.
Below, the hospital kept moving.
Somewhere under you, monitors still beeped. Someone still needed discharge paperwork. Someone still wanted coffee. Someone was probably complaining about the wait.
Life continued.
But here, on the roof, Robby held you like the whole world had narrowed down to one impossible fact.
You were still breathing.
He pressed his cheek to the top of your head.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered.
His voice broke again.
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
For the first time all night, you believed him.
Not about everything. Not about tomorrow. Not about yourself.
But about this.
About his arms around you. About the concrete under your body. About the terrible, shaking relief in his chest.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7
Summary: After a drunken Vegas wedding, Robby disappears by morning, leaving you with nothing but a ring and a mistake that was supposed to stay in Vegas. But when a pregnancy and state paperwork force you to track down the husband who vanished, Robby learns the truth and this time, walking away isn’t so easy.
WC: 13K
Tags: Drunken Vegas Wedding, Runaway Husband, Unexpected Pregnancy, Forced Reunion, Second Chance Romance, Robby Wants to Stay, Romantic Comedy vibes with some Angst, No use of Y/N
Robby took a walk before sunrise.
That was what he told himself, anyway.
A walk.
Not avoiding the house. Not avoiding the fact that it was his first day off in four days and he had no idea how to exist inside it with you there for an entire morning. Not avoiding the closed bedroom door at the end of the hall or the couch that had spent the last few nights trying to rearrange his spine out of spite.
Just a walk.
His back hurt. His neck was stiff. His head was too loud. All reasonable reasons to put on shoes before the sun was fully up and leave his own house like he had somewhere important to be.
He didn’t. That was the problem. For four days, he and you had barely seen each other. Not really.
There had been passing moments. Five minutes in the kitchen before he left for work. A tired exchange in the hallway when he came home and you were already halfway to bed. Texts about medicine, groceries, whether you could use the washer, whether he minded if you moved things around in the kitchen. Nothing big. Nothing that asked anything of him. Just… there.
You were in his house, but most of the time he knew that by evidence.
A mug in the sink that wasn’t his. The blanket on the couch folded differently than he folded it. The coffee set up for the morning without comment. A plate covered in foil in the fridge when he came home too late to eat with you, with a small note tucked beside it.
I wasn’t sure when you’d be home, so I left some pasta. It should still be good.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing that asked anything of him. Just food waiting in the fridge. Coffee ready to brew. A house that no longer looked untouched when he got back after a long shift.
And somehow, instead of making him feel crowded, it had done something worse. It had made him grateful.
He hadn’t realized how much of you he’d been coming home to until he started noticing the little pieces of you everywhere. Quiet things. Careful things. Proof that you had been there. Proof that you were still there.
That thought followed him down the sidewalk as the neighborhood sat quiet around him, blue-gray and barely awake. A dog barked somewhere two streets over. A car passed slowly at the end of the block. The air was cool enough to make him shove his hands deeper into the pocket of his hoodie.
He walked until his shoulders loosened and his thoughts didn’t.
He had a plan for the day. Clear out the spare room. Finally deal with the boxes he’d been ignoring. Make it look less like storage and more like something usable.
Jack was coming later with a truck. That was another problem. Not because of Jack. The problem was the furniture. Robby had bought furniture. A bed frame. A mattress. A dresser. A small nightstand. A lamp because the room only had the overhead light and the overhead light made everything look like bad news waiting to happen. Practical things. Normal things.
Except they didn’t feel normal the longer he thought about them. He wasn’t trying to make it permanent. That was what he told himself. He was trying to make it comfortable.
For you.
A bed that wasn’t his. Drawers you wouldn’t have to ask to use. A nightstand for water, medicine, your phone, things you’d reach for without thinking. A lamp with softer light so the room didn’t feel like somewhere you were just passing through. Small things. Practical things. Things that didn’t feel small at all. Because none of that was temporary. Not really.
It was the kind of setup you made for someone who was going to stay long enough to settle. Long enough to stop asking where things went. Long enough to feel like they didn’t have to keep one foot out the door. It was the kind of space you made when you wanted someone to feel at home. Which was where the problem started. Because wanting that, wanting you comfortable here, like this was yours as much as his, wasn’t neutral.
He dragged a hand over the back of his neck. He should have asked you. He knew that now.
Jack hadn’t understood that part in the store. Not fully. To Jack, Robby was standing in the lighting aisle overthinking a lamp like a man with too much guilt and no clear outlet for it.
“You’re overthinking a lamp,” Jack had said.
“I’m not overthinking a lamp.”
“You’ve been staring at lamps for six minutes.”
“It’s a bad lamp.”
“It’s a lamp, Robby.”
“It’s ugly.”
“It’s going in a room you currently use to store tax documents and a broken printer.”
“No,” Robby had said, too fast. “It’s going in a room she’s staying in.”
Jack had looked at him then, like maybe he was starting to catch the edge of it.
Robby’s jaw tightened.
“I don’t want her to hate it.”
“She’s not going to hate a lamp.”
“That’s not the point.”
Because it wasn’t.
The point was that Robby wanted the room to feel comfortable. Soft enough. Warm enough. Like somewhere you could close the door and breathe. Like somewhere you didn’t have to feel temporary.
And he already knew if he brought you here to pick things out yourself, you’d choose the cheapest version of everything and call it fine. You’d make yourself easy. You’d make yourself small. He didn’t want that. Still, he should have asked.
Because buying the bed, the dresser, the nightstand, the lamp, all of it, meant he had tried to make a room feel like home for you without asking what home looked like. And that was the part he couldn’t quite get around.
He wanted you comfortable. He wanted you to have somewhere to put your things without asking. Somewhere to sleep that wasn’t borrowed from him. Somewhere to close a door and have privacy instead of feeling like you were tucked into the least inconvenient corner of his life. He wanted the room to say what he was not stupid enough to say out loud yet.
The thought followed him all the way back down the block, quiet and impossible to outrun.
By the time he reached the house, the sun had started lifting properly, pale light catching on windows and parked cars. His house sat quiet at the end of the short driveway, blue siding soft in the morning.
For one second, he stopped at the edge of the walk and looked at it. It looked the same. It wasn’t.
He climbed the porch steps and reached for the door. Then stopped. Coffee. Fresh coffee. Not yesterday’s abandoned half-pot. Not something he had set up himself. Fresh coffee, warm and dark, slipping out through the small gap near the door like the house had exhaled.
Robby blinked once. Then opened the door.
The first thing he heard was the low murmur of the radio from the kitchen. Not loud. Barely there. Some morning station turned down enough that the voices blended into the clink of dishes and the soft scrape of something moving across the counter.
The second thing he saw was you. In his kitchen. Barefoot. Hair slightly messy from sleep, one side tucked behind your ear and the other falling loose around your face. You wore an oversized T-shirt and soft shorts, standing in front of the stove with one hip angled against the counter like you had been there longer than five minutes.
A mug sat near your hand. His mug. The chipped one with the faded hospital logo he kept meaning to throw away and never did.
There was pancake batter on the counter. A pan warming on the stove. A plate waiting beside it. You had found the butter, the coffee filters, the spatula with the melted corner. You had found enough of him to make breakfast.
Robby stood in the doorway for half a second too long. You turned at the sound of the door. And froze. Not fully. Just enough.
Your shoulders tightened. Your hand paused around the spatula. Your eyes flicked from him to the pan, then to the mug, then back to him like you were suddenly seeing the kitchen through his eyes and realizing you might have crossed some invisible line neither of you had drawn.
“Morning,” you said.
“Morning.” Robby stepped inside and stopped like he’d forgotten how to enter his own house.
You turned back toward the stove a little too quickly. “I didn’t know when you’d be back.”
“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Just went out for a bit.”
“Right.” You nodded, like that explained anything. “Of course.”
Neither of you moved.
The silence stretched long enough for you to become painfully aware of the spatula in your hand, the pan on the stove, the fact that you were barefoot in his kitchen making breakfast like that was a normal thing to do.
“I made coffee,” you said.
His eyes flicked toward the pot. “I saw.”
“And breakfast.”
“I saw that too.” He heard it as soon as he said it. Too flat. Not unkind, but not enough either.
Your shoulders lifted slightly, like you were trying to make yourself smaller without actually moving.
Robby’s jaw tightened. “Thank you,” he added, quieter.
You paused. Just enough for him to notice. Then you nodded, still not fully looking at him. “Yeah. Of course.”
Of course.
Like making breakfast in his kitchen after four days of barely speaking was normal. Like you weren’t still angry with him. Maybe you were. Maybe you were just good at being kind around it. That thought sat somewhere uncomfortable behind his ribs.
You shifted your weight, suddenly focused on the pan. “I wasn’t sure what you usually eat.”
“Usually?” he said. “Whatever’s around.”
You glanced at the plate, then back at him. “Well, good thing fresh coffee and pancakes are around.”
His mouth twitched. “Lucky me.”
“Try not to get spoiled.”
“I think it’s too late for that.”
You smiled before you could stop yourself, then looked back at the stove like the pancakes had become urgent.
Robby stayed where he was, watching you move through his kitchen like you were still asking permission for it, even as you did everything like you belonged there. He didn’t know when that had started. Or when it had stopped feeling strange.
He stepped closer, then stopped again, like the space between the doorway and the counter required more thought than it should.
“Do you want me to—”
“No,” you said quickly.
Too quickly.
You winced. “Sorry. I mean, I’ve got it.”
“Okay.”
He reached for a plate at the same time you did. Both of you froze.
You pulled your hand back first. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re fine.”
“It’s your kitchen.”
“Apparently not this morning.”
You looked at him.
He looked mildly surprised he’d said it.
Then your mouth tugged upward, small and reluctant.
“Right there,” you said, pointing to the counter.
He set the plate down with unnecessary care. “Got it.”
You turned back to the stove, shoulders a little looser now. “You can sit if you want.”
He hesitated. “You sure?”
“Yeah. I’ve got it.”
He nodded once but still didn’t move.
You glanced over your shoulder.
“…Michael.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“Sit.”
He did, almost too fast, like he’d been waiting for the instruction. And that did something strange to his chest. He picked up his fork just to have something to do with his hands, eyes dropping to the plate like it might give him something steady to focus on.
You turned back to the stove. And for a second, neither of you spoke. But the room felt different.
Quieter. Closer.
Like something had shifted just enough that neither of you knew what to do with it yet.
You flipped the last pancake, then turned off the burner like you’d done it a hundred times in that kitchen.
Robby noticed that too.
The way you didn’t hesitate. The way you didn’t ask. The way you still looked like you were bracing for him to tell you to stop.
You brought your plate over and sat across from him. Not too close. Not far enough to feel intentional. Just… there.
He took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed.
“They’re good,” he said.
It came out quieter than he meant.
You looked up, a little caught off guard. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You nodded once, small, like you weren’t sure what to do with that. “Thanks.”
Robby dropped his gaze back to the plate. He didn’t know what any of your answers meant anymore. Not since you’d shown up. Not since you’d stayed. Not since you’d started doing things like this, making coffee, making breakfast, moving through his house like you were trying not to take up space and still somehow changing the way it felt anyway.
He took another bite just so he wouldn’t keep looking at you.
“Do you… have anything planned today?” you asked.
Your voice was careful. Like you were stepping around something neither of you had named yet.
He shook his head, then corrected himself. “Yeah. A few things.”
You nodded, waiting.
“I was going to clean out the spare room,” he said. “Get the boxes out. Make it usable.”
Your fork slowed. “You don’t have to do that today.”
“I know.”
“It can wait.”
“Yeah.” He glanced down at his plate. “It’s been waiting.”
He hadn’t meant it to sound like that. He heard it after. You did too. Your eyes stayed on him a second longer than they should have. He didn’t look up.
“This is your first day off,” you said. “Since I got here.”
“I’m aware.”
“You could just… not do anything.”
He let out a small breath through his nose. “I don’t think I’m very good at that.”
“No,” you said softly. “I’m starting to notice.”
That almost pulled a smile out of him. Almost. He looked up then. Caught you already looking at him.
You looked away first. Back to your plate.
“I can help,” you said.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” You glanced back up. “I want to.”
That stopped him. Not because he didn’t believe you. Because he did. And he didn’t know what to do with that yet.
“You made breakfast,” he said.
“That doesn’t count.”
“It does.”
“It really doesn’t.” You shifted in your seat. “You’ve been sleeping on the couch for four days.”
He looked at you. “You’ve been pregnant longer than that.”
You blinked then narrowed your eyes. “That is not the same thing.”
“No,” he said, reaching for his coffee. “Mine has more back pain.”
A small laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.
He felt it land. Felt something in his chest loosen just a fraction.
You shook your head, still smiling faintly. “I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“I can carry things.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then let me help.”
He set the mug down. “You can help by not worrying about it.”
You gave him a look. He held it for a second. Then looked away first.
“Besides,” he added, quieter, “Jack’s coming later to help.”
“Jack?”
“My friend from work.”
You nodded slowly. “Okay.”
Silence settled again. Not as sharp. Still there.
You both went back to your plates. And Robby found himself watching you again, the way you ate, slower now. The way your shoulders weren’t as tight. The way you still didn’t quite relax all the way. Like you were waiting for something to shift back. Like this could still go wrong.
He didn’t know how to fix that. Didn’t know if he could. But he wanted to. More than he expected. More than he was ready to admit out loud.
He looked down at his plate again. Took another bite. And stayed quiet, because right now, quiet was the only thing that didn’t seem to make it worse.
You cut into your pancakes again, then glanced at him like you were trying to decide whether to ask the next question.
He waited. That was easier than guessing wrong.
“Jack’s bringing a truck?” you asked.
“Yeah.”
“To move things out?”
“Some of it,” he said. “Storage unit. Donation. Trash.”
You nodded, then looked toward the hallway like you could see the closed spare room door from where you sat. “That sounds like a lot.”
“It’s mostly boxes.”
You looked back at him, a little braver now. “Are you sure you don’t want me to help?”
“No.”
The answer came out too fast.
Your eyebrows lifted.
He sighed. “I mean—no, I don’t want you lifting anything.”
“I didn’t say lifting.”
“You were going to.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
He nodded once. “Yeah.”
A reluctant smile tugged at your mouth. “Okay, fine.”
“Thank you.”
“But I reserve the right to judge from a safe distance.”
“That seems fair.”
“And make comments.”
“Less fair.”
“And possibly snacks.”
He looked up at that.
You looked down at your plate like you hadn’t meant to offer that part out loud.
Robby didn’t say anything for a second.
The house settled around you both, quiet except for the soft scrape of your fork and the low hum of the fridge.
Then he said, carefully, “Snacks are allowed.”
Your smile came back, small and unsure, but there.
“Good to know.”
He took another sip of coffee, mostly to hide the fact that he liked it.
Liked this.
Liked you in his kitchen, arguing about boxes and making breakfast and offering snacks like you weren’t quietly rearranging the shape of his whole day. Like you weren’t making it harder and harder for him to pretend this was just temporary.
The word sat there.
Temporary.
He didn’t say it. Didn’t have to.
It was in the spare room waiting to be cleared. In the couch where he’d been sleeping. In the way you kept asking before using things and then quietly made them better anyway.
You reached for your coffee, both hands wrapping around the mug.
“So,” you said, trying for light and not quite making it. “Safe distance. Snacks. No heavy lifting.”
“Correct.”
“Very strict rules.”
“Basic safety.”
“Mm.” You took a sip. “Sounds suspiciously like control.”
Robby looked up fast enough that your expression changed. Just a flicker. Like you hadn’t meant it seriously. Like maybe you had.
His grip tightened around his mug.
“That’s not what I meant,” he said.
Your eyes held his for a second.
“I know.”
But there was something behind it. Not accusation. Not anger. Something more careful than that. Something that reminded him you had reasons to be careful. Reasons he had helped create.
He nodded once, slower this time. “You tell me if it starts feeling that way.”
You looked down into your coffee. The kitchen went quiet again. Not easy this time. But honest.
“Okay,” you said.
Robby didn’t push. He wanted to. Wanted to explain. Wanted to promise. Wanted to reach across the table and somehow make the shape of all of this less sharp. Instead, he stayed still. Let you have the quiet.
After a moment, you looked up again and gave him a small, crooked smile.
“Still judging from a safe distance though.”
His chest loosened.
“Wouldn’t expect anything else.”
“Good.”
You took another bite of pancake, and he did the same.
The silence came back, but it softened around the edges. Not fixed. Not simple. Just survivable. And maybe, for this morning, that was enough.
Robby was still thinking about what you’d said when a horn sounded outside. Once. Then again. Loud enough to make both of you look toward the front of the house.
You lowered your fork. “Subtle?”
Robby closed his eyes. “Jack.”
Another knock followed almost immediately, heavy and impatient against the door.
You glanced back at him, one brow lifting.
“He’s early,” Robby said.
“He seems patient.”
“He’s not.”
He stood, but didn’t move right away. For one small second, he looked like he wanted to say something else.
Then the knock came again.
Robby exhaled. “And now he’s worse.”
That pulled a small laugh out of you.
He looked at you when it happened. Just for half a second. Then he turned toward the door, leaving the plates on the table, the coffee still warm, and whatever had almost been said sitting quietly behind him.
By the time he opened it, Jack was already halfway inside. Solid build, posture that didn’t slump even this early, movements efficient without being rushed. He had that quiet, controlled energy of someone used to chaos and not impressed by it. The kind of man who could walk into a room and take it over without raising his voice.
Which, unfortunately, made you stand a little straighter.
Your hand moved to the hem of your shirt before you could stop it, fingers worrying the fabric once. You didn’t know this man. Not really. You only knew his name from a piece of paper taped to the fridge.
Emergency contact. Friend from work. Bringing a truck.
Your eyes flicked to Robby for half a second before settling back on Jack.
Jack’s gaze landed on you, sharp for a second, taking in more than you wanted him to, before his expression shifted, just enough to make it easier to breathe.
“Morning,” Jack said, easy, like this wasn’t an intrusion at all.
Then, like he’d decided to make this easier on you by making it worse for Robby, he added, “You must be the famous Vegas wife.”
You blinked and then laughed, a little surprised by it. “Yeah,” you said. “The pregnant, one-night-stand edition.”
Robby dragged a hand over his face, but the sound had already gotten to him.
That laugh. Small. Unprepared. Real.
It loosened something in him before he could stop it, even while he muttered, “Jesus, Jack.”
Jack only looked pleased with himself.
“Nice to meet you,” Jack said. “I’m Jack Abbot. One of Robby’s… three friends.”
You smiled, still a little unsure. “I figured.”
Jack tilted his head. “Oh yeah?”
“Your number’s on the fridge,” you said. “Emergency contact.”
Jack glanced at Robby, something amused and softer passing over his face. “That right?”
Robby muttered, “Don’t make it weird.”
Jack looked back at you. “Too late. Deeply honored.”
Then he nodded toward the hallway. “Guest room?”
“Yeah.”
His gaze flicked between you and Robby, catching the stiffness still sitting there.
Jack opened the door. It stuck for half a second before giving way with a soft scrape, like it hadn’t been opened in a while. He stepped just far enough to clear the frame then stopped. The room sat exactly as promised.
Boxes stacked unevenly against one wall. Some sealed, some half-open, flaps bent and curling. A desk buried under papers, cords, things that had been set down and never picked back up. A printer pushed to the side like it had offended someone. Dust catching in the light coming through the window, thin and pale across everything. It wasn’t chaos. It was… paused.
“…this is worse than I thought.”
Robby, right behind him, didn’t even look fully into the room. “Don’t.”
Jack shifted his weight, eyes moving slowly over the space, taking in more than he needed to.
“I’m not judging,” he said.
“You are.”
“I’m assessing.”
You laughed, softer this time, from just behind them, the sound filling the doorway in a way the room hadn’t been.
Robby felt it before he meant to. The tension in his shoulders eased by a fraction. His grip loosened at his side. Something in his chest, tight since he’d walked back into the house, let up just enough for him to breathe around it. He didn’t look back at you. He didn’t want to make it obvious.
Jack stepped inside, nudging one of the boxes lightly with his foot. It didn’t budge much.
He glanced back at Robby, then toward you. “Alright. Where do we start?”
Robby scanned the room, already sorting it in his head. “That wall goes to storage. Desk comes out. Everything else—”
“Absolutely not.”
Robby stopped.
You blinked. “What?”
Jack still wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were on you.
You’d already shifted forward without realizing it, hand half-reaching toward the nearest small box like maybe if it looked light enough, no one would count it.
Jack pointed toward the hallway without turning. “You’re not lifting boxes.”
“I didn’t say I was lifting boxes.”
“You had the face.”
You frowned. “The face?”
“The ‘I’m just going to grab one little thing and pretend it doesn’t count’ face.”
Robby nodded once. “You did.”
You looked at him. “I was standing here.”
“Preparing,” Robby said.
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
“…maybe.”
Jack nodded, satisfied. “Good. We’re learning honesty.”
“I can carry light things,” you tried.
“No,” Robby said.
“No,” Jack said at the exact same time.
You looked between them. “Really?”
Jack shrugged. “Two against one.”
Robby added, “Overruled.”
You huffed out a small laugh, shaking your head. “I’m not fragile.”
“No one said you were,” Jack said easily. “We said you’re not carrying boxes.”
“That feels like the same thing.”
“It’s not,” Robby said.
You glanced at him.
He held your eyes for half a second, then looked down like he’d heard how quickly that came out. Like maybe it had been more honest than he meant it to be.
“It’s me not wanting you to carry boxes,” he added, quieter.
Something in the room tightened. Not badly. Just enough.
Jack caught it immediately. He looked away first, giving both of you somewhere else to put your faces, then pointed toward the hallway.
“Kitchen. Couch. Somewhere not here.”
You crossed your arms lightly. “Did you just look me in the eye and send a woman to the kitchen?”
Jack stopped mid-point, hand still in the air. His expression barely changed, but something behind his eyes definitely recalculated.
Robby looked down, shoulders already giving him away.
“…I would like to withdraw that sentence,” Jack said.
“Good call,” you said.
Robby huffed a quiet laugh. The sound was small, but you heard it. So did Jack. And for a second, the tension eased again.
Jack pointed at Robby. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“No, you’re enjoying yourself.”
“Maybe a little.”
You smiled before you could stop it. Robby saw that too, and something in his face softened before he looked away.
Jack turned back to you, hand still hovering like he wasn’t sure where it was safe to point anymore. “Okay. New plan. Anywhere in the house that isn’t this room.”
“That’s a little better.”
“Growth,” Jack said.
“Minimal,” Robby muttered.
You shifted back a step into the hallway, still smiling. “I’ll just… stay out of the way.”
Robby looked at you then. “You’re not in the way.”
It came out automatic. Too quick to be polished. Your smile faded into something smaller. Jack, for once, didn’t touch it.
He just cleared his throat lightly. “Safer for everyone if you supervise from a non-disastrous location.”
You laughed under your breath. Robby’s shoulders loosened again.
You glanced between them, the room feeling a little less sharp than it had five minutes ago. “You’re both very reassuring.”
“Professionals,” Jack said.
“At some things,” Robby added.
You shook your head, turning toward the kitchen. “Yell if you need anything.”
“We won’t,” Robby said.
“Water,” Jack said at the same time.
Robby closed his eyes.
You laughed again as you walked away. And this time, Robby let himself look after you for one second longer than he should have.
Jack leaned back slightly, looking toward the doorway you’d just left through.
“You two aren’t being awkward at all.”
Robby dragged a box toward him. “…this is the most time I’ve actually spent around her.”
Jack looked at him. “Seriously?”
Robby nodded once. “Yeah. We’ve mostly just passed each other before and after work.”
Jack’s gaze shifted back toward the hallway, listening to the faint sounds of you moving around in the kitchen.
“You can hear it, right?”
Robby frowned. “What.”
“The nerves,” Jack said. “Yours. Hers.”
Robby didn’t answer.
Jack shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. “At least you’re matching.”
Robby huffed quietly, shaking his head, but he didn’t argue.
From the kitchen, something clinked, ceramic against the counter, soft and careful.
Both of them stilled for just long enough to hear it.
Jack glanced at him. “Go easy.”
Robby didn’t look away from the doorway. “I am.”
Jack nodded once.
“Yeah,” he said. “I can see that.”
Then he grabbed the nearest box and shifted it toward the door.
“Come on,” he added, lighter now. “Before I start labeling your emotional baggage.”
Robby exhaled, dragging the next box after him. And the moment, whatever it had been, settled back into the quiet.
-
For the next hour, the room got worse before it got better.
Boxes came out first. One by one, then two at a time, sliding into the hallway with cardboard scraping over wood and dust lifting into the morning light. Robby made piles with the kind of focus that suggested he had rules for all of it.
Storage. Donate. Trash. Maybe.
Jack took one look at the system and immediately ruined it. He picked up a box from the maybe pile, opened it, and looked inside. Then he closed it. Then opened it again, like maybe the contents would improve on the second try.
Robby watched him. “What.”
Jack lifted his eyes. “This is seven cables and a receipt from 2019.”
“It might be important.”
“The receipt?”
“The cables.”
“For what?”
Robby paused.
Jack nodded. “Exactly.”
From the kitchen, your laugh carried down the hall. Not loud. Not fully comfortable yet. But there.
Robby pointed toward the doorway. “You’re not supposed to be part of this.”
“I’m not,” you called back, softer. “I’m just… listening from a distance.”
Jack looked toward the hall, then back at Robby. “Safe distance has ears.”
Robby shook his head, but his shoulders eased a little.
Jack held the box out. “Pick one.”
Robby frowned. “What.”
“One cable. The rest go.”
“That’s not how that works.”
“It is today.”
From the kitchen, you said, “I mean… he has a point.”
Robby turned toward the hallway. “You too?”
“Sorry,” you said, though you sounded like you were smiling.
Jack nodded. “Two against one.”
Robby stared at the box like it had betrayed him.
“…fine,” he muttered, pulling one cable out.
Jack immediately took the box. “Progress.”
“This feels wrong,” Robby said.
“You’ll survive.”
Your laugh came again. Still small. Still careful. But easier than before.
Robby didn’t tell you to stop listening this time. He just glanced toward the hallway, almost like he was checking that you were still there.
You were. Not in the room. Not in the way. But close enough that your voice kept finding them. Close enough that every time you laughed, something in Robby loosened.
The room kept shifting after that.
Boxes dragged into the hall. Old papers stacked. Dust lifted and settled again. Jack found reasons to comment on nearly everything he touched, and every so often, your voice drifted in from the kitchen.
A small laugh.
A quiet, “That sounds important.”
Or, “That sounds like trash.”
Never too loud. Never too sure. But each time, you sounded a little less like you were waiting to be told you’d stepped too far.
Eventually, you appeared in the doorway with two glasses of water held carefully in both hands.
“I’m not lifting anything,” you said before either of them could speak.
Jack lifted one hand. “No accusations have been made.”
You glanced between them. “You both looked like you were about to say it.”
Robby’s mouth twitched. “We were.”
You smiled, small but real. Robby noticed.
You stepped only as far as the doorway, holding one glass out to him. “Water.”
He crossed the room to take it, careful not to let his fingers linger when they brushed yours.
“Thanks,” he said.
You nodded, then handed the other glass to Jack.
Jack accepted it easily. “See? You’re helping.”
“I was told morale support was essential,” you said.
“It is,” Jack said. “Vital work.”
Robby looked at the mess around them. “Is it?”
Jack took a sip. “Morale is delicate.”
You laughed under your breath. The tension in Robby’s shoulders slipped a fraction.
Jack saw it. But this time, he didn’t say anything. He just nodded toward the next box.
“Alright,” he said. “Back to brave choices.”
You stayed in the doorway for a few more seconds, looking around the room like you were trying to understand the shape of it under the mess.
Then you stepped back. Not far. Just enough to stay out of the way. Still close enough to be part of it.
Jack reached for the next box, grunting slightly at the weight. He glanced at the label.
“Med school?”
Robby didn’t look up. “Keep.”
Jack blinked. “You don’t even know what’s in it.”
“Textbooks.”
“From when?”
“Medical school.”
Jack stared at him.
“They were expensive,” Robby said.
Jack nodded. “So were my twenties, but I let those go too.”
From the kitchen, you laughed.
Robby pointed toward the hallway. “You’re not part of this.”
“I’m morale support,” you called back.
Jack opened the box and lifted one out. “This reference material still thinks pagers are cutting edge.”
Robby reached for it. “They can go in storage.”
Jack shook his head. “One box. Not all of them.”
Robby stared at him, then exhaled. “…fine.”
Jack moved the rest. “Look at that. Progress.”
-
You made it all of ten minutes before standing still felt wrong.
The kitchen was clean. Too clean. Counter wiped twice. Dishes rinsed. Coffee pot set back where you’d found it. The sponge squeezed out and placed neatly by the sink like that mattered. Like any of it mattered.
You stood there for a second, hands resting on the edge of the counter, listening to the sound of men clearing out a room down the hall.
Boxes scraping. Jack saying something low and dry. Robby answering in that clipped, tired voice that somehow still managed to sound amused.
You couldn’t hear every word. You didn’t need to. The sound filled the house anyway. Not loud. Not overwhelming.
Just… present.
You turned slowly, looking around the kitchen.
Michael’s kitchen.
The mug you had used sat upside down on the drying towel. His coffee still smelled warm in the pot. Morning light slid across the counter, catching on crumbs you’d missed near the plate. The house felt lived in now. Not perfectly. Not permanently.
But more than before. Because of you.
That thought should have scared you. It did. A little. But not enough to make you run from it.
You moved into the living room, barefoot against the floor, and stopped near the couch where Robby had slept for four nights. The blanket was folded over the arm now, not the way he folded it. The way you folded it. Tighter. Neater. Smoothed at the corners.
Your hand reached out before you meant for it to, brushing lightly over the fabric. He had slept there because of you. Because he’d given you the room. Because he’d made a choice before you ever asked him to.
You swallowed.
Down the hall, something thudded.
“Easy,” Robby called.
“I’m being easy,” Jack answered.
“That was not easy.”
“That was controlled impact.”
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. Small. Private. Just yours. And then the quiet settled again.
You looked around the living room. The couch. The blanket. The coffee table. The shoes by the door. Your shoes next to his.
That was what got you.
Not the breakfast. Not the boxes. Not even the room.
Your shoes. Sitting there beside his like they had any right to. Like this was normal. Like you were someone who came home here.
Your breath caught in a way that embarrassed you, even alone. Your hand left the blanket and drifted down, settling against your stomach. Not because you felt anything.
You didn’t.
There was no flutter. No movement. No tiny confirmation from inside you. Just your hand. Your body.
The truth of it.
You stood there with your palm against yourself and let the weight of the morning catch up.
You were pregnant. In Michael’s house. Listening to him clear a room for you. Not because someone forced him. Not because you begged.
Because he wanted to.
Because somewhere between panic and paperwork and all the things neither of you knew how to say, he had woken up on his first day off and decided to make space.
For you. For this. For whatever came next.
Your eyes burned suddenly, and you hated that. Not because it hurt. Because it didn’t.
That was the problem.
It felt soft. It felt dangerous. It felt like standing in front of a door you didn’t know how to open while someone on the other side quietly unlocked it for you.
You looked down at your hand against your stomach.
“Hey,” you whispered.
The word barely made it into the room.
You weren’t talking to a kick. Or a heartbeat you could hear. Or anything you could hold. You were talking to the idea of someone.
To the tiny, impossible future inside you. To the part of yourself that still didn’t know whether it was allowed to want anything this badly.
“Hi,” you tried again, even softer.
Your thumb moved against your shirt. For a second, you let yourself imagine it. Not all of it. Not the big things. Not forever.
Just one morning.
A room with softer light. A drawer that belonged to you. Michael’s coffee in the kitchen. Jack making terrible jokes from down the hall. Your baby growing somewhere safe.
You, not temporary.
You, not borrowing air.
You, not apologizing for needing a place to land.
The image came so suddenly it almost knocked the breath out of you.
You closed your eyes.
No.
Not no.
Just… Careful.
Wanting was dangerous when you didn’t know what people would do with it. Wanting made you soft in places you had spent years trying to protect. Wanting turned kindness into something you could lose.
But your hand stayed where it was.
Your body didn’t move away from the thought. That scared you more than anything. Because for the first time since you’d said the words I’m pregnant, the future didn’t look like a door slamming shut.
It looked like a room being cleared. Messy. Dusty. Unfinished. But opening.
You inhaled slowly.
“One day at a time,” you whispered.
It wasn’t a promise. Not quite.
It was permission.
Permission not to run from the good just because it was good. Permission not to decide the ending before the morning was even over. Permission to stand in Michael's living room with your hand on your stomach and admit, only to yourself, that maybe some part of you wanted this house to keep sounding like this.
Like work. Like voices. Like someone making room.
Down the hall, Jack said something you couldn’t hear. Robby laughed. Not much. Barely. But enough.
Your chest tightened again, only this time you didn’t fight it. You opened your eyes and looked toward the hallway.
“Your dad’s kind of a lot,” you murmured.
The words startled you as soon as you said them.
Your dad.
You pressed your lips together, breathing through the sudden ache of it. It felt too soon. Too intimate. Too much. But it didn’t feel wrong.
That was the part you didn’t know what to do with.
A small, helpless smile pulled at your mouth.
“Don’t get attached,” you whispered.
Then, after a second, quieter…
“Or maybe… don’t listen to me.”
You stood there a moment longer, palm warm against your stomach, letting yourself have the thought without punishing yourself for it.
Then you dropped your hand. Not because the moment was over. Because you needed something to do with all of it.
You went back to the kitchen, pulled two glasses from the cabinet, and filled them with water.
Your hands were steady. Mostly.
You balanced the glasses carefully and looked once more down the hall, toward the room that was slowly becoming something else.
“Morale support,” you murmured.
It sounded like a joke. It wasn’t entirely one.
Then you picked up the waters and walked back toward the noise.
You balanced the glasses carefully and walked back toward the noise.
The hallway looked different now.
Boxes lined one side of it, some taped shut, some open, some labeled in Robby’s handwriting and some clearly relabeled in Jack’s, because one of them said DO NOT LET ROBBY KEEP THIS in thick black marker.
You slowed when you saw it.
“Really?” you called.
From inside the room, Jack answered, “Accurate labeling prevents future confusion.”
Robby muttered, “He’s been given too much power.”
You stepped into the doorway with both glasses in hand.
The room had gotten worse. Somehow. There were boxes everywhere now. Piles where there hadn’t been piles before. Dust on the floor. A stack of old textbooks near the wall. One lonely cable sitting on the desk like it had survived a war.
But under all of it, you could see the shape of something new. Floor. Actual floor. A stretch of bare wall. Sunlight falling through the window without being blocked by cardboard.
Your chest tightened again, but softer this time.
Jack looked up first, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Morale support returns.”
You lifted the glasses. “Hydration support.”
“Even better.”
Robby glanced over from where he was kneeling beside a box, and for half a second his expression changed. Not much. Just enough. Like he noticed you were quieter than before. Like he noticed something had shifted, even if he didn’t know what.
“You okay?” he asked.
The question landed gently. Too gently.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
Jack looked between the two of you, then very deliberately became fascinated with the box in front of him.
Robby stayed looking at you.
You held one glass out to him. “Water.”
He took it, fingers brushing yours for barely a second. Nothing dramatic. Still, you felt it.
“Thanks,” he said.
You nodded again, then handed the other glass to Jack.
Jack accepted it easily. “See? You’re helping.”
You smiled, stepping just inside the room before remembering you weren’t supposed to. “It looks different.”
Robby followed your gaze around the room. “Different bad or different good?”
You took a second before answering. The space didn’t feel like a storage room anymore.
The wall that had been buried was finally visible, scuffed in places, a few old nail holes catching the light, but open. The floor stretched farther than it had before, wood showing through in uneven patches where boxes had been dragged away, dust pushed into soft lines along the edges.
The desk had been pulled out from the wall, its surface cleared just enough to see what it actually was instead of what had been piled on top of it. Cords were gone. Papers stacked. The clutter didn’t disappear, it just stopped owning the space.
And the window…The light came through clean now. Not filtered through cardboard or blocked by something forgotten. It cut across the room in a long strip, catching the air, the dust still settling, the edges of what was left behind.
It wasn’t finished. It wasn’t even close. But it didn’t feel stuck anymore.
“Different,” you said. “Possible.”
Robby looked back at you.
“Yeah,” he said, quieter. “That’s what I was going for.”
And there it was again. That soft thing. That dangerous thing.
You looked down first, because if you kept looking at him, the morning was going to become something you didn’t know how to hold.
Jack cleared his throat.
“Well,” he said, “before we start congratulating ourselves, we should probably move the desk.”
Robby closed his eyes. “You were so close to being quiet.”
“I know. Scared me too.”
You laughed, grateful for the interruption.
Robby stood, setting his glass on the cleared corner of the desk. “You should probably stay out there while we move the desk.”
You lifted both hands. “I know. I know. No boxes. No lifting. No standing under falling cardboard.”
You shook your head and stepped into the hallway again, but this time you didn’t go far. You stayed just outside the room, leaning lightly against the wall with your arms folded, watching as they each took one side of the desk.
Robby looked over at you.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
Jack grunted as he lifted his side. “He’s checking to make sure you’re not secretly helping.”
“I am standing here.”
“That’s how it starts,” Robby said.
You smiled. Robby tried not to. Failed a little.
Together, they eased the desk away from the wall, slow and careful, wood scraping softly against the floor. And for the first time, standing just outside the room didn’t feel like being kept out.
It felt like being watched over. It felt like being included without being asked to prove you deserved to be there.
That was new. That was terrifying. That was nice.
They got the desk out after three awkward turns, one near injury, and Jack saying, “Pivot,” exactly once before Robby threatened to leave him in the hallway.
After that, the room emptied fast.
Boxes disappeared into the hall. The old chair went to the garage. The stack of textbooks got narrowed down to one, which Robby treated like a personal sacrifice and Jack called “character development.”
When the last box was gone, the room looked strange. Bare. Dusty. Open.
You stood in the doorway with a roll of paper towels in one hand and a trash bag in the other.
Robby looked at you. “What are you doing?”
“Cleaning.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
Jack leaned against the doorframe. “I’d let this one go.”
You pointed at him with the paper towels. “I’m not lifting anything.”
Robby narrowed his eyes.
“I’m wiping,” you said. “Very low-risk activity.”
Jack nodded. “Historically safer than lifting.”
Robby sighed. “Fine.”
So you cleaned. Not because anyone asked you to. Because the room felt like it needed it.
You wiped dust from the windowsill while Robby swept the floor, pushing thin gray lines into a growing pile by the door. Jack moved in and out of the room with trash bags, the space gradually emptying of everything that didn’t belong.
The window resisted at first, then gave with a stubborn scrape. Fresh air slipped in, cool and clean, stirring the dust in the sunlight and pulling the stale cardboard smell out of the room.
For the first time, it didn’t look like a storage room. It looked like a room waiting for someone.
Jack clapped once. “Alright. Now we make it worse again.”
You looked at him.
He grinned. “Furniture.”
“Furniture?”
Jack nodded toward the door. “Come see.”
You hesitated, but then followed.
The truck was open. And it wasn’t random. A mattress. Still wrapped. Boxes stacked in clean lines. A dresser that had been picked, not grabbed. A lamp sitting on top like someone had thought about where it would go.
You stared at it longer than you meant to.
“Oh.”
Robby shifted beside you. “I should’ve asked what you liked.”
You looked at him.
He didn’t quite meet your eyes. “I didn’t want to overcomplicate it. Just… get something in here.”
You looked back at the truck. At the mattress. The dresser. The nightstand. The lamp. At the way everything had been chosen like it mattered.
“If you hate any of it,” he added, quieter, “we’ll take it back.”
You blinked.
“All of it,” he said.
That got you to look at him again.
Robby’s hand moved to the back of his neck. “I mean it.”
You swallowed, then looked back at the truck.
“I don’t hate it,” you said softly.
For a second, neither of you moved.
“It works.”
Robby nodded once, like he was taking that in. But he didn’t move.
“Does it feel… like too much?” he asked, careful.
You shook your head.
“No,” you said. “It feels like you thought about it.”
That hit him. You could see it.
He glanced away first this time, like he didn’t quite know what to do with that.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I did.”
The quiet stretched just long enough to feel full.
You nodded once. “Thank you.”
Robby looked like he almost asked something. Then didn’t.
You glanced back at the truck. “We should probably start bringing it in.”
“Yeah,” he said.
Jack cleared his throat loudly. “Hey, Romeo, a little help would be nice.”
Robby didn’t look back at you. He just stepped forward and took the other end.
You stepped out of the way. But your eyes stayed on him. On the way he moved. Careful. Steady. Like this wasn’t just a task. Like it meant something. You hadn’t expected that. Not from him. Not like this.
They carried the first piece inside.
Came back out for the next. And you stayed there, watching the room change before it even existed.
The first box went in. Then another. And another. You lost count after that. You just watched.
Watched Robby move back and forth between the truck and the house, steady, focused, careful in a way that didn’t feel like habit.
It felt like intention. That was the part that stayed with you. Not the furniture. Not the effort. The intention. You hadn’t expected him to go this far.
Robby came back for another box and paused when he reached you.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded. Your voice didn’t trust itself yet.
He studied you for half a second, then nodded back, like that was enough. And kept moving.
When they disappeared back down the hall for the last trip, you stepped into the room.
It was still in pieces.
Boxes stacked. Frame unbuilt. The mattress leaning against the wall. Not finished. But not empty.
You moved slowly, like the space might change if you rushed it. Your hand brushed the edge of the nightstand as you passed.
Solid. Real. Yours.
You stood there for a second longer than you meant to. Then exhaled, quiet. And didn’t step back out.
-
Jack set the last box against the wall and wiped his hands on his jeans.
“Alright,” he said. “That’s everything out of the truck.”
You looked around the room. “It looks like a furniture store exploded.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “But tastefully.”
Robby gave him a look. “That’s not helpful.”
“It is emotionally helpful.” Jack glanced at you, then nodded toward the boxes. “I’ll come back tomorrow and help put it together.”
You blinked. “You don’t have to do that.”
Jack smiled. “I know.”
Then he looked at Robby. “But he’s old, and I don’t trust him alone with instructions.”
Robby stared at him. “You’re forty-five.”
“Exactly,” Jack said. “Young and experienced.”
Jack grabbed his keys off the counter like he’d been there a hundred times instead of just that morning.
“Try not to make it weird,” he said, already halfway to the door.
Robby didn’t look at him. “Leave.”
Jack paused long enough to glance back at you. “I’ll be back tomorrow. We’ll get it put together.”
You nodded. “Okay.”
Then he was gone.
The door shut, and just like that, the house went quiet. Not empty. Not uncomfortable. Just… quieter.
You stood where you were, listening to the absence of movement. No footsteps. No boxes shifting. No voice cutting through the space to keep things moving.
Robby moved first. He crossed back toward the room, pushing one of the boxes a few inches with his foot like he needed something to do with his hands.
“Sorry,” he said.
You blinked. “For what?”
He shrugged, not looking at you. “All of it. Today. Just—” He gestured vaguely toward the room. “I didn’t mean to take over.”
You leaned lightly against the doorway. “You didn’t.”
He glanced up.
You held his gaze. “You made space.”
Robby exhaled slowly, like something in his chest had loosened just enough to let air through.
“Yeah,” he said.
The quiet settled again.
You pushed off the doorway and stepped into the room. The boxes were stacked where they’d been left. The mattress leaned against the wall, still wrapped. The lamp sat on the nightstand like it was waiting for someone to turn it on.
You reached out without thinking, brushing your fingers lightly along the edge of the dresser. Solid. Real.
You pulled your hand back.
“It’s a lot,” you admitted. “Thank you.”
Robby nodded. “Yeah.”
But he didn’t say it like it was a problem.
You looked around the room again. Not finished. Not set up. But yours. At least for now.
You glanced back at him. “You don’t have to sleep on the couch tonight.”
Robby shook his head immediately. “It’s fine.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.” He gave a small shrug. “So do I.”
That stopped you. Not defensive. Not stubborn. Just decided.
You nodded once. “Okay.”
Another quiet moment settled between you. Different from before. Not as sharp. Just unfamiliar.
You stepped back toward the doorway, hands brushing together like you needed something to do with them.
“Do you—” you started, then stopped.
Robby looked at you. “What?”
You shrugged a little, glancing toward the kitchen. “I could make dinner.”
It wasn’t a strange offer. You had made breakfast. You had already been in his kitchen. Already learned where some things were. Already filled his fridge with groceries neither of you had quite talked about.
Still, the words came out softer than you meant them to. Like you were checking if the day had changed the rules.
Robby’s brows pulled together slightly. “You don’t have to.”
“I know.” You nodded. “I just want to. If that’s okay.”
He studied you for a moment.
Then nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
You let out a small breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Okay.”
He shifted, pushing off the wall. “I’ll help.”
You shook your head immediately. “You’ve been lifting furniture all day.”
“I can still stand in a kitchen.”
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to prevent,” you said lightly.
His mouth twitched.
“Sit,” you added, nodding toward the living room. “I’ve got it.”
Robby hesitated. Then, for once, didn’t argue.
“Alright,” he said.
You gave a small nod and turned toward the kitchen, already scanning what was there. Behind you, you heard him move. Not toward you. Toward the couch.
For the first time that day, doing something for him didn’t feel like proving anything. It just felt normal. Or close to it.
You moved into the kitchen. Robby didn’t follow. He stayed just outside it, one shoulder against the wall, arms crossed loosely because he needed somewhere to put his hands.
Watching.
You opened the fridge without hesitation. That caught him first. Not because opening a fridge mattered. It didn’t. But because you didn’t pause before doing it. You didn’t look back at him for permission. You didn’t ask if it was okay.
You just opened it. Like you knew what was inside. Like you had a reason to know.
Of course you did.
You’d gone grocery shopping. You had filled the drawers and shelves with things that hadn’t been there before. Food he hadn’t bought. Food he wouldn’t have thought to buy. Small things. Normal things. Domestic things.
Robby let out a slow breath through his nose. That word had been following him all day.
Domestic.
It shouldn’t have fit.
Not with the mess of how this started. Not with Vegas and paperwork and pregnancy tests and the kind of history that made both of you stand too carefully in the same room.
But it did.
It fit when he came home and found coffee waiting. It fit when you made breakfast in his kitchen like you were still afraid to want the right to be there. It fit when you stood in the doorway of that cleaned-out room and said it looked possible. It fit now, watching you pull things from the fridge and set them on the counter like this was a house that belonged to more than one person.
He didn’t know when you had stopped being angry with him. Maybe you hadn’t. Maybe it was still there, tucked under politeness and pancakes and the fact that Jack had been around all day making it easier not to look straight at anything. Maybe you were tired. Maybe you were being kind because that was what you did when you didn’t know what else to do.
Maybe the anger hadn’t gone anywhere. Maybe you had just learned how to carry it quietly.
That thought sat badly in his chest.
He watched you reach for a pan. Watched your hand move across the handle before you set it on the stove. Steady. Calm. Like you weren’t standing in his house after he had already given you reasons not to trust him. Like you weren’t carrying his child.
That thought landed heavier. His eyes dropped before he could stop them. Not long. Just a flicker. To your stomach.
There was nothing to see yet. Nothing obvious. Nothing changed enough for the world to know. You were still just you in soft clothes, hair slightly loose from the day, moving around his kitchen with groceries you had bought and a quietness he didn’t know how to read.
But he knew. And once he knew, he couldn’t unknow it. The baby was there in every decision now. In the room down the hall. In the dresser still in pieces. In the lamp he had chosen after standing in a store for six minutes like the wrong shade of beige might ruin both your lives.
In the way he wanted to ask if you were tired.
If you were hungry. If you were scared. If you still felt angry. If you wanted any of this to stay. Not him. Not like that.
He wasn’t asking for romance. He wasn’t asking to be loved. He wasn’t asking you to forgive him on a timeline just because he had cleared out a room and bought furniture.
That wasn’t what this was.
Or maybe it was the beginning of something, but not that. Not yet.
What he wanted was simpler. Harder. He wanted to learn how to be better for you.
Not in a grand, polished, overnight way. Not in a way that erased what had happened or made any of this suddenly easy. He wanted to learn how to be steady. How to listen without defending himself. How to help without taking over. How to be present without making you feel trapped by his presence.
He wanted a relationship built around trust before anything else. Respect before expectation. Safety before closeness. He wanted to be enough as a partner. As the person standing beside you when things got hard. As the father of your child.
Not perfect.
Not suddenly transformed into someone who knew what to say.
Just enough.
Enough that you didn’t feel alone. Enough that the room didn’t feel borrowed. Enough that when you opened his fridge, you didn’t feel like you had to apologize for taking up space.
You cracked something into a bowl, the small sound too sharp in the quiet kitchen.
Robby shifted against the wall.
You didn’t look back.
“You can sit,” you said.
He blinked, dragged back into the room.
“I am sitting.”
You glanced over your shoulder. He was still standing. Your eyes moved over him once, slow and unimpressed.
“That’s not sitting.”
“It’s close.”
“It’s leaning.”
“Adjacent.”
A small smile touched your mouth before you turned back to the counter.
There it was again.
That ease. That tiny thing you gave him without warning.
He didn’t know what to do with it.
All day, little moments had kept happening before he could prepare for them. You laughing at Jack. You teasing him about his back. You standing beside the truck and saying the furniture worked. You looking at the room like it scared you and mattered to you at the same time.
Every time, Robby had found himself wanting one more second. One more laugh. One more glance. One more piece of proof that maybe you felt it too.
Not romance. Not yet. Just the shift. The house changing around both of you. The shape of something less hostile than before.
The stove clicked on.
You moved through the kitchen slowly, comfortable enough to know where some things were and careful enough to still avoid opening the wrong drawer. That nearly undid him more than confidence would have.
Because you were still learning the space. Still negotiating with it. Still not fully certain. And he wanted to give you that certainty so badly it made his chest ache.
“You went grocery shopping,” he said.
It came out quieter than he meant.
You glanced back. “Yeah.”
“Thank you.”
Your mouth twitched faintly. “I figured you would eventually.”
He nodded once. The quiet stretched. Then stretched again.
“You didn’t have to,” he said.
You looked down at the counter. “I know.”
There it was again.
I know.
The same thing you said when you did something anyway.
He wondered how many things in your life you had done because you knew you didn’t have to, but still felt like you should. He hated that thought.
You reached for a spatula. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It is,” he said.
You paused. Not fully. Just enough.
Robby pushed off the wall, but didn’t come closer.
“I mean…” He exhaled softly, choosing the words with more care than he was used to. “It makes the house feel different.”
You didn’t turn around right away. The pan warmed between you. The smell of butter started to fill the kitchen. When you finally looked back, your expression was guarded.
Not cold. Not angry. Just careful. Like you were deciding whether the floor would hold if you put weight on it.
“Different good or different bad?” you asked.
He almost smiled at the echo of earlier. But he didn’t. Because this one mattered.
“Good,” he said.
Your eyes stayed on him.
He held them.
“It feels good.”
The words were simple. Too simple for what they did to the room.
Your fingers tightened lightly around the spatula. Robby saw it. Filed it away. Didn’t push.
You looked away first, turning back to the stove.
“Okay,” you said softly.
Again, he didn’t know what that meant. But this time, he didn’t need to force it into an answer. The food cooked quietly. You moved. He watched.
And the whole time, the same thought stayed with him…
I don’t want this to end.
Not the cooking. Not the room. Not the sound of you in his kitchen. Not the baby, still invisible and already changing everything. Not the fragile, half-built trust between you that neither of you had named because naming it would make it too real too fast.
He wanted time. That was all.
Time to prove he could be steady. Time to prove he could listen. Time to prove he could be more than the man who made the mess. Time to become someone you could trust beside you.
Not in front of you. Not over you. Beside you.
You plated the food without ceremony, then turned with one plate in your hand.
Robby stepped forward before you could call him over.
Your fingers brushed when he took it. Barely. But neither of you moved away right away.
His thumb hovered near yours for a second longer than necessary.
“Thanks,” he said.
Your eyes lifted to his.
“Yeah.”
The silence settled between you. Small. Full. The kind that felt like a question neither of you was ready to ask.
Robby looked at you and wondered if you felt it too.
If the house felt different to you. If this morning had gotten under your skin the way it had gotten under his. If some small, cautious part of you wanted this to last longer than the arrangement. Longer than convenience. Longer than temporary.
He wanted to ask. He didn’t. Instead, he nodded toward the living room.
“Couch?”
You looked at him for a second longer than you had to. Then nodded.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “Couch.”
And when you followed him out of the kitchen, plate in hand, Robby let himself hope.
Just a little. That you weren’t only staying because you had nowhere else to go.
The living room felt smaller with both of you in it.
Not cramped.
Just aware.
Robby sat at one end of the couch, his plate balanced carefully in one hand, the remote loose in the other. You sat at the opposite end with your knees angled slightly toward the coffee table, your plate resting in your lap, both of you leaving enough space between your bodies to pretend the distance wasn’t intentional.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
Forks moved quietly against plates. The refrigerator hummed from the kitchen. Somewhere down the hall, the room sat full of unopened boxes and things neither of you knew how to name yet.
Robby shifted first. Not much. Just his thumb moving over the remote. His eyes stayed on his plate for a second longer, like he was deciding something ordinary. Then he lifted the remote and turned the TV on.
The screen bloomed to life, filling the quiet with color. Low volume. Barely more than a murmur. A woman in an expensive kitchen pointed at another woman like the fate of the world rested on whether someone had been invited to brunch.
You glanced at the TV. Then at him. He didn’t look embarrassed exactly. But he didn’t look proud either. His jaw shifted once, like he was waiting for you to say something.
You looked back at the screen and held your fork a little tighter than necessary.
“I noticed something,” you said carefully.
Robby’s eyes moved to you. Not all the way. Just enough.
“What?”
You kept your gaze on the TV because it felt safer there. “You always have something on.”
His thumb stilled on the remote.
“The TV,” you added softly. “Or music. The radio sometimes.”
He didn’t answer.
You wished immediately that you had found a better way to say it.
“I don’t mean that like I was keeping track,” you said. “I just… noticed.”
Robby looked back at the screen.
The TV light moved over his face, catching the tiredness around his eyes, the hard line of his mouth, the part of him that was sitting beside you and the part that was somewhere else entirely.
He drew in a slow breath. Let it out through his nose.
“Yeah,” he said.
One word. Careful. You didn’t push.
Your fork rested against the edge of your plate. Your food had gone warm instead of hot, but you couldn’t quite make yourself take another bite.
Robby’s hand shifted around the remote. He turned it once in his palm, then set it down between you on the couch cushion. Like he didn’t trust himself to hold it.
“It gets…” He stopped.
His eyes stayed forward.
The woman on TV laughed too loudly at something no one in the room seemed to find funny.
Robby swallowed.
“It gets too quiet sometimes,” he said finally.
The words were so simple. So plain. But they changed the room anyway.
You looked at him then. Not quickly. Not sharply. Just enough to let him know you were listening.
Robby didn’t look back.
“When it’s quiet,” he said, slower now, like every word had to be pulled out and checked before he gave it to you, “my head gets loud.”
Your chest tightened. You didn’t say anything. You were afraid if you spoke too fast, he would take it back.
He shifted his plate from one hand to the other, then set it carefully on the coffee table. The small sound of ceramic against wood seemed too loud.
He leaned back, but not like he was relaxed. More like he needed the couch behind him.
“The noise helps,” he said.
His voice was lower now. A little rougher.
“Gives me something else to listen to.”
You looked at the TV again. At the bright kitchen. At the expensive clothes. At people arguing about something that probably did not matter and somehow mattered enormously to them.
You understood it differently now. Not the show.
The need for it. The need for anything that could stand between a person and their own thoughts.
Your fingers loosened around your fork. You thought about your own head. How quiet could turn mean if you gave it enough room. How fear knew your voice well enough to imitate truth. How sometimes the worst things you heard were the things no one else said out loud.
You didn’t know what Robby’s thoughts sounded like. You wouldn’t pretend you did. But you could imagine they weren’t gentle. Not if he needed the TV this loud, this often, this automatically. Not if silence made him reach for noise before he even thought about it.
You set your plate down too. Slowly. Carefully. Not because you were finished. Because this felt like something you should have both hands for.
“Michael,” you said softly.
His name changed something. It always did.
His eyes moved to you then. Fully this time.
You held his gaze for as long as you could, then looked down at your hands.
“I get that,” you said.
He didn’t answer.
You rubbed your thumb over the side of your palm, trying to find the right words before they became too much.
“I mean, not…” You shook your head once. “Not exactly. I’m not saying I know what it sounds like for you.”
His face stayed still. But his attention sharpened.
You felt it. You kept going carefully.
“I just know quiet can get mean.”
Robby’s expression changed. Barely. But enough. His eyes dropped for a second, then came back to you.
You let out a breath.
“And sometimes,” you said, voice smaller now, “it helps to have something else in the room.”
The TV murmured between you. Not interrupting. Not covering. Just there.
Robby looked at you for a long moment. He looked like he wanted to say something. He didn’t. Maybe he didn’t know how. Maybe neither of you did.
So you gave him something smaller. Something easier to hold.
“If it ever gets too loud,” you said, and stopped because the sentence felt bigger once it was in the air.
Robby didn’t move. Didn’t blink away.
You swallowed.
“I can help make it quieter.”
His eyes stayed on yours. Still. Too still.
You hurried, but softly, afraid of making it sound like a promise you had no right to make.
“Not fix it,” you said. “I don’t mean fix it. I just mean…”
You looked toward the TV, then back down at your hands.
“I can sit with you.”
The words were almost nothing. They felt like everything.
“Or we can talk,” you added. “Or not talk.”
Your mouth twitched faintly, nervous now, needing somewhere for the weight to go.
“Or watch Housewives.”
Robby’s gaze finally broke. It dropped to the TV. For the first time, his mouth moved. Not a smile. Not yet. But something close enough to feel like one.
“It’s not what you think it is.”
You glanced at him, careful but a little amused. “Michael.”
His eyes flicked back to you.
“You have it on enough that I’m starting to think it’s exactly what I think it is.”
This time, the almost-smile stayed.
“It’s background noise.”
“Mm.”
“It is.”
“I didn’t argue.”
“You made a sound.”
“I made a very neutral sound.”
He glanced at you, and for once there wasn’t as much guardedness in it. Still there. Just not as sharp.
“You’re enjoying this,” he said.
“A little.”
The corner of his mouth lifted, quiet and reluctant.
On the screen, someone gasped loud enough to make both of you look over.
You frowned. “Wait. Why is she mad?”
Robby exhaled through his nose, almost laughing. “You don’t have the context.”
“Then give me the context.”
He looked at you again. Longer this time. Like he was still deciding what to do with the fact that you had offered to sit inside his noise with him.
Then he shifted back against the couch, plate balanced in his lap, voice low and careful.
“Alright,” he said. “But you can’t take it back now.”
You nodded once, settling back a little deeper into your side of the couch, plate in your lap, eyes moving to the screen like you were actually ready to learn.
“Start from the beginning.”
Robby huffed quietly under his breath, but it wasn’t annoyed.
Not really.
“Okay,” he said. “So she didn’t invite her on purpose—”
You leaned forward slightly, immediately invested.
“—but she’s saying it was an oversight, which it wasn’t—”
“That feels intentional,” you said.
“It was.”
“I knew it. That bitch.”
Robby shook his head, but there was something softer in it now. “You’re not supposed to pick sides this fast.”
“You didn’t say there were rules.”
“There are always rules.”
“Then you should’ve explained them first, Michael.”
His name slipped out without hesitation this time. Not careful. Not second-guessed.
Robby stopped for just long enough to feel it. Then kept going.
“Alright. New rule. No forming strong opinions in the first five minutes.”
“Too late.”
“I can see that.”
You both looked back at the TV. Your shoulders weren’t pulled in as tight anymore. His weren’t either. The space between you hadn’t changed. But it didn’t feel like distance the same way it had before.
It felt intentional. Like something being held instead of avoided.
The TV kept talking. You asked questions. Robby answered them, quieter than he probably would have with anyone else, like he was still aware of how close this moment sat to something fragile.
Every now and then, you laughed. Not loud. Not forced. Just enough. And every time you did, something in his chest eased before he could stop it.
You didn’t notice. Or maybe you did. You didn’t say anything about it either way.
The episode moved on. Voices rose and fell. Arguments built and dissolved into something else. And underneath it, something quieter settled in the room.
Not silence. Not tension.
Something in between. Something shared.
You leaned back eventually, plate empty, eyes still on the screen but softer now.
You weren’t really watching anymore. You were listening.
To the TV. To him. To the way the house sounded with both of you in it.
Different.
You didn’t say that out loud. You weren’t ready to.
Robby glanced at you once. Then again, a second longer. Like he was checking. Not what you were doing. That you were still there.
You were.
You didn’t move away.
On the screen, someone started yelling again.
You tilted your head slightly. “She’s wrong, right?”
Robby huffed out a quiet breath. “Completely.”
“Knew it.”
You settled back, a little more comfortable in your corner of the couch.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The TV filled the space. But it wasn’t doing all the work anymore.
Robby didn’t turn it up. Didn’t reach for the remote. Didn’t feel the need to. That was new.
He sat there, listening to the noise, to the show, to your quiet presence beside him, and realized the room didn’t feel like something he had to manage anymore.
It just existed.
And so did you.
Not passing through. Not temporary in the way he had told himself to expect. Just there.
Close enough that he could hear your breathing when the TV dipped quieter between scenes. Close enough that he didn’t feel the need to fill every second of silence before it started.
He didn’t know what this was yet. Didn’t try to name it. Didn’t want to rush it into something it wasn’t ready to be. But for the first time, the thought didn’t come with pressure.
Just something steadier.
Quieter.
If this was what it felt like to not be alone in his own head, he wasn’t in a hurry to break it.
You kept your eyes on the screen, but you weren’t really watching anymore. You were listening. To the voices. To the way they filled the room without crowding it. To the way the quiet in between didn’t feel as sharp as it had before.
And to him.
Not what he was saying.
Just… him.
The way he shifted sometimes. The way his voice lowered when he explained something. The way he didn’t reach for the remote again.
You noticed that. You didn’t comment on it. You just let it sit there. Like something you didn’t want to scare off. Your hand rested loosely in your lap, thumb moving once over your palm without you thinking about it.
The house felt different.
You had said that earlier. You meant it more now. Not because of the furniture. Not because of the room.
Because of this.
This noise. This shared space. This small, careful understanding neither of you had pushed too far.
You didn’t know what it would turn into. You didn’t try to.
For once, you didn’t feel the need to decide the ending before you let something begin.
dr. baby in the house
Jack's little daughter finds his stethoscope and decides she's going to be him to take care of him // fic directory // jack's heart problems (nsfw)
“Dada. I check.”
Jack looks up to see the toddler daughter you gave him in the doorway. There’s batter on her cheek, which makes sense considering he can smell you making pancakes from the kitchen. He has every reason to lick what you’re covered in off of you when breakfast is ready.
“What are you checking, baby—”
His heart registers what she’s holding before his brain can. The pulse of it balloons in his throat, and yeah…he’s pretty fucking ridiculous in not being able to handle what he’s looking at.
She’s clutching his stethoscope in both hands. You’d think she’s found buried treasure.
…Which she has. The thing’s a hundred and fifty bucks, and Jack’s sure he had it tucked away somewhere where she’s not supposed to be.
“I try and find Mommy one. She hide too goooddddd. I like her one. Her so pretty.”
Jack’s dangles almost to Chubby’s knees. The slick, black tubing bounces against her tiny shins.
She runs up to him with her face, full cheeks and all, completely serious. Okay. Whatever. It’s only fair she treats her unapproved act of exploration as a triumph. What’s not fair is that he can already hear your laughter coming down the hall.
Resentfully beautiful music. Fuck off, kiddo.
“I hafta check.”
“Check what?”
Chubby stares at him like he’s the stupidest fuck in the world. Which, okay. He should’ve guessed what she meant with what she’s holding.
“Your heart!”
Jack closes his eyes when she thrusts the stethoscope towards him. When he opens them, maybe five seconds later, his baby’s still holding it out.
You suddenly appear with a spatula in one hand, batter on your hands insanely lickable. Jack could roll his eyes, but he just hauls Chubby up onto his lap.
There’s a world he’s pretty fucking terrified of, one where he’s older and it didn’t take him that long to be older, sicker—a worse heart, and your daughter’s twenty and you’re so much younger than him, and there’s a life he’s pushing both of you to take care of. That world’s orbiting towards him. It’ll be here soon.
But he doesn’t think you’ll forgive him if you ruin this moment with his mental ailments, kiddo. He’ll play Doctor with the girl.
“Ms. Doctor, mind if Mommy consults?”
Chubby nods at you, and Jack puts in the earpieces for her. His mouth thins out into a smile he can’t help but wear despite the future, because he’s here now. Now is pretty fucking beautiful.
You crouch when she gets herself tangled. Jack doesn’t even know how that happened.
“Like this, baby—”
“I know, Mommy.”
“Hey, be nice.”
Jack mutters as Chubby whines with all the desperate independence that implies that she wants to do this all on her own. That might be his contribution of DNA at work. Could be yours. Stubborn nurse that ruined him the first day he met you, and now he’s a patient of your chubby, mini hybrid.
She presses the chestpiece bell to Jack’s chest way too high for her to hear a heartbeat, but she gasps anyway.
“It loud!”
“A little lower.”
Jack guides her small hand and the chestpiece bell just above his heart. He swallows.
He can see his and your Chubby stilling with all the concentration of…him. Of you. She’s hearing his body from the inside, and he watches her watching him.
She tilts her head.
How many lives did he save to deserve the one he has with you and her? Not enough.
Jack questions her quietly, because God-fuck, his voice might crack if he’s any louder.
“What’s your diagnosis, baby?”
Chubby listens to his heart for a couple more seconds.
She taps Jack’s chest.
“It say boom bum boom boom cause it love me and Mommy.”
Jack nearly swallows his tongue, because that…how the hell does she even come up with that? You laugh, and he’s betting you’re smiling so hard that it’s a pain. This is a pain. This is absurd.
“It say you need pancakes too. Mommy, I check you now. Lie down.”
This is what he’ll never deserve, but God help anyone who tries to take this away from him.
Take Care of Yourself @optimisticplb - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
