"Talent in the hands of a jester."

Red Velvet and fanfic enjoyer

[outcaststarfruit]

Masterlist

Michael "Robby" Robinavitch (The Pitt)

Series:

Not My Scene (Work In Progress): When you take a new job at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, you expect long shifts, thin walls, and the kind of exhaustion that settles into your bones. You don’t expect to keep crossing paths with the man you once tried very hard not to want. Between shared hallways, early mornings, and the controlled chaos of the ER, distance becomes harder to maintain.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6 (*NEW* Updated on 1/9/26)

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One-Shots:

Resident Privileges: You weren’t supposed to end up at your attending’s place after a snowstorm, wearing his clothes, wet from his shower. You definitely weren’t supposed to end up under him—saying his name like it meant something, clinging like you’d waited years.

Jack Abbott (The Pitt)

One Shots:

Waiting for You: After a long shift, Jack Abbott comes home to familiar hands and familiar tension. What starts with care quickly turns into something more—heated, close, and impossible to ignore.

Thank you for reading my fanfics!! I appreciate all the likes, reblogs, and comments!

[outcaststarfruit]

"Not My Scene"

Michael Robinavitch (The Pitt) x female! reader pt. 6

Summary: When you take a new job at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, you expect long shifts, thin walls, and the kind of exhaustion that settles into your bones. You don’t expect to keep crossing paths with the man you once tried very hard not to want. Between shared hallways, early mornings, and the controlled chaos of the ER, distance becomes harder to maintain.

Story Status: Incomplete

Word Count: 4.8k

Previous Parts: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

Author's Note: Hey guys! Just wanted to say a few quick things. I’m a little unsure how I feel about this chapter, and I can definitely feel some writer’s block creeping in, mostly because school is about to start. Chemistry and physiology this semester are probably going to kick my ass, so I really wanted to get another chapter out before everything picks up. With school starting, updates will probably be a bit slower. I’ll try to post every couple of weeks, but no promises if things get hectic. I might come back and tweak this chapter later too. Thanks for sticking with me. Hope you still enjoy reading!

Day 1,739 

You were four days into your mandatory week off—an enforced break handed down more out of liability concerns than genuine compassion. No one said it outright, but you understood. Letting you continue working while bruised and possibly concussed was a lawsuit waiting to happen. So now, you were stuck at home, off the schedule, and trying not to lose your mind.

The day you got hit, Heather had wasted no time. She came by, did a thorough assessment, and practically marched you up to radiology herself to rule out any fractures. Luckily, the scans came back clear. No broken bones. Still, the bruising around your nose and cheek was telling its own version of events—deep purple shadows that ached with even the gentlest pressure. Every time you pressed the ice pack to your face, you hissed through your teeth and wished you’d kept your mouth shut about how “smooth” the shift had been going.

Now you were camped out on your couch, bundled in a blanket pulled to your chin, staring at the ceiling like it owed you answers. And the worst part? You were bored out of your damn mind. Without the chaos of work to drown in, everything else bubbled up. You were starting to feel the full weight of how much your life revolved around your job. Friends had drifted—faded into the background over time, their texts fewer, their invites more infrequent. The arts and crafts supplies you once swore you'd get back into were collecting dust in a drawer. And dating? Forget it. 

You weren’t just bored. You were untethered. And maybe a little bit sad.

You were just about to turn off the TV, which had been playing a formulaic Hallmark movie for the past hour—predictable plot, small-town romance, a holiday backdrop. It had served its purpose: background noise to fill the silence. But truthfully, you couldn’t recall a single detail of what you’d just watched. Your hand reached lazily for the remote when a soft knock echoed from your front door.

Your first instinct was to assume it was another sticky note—an anonymous, passive-aggressive reminder to keep it down. The usual. But then you remembered: if Robby had been the one leaving them, that little tradition was probably over now. The mystery had been solved. And after discovering you lived just a wall apart, you doubted he’d risk repeating the awkwardness. You sighed, the weight of boredom and bruises dragging you down as you pushed the blanket off your legs. The cold air prickled against your skin, a small shiver running through you as you stood. You padded quietly to the door, but not before checking the peephole—lesson learned after the last unexpected visitor.

What you saw made you pause.

Robby stood on the other side dressed in his usual scrubs and that worn hospital-issued jacket he never seemed to take off. He looked tired, like he’d just come off shift—or maybe about to start one. Either way, seeing him there, at your door, sent your thoughts spinning. You unlocked the door and opened it slowly, confusion flickering in your expression.

“Robby?” you asked, brows lifting slightly as you opened the door.

He shifted on his feet, one hand rubbing the back of his neck—clearly unsure of how this would go. “Uh… hey. I just came by to drop this off and… check on you.” His voice was low, a little hesitant, as he held out a small plastic bag.

You took it, peering inside. A reusable ice pack. A tube of gel—probably for swelling. Over-the-counter pain meds. All simple things, but together? Unexpected. Especially coming from him.

You glanced back up, trying to read him. “You know you didn’t have to do this, right?”

“I know,” he said, shrugging once. “Still wanted to.”

That threw you off more than the bag did. It wasn’t the Robby you were used to—the guarded, dry one who mostly kept to himself unless work demanded otherwise. This version was softer around the edges. Hesitant, sure, but trying. You knew you might regret what you were about to say, but the words came out anyway.

“You can come in, if you want. I think… we probably have a few things to talk about.”

There was a beat. Then he gave a single nod and stepped inside without a word.

You turned to close the door behind him, only to stop short—nearly bumping right into his back. He hadn’t moved far, standing just past the doorway like he wasn’t sure how far he was allowed to go.

“Jesus, Robinavitch,” you muttered, brushing past him. “It’s a one-bedroom apartment, not a minefield. You can walk.”

“Right…” was all he managed, voice low as he followed you deeper into the apartment. His eyes moved around like he was still trying to decide if this was a good idea. You led him toward the small kitchen/dining area and set the bag down on the wooden table, the contents shifting with a soft rustle.

“You can sit, if you want,” you offered, awkward but genuine, already making your way to the fridge—only a few steps away, but it felt like you needed the distance. Robby settled into one of the three mismatched chairs. You glanced over your shoulder. He looked… out of place here. Too solid, too serious for your slightly chaotic space. You never pictured him sitting at your table, not like this.

“You want something to drink?” you asked, digging through your semi-empty fridge. “I’ve got water… wine… more wine. Christ, I really need to go grocery shopping.”

That earned a quiet chuckle from him—soft, surprised. It broke just enough of the tension.

“Water’s good,” he said, coughing lightly like he wasn’t sure how to be casual in this space either.

You grabbed two bottles and, on your way back, tugged discreetly at the hem of your pink heart-print pajama shorts, suddenly self-conscious. Not exactly the outfit you’d imagined wearing for this conversation. You set one bottle in front of him and took the seat across the table, folding your legs under you and trying not to overthink the fact that Robby was sitting in your apartment like this was normal. Like any of this was normal.

“What do you… want to start with?” Robby asked quietly. The question hung there, and you shifted in your chair, the back edge digging into you as you stared at the table for a second too long before finally looking up. “Honestly? I don’t even know where to begin,” you let out a small, nervous laugh.

“I should probably start by saying I’m sorry about the sticky notes,” he said, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “That was… not my best move.”

“So it was you,” you said quietly.

“Unfortunately, yeah,” he replied.

"Yeah, we can start there. I mean, part of me thought it was kind of funny. Like—what’s the next complaint gonna be? But, okay, yeah, I was a little annoyed. Especially about the blender. That one hurt," you said, huffing out a soft laugh and shaking your head.

"Yeah. That was me being a grumpy asshole. I’m sorry," Robby said, wincing as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“I even left my number so you could just text me instead of… starting a whole Post‑it war,” you added, fiddling with the cap of your water bottle. “But you never did, so I figured you just didn’t want to deal with me.”

“I kept it,” he admitted, eyes dropping to the table. “I just—couldn’t work up the nerve. And after you mentioned you lived nearby… and then I saw you at the bar with someone, and, uh… heard things later…” He trailed off, ears turning pink.

“So you knew I was your neighbor and didn’t say anything?” you asked, clearing your throat as heat rushed to your face.

“I had a pretty strong suspicion,” he said. “Then it felt… confirmed.”

“Okay,” you said quickly, cutting in before the embarrassment swallowed you whole. “How about we stop pretending this is some huge mystery. You heard me having sex. I heard you having sex. We’re adults. It’s awkward, but it doesn’t have to be a whole thing, right?”

You twisted the bottle cap again, trying to sound casual even as your pulse picked up. “We can just… move past it.”

“Yeah,” Robby said, eyes dropping to his hands, voice quiet. “We could move past it.”

“We should probably be more considerate when we’re having sex—” You winced. “Not with each other! I mean like, if we’re… with other people.”

"Clear save there," he said, snorting as the corner of his mouth tugged up. You were grateful for the pause that followed, giving you a second to catch your breath. You weren’t sure why this conversation had you on edge, but it did.

“I will say,” you added after a beat, “the girl you were hooking up with? Kind of a nightmare. She literally barged into my apartment because she thought it was yours.”

“Yeah,” he said with a dry laugh, shaking his head. “She won’t be coming around again.”

“She also mumbled something about you needing to live somewhere nicer.” You gave a pointed glance around your modest apartment. “Like, yeah, it’s not luxury living—but I’ve got hot water, four walls, and no rats. I’m doing okay.”

“She told me my place was depressing and lacked color,” Robby admitted, like he was still mildly offended.

“Ouch.”

“Ouch is right.”

“But seriously—why do you live here?” you said, tilting your head at him. “You make more money than me, and I’m pretty sure you could afford a place that doesn’t flicker when you microwave something.”

Right on cue, the kitchen light gave a faint buzz and blinked overhead.

“It’s close to the hospital,” he said simply, with a shrug.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“If I had your paycheck, I’d live miles from here,” you said, half-laughing as you imagined it—somewhere quiet, maybe even a little porch. Another lull settled between the two of you. Not uncomfortable, just… thick with things left unsaid.

“I guess it’s my turn to apologize,” you said, the words dragging out of you. “I’m sorry about the whole thing with Langdon. I was frustrated—about a lot of things—and I took it out on you. That wasn’t fair.”

“Apology accepted,” Robby said, giving a quiet nod, his expression soft but unreadable.

“That said… I didn’t appreciate you pulling that ‘I’m still an attending here’ card,” you continued, your voice tightening slightly. “I get it—you are. But I’m not one of your residents. I’m not a med student. I’m a paramedic, and I work with you, not under you.”

“I know my attitude wasn’t exactly professional, but reporting me? That stung, Robby. Especially after everything,” you added, fingers fidgeting with the cap of your water bottle.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said, his brow creasing slightly. There was a beat—long enough to make you wonder if he was going to say anything else.

“I was pissed off and… yeah, I took it too far,” he admitted. “I shouldn’t have reported you. That wasn’t the right call.”

You both sat with that for a moment. Neither of you perfect. Both of you trying.

“Well… I can’t really be mad about the report. It’s not like we’re friends,” you spoke before fully thinking it through, the words slipping out quieter than you expected. Your fingers toyed with a loose strand of hair, something to focus on other than the silence that followed. 

“I thought we were,” Robby said after a beat. “At least… at work friends.”

You glanced up. He wasn’t looking at you, just staring at the table again like the answer might be sitting there. His jaw tightened—just for a second—and while you could usually read him, right now his expression was hard to pin down.

“That sounds more like coworkers,” you replied, trying to keep your voice light. “We’ve crossed paths. Talked a bit. But I don’t know much about you, Robby.”

“And Heather mentioned that you don’t really do the whole ‘friends’ thing. Not besides Abbott,” you added. 

“Yeah,” he said simply. “Guess that’s true.”

“So… coworkers,” you said with a small shrug. “Good ones. And now neighbors.”

“Yeah. Neighbors.”

The word hung there longer than it should have. You stared down at your water bottle, turning the cap until it clicked. Inviting him in was supposed to help—clear the air. But now your thoughts were tangled all over again. Did he ever actually think of you as a friend? Did he even care, or were you just another uniform in the hallway to him? 

“I could use some wine. Do you want some wine?” you asked, already getting up before Robby could answer.

“Sure. I wouldn’t mind,” he said with a small cough, his voice casual but watching you more closely than he let on. You moved quickly, grabbing the bottle from the fridge and placing it on the table. Maybe a little too quickly. You reached for the cabinet above, flinging it open with more force than you meant to—your hand clipped the edge and knocked right into your face, landing squarely on the side still tender from the elbow days ago.

“Fuck,” you muttered, breath catching as you instinctively pressed your palm to the spot, bracing yourself against the counter with your other hand.

“Shit—are you okay?” Robby was on you in an instant, crossing the kitchen in just a few strides.

“I’m fine. I just accidentally hit myself in the face,” you grumbled, turning slightly—only to realize he was closer than you expected. Your hand fell away and, just like last time, Robby reached for your face with both hands. His touch was gentle, thumbs near your cheekbones as he tilted your head for a better look. That same concentrated look had returned—equal parts doctor and something more.

“Robby,” you sighed, trying not to lean into his touch, “like I said, I’m fine. I don’t need Dr. Robby right now.”

“If Heather found out you got worse with me here, she’d have my head,” he said, his voice soft but edged with concern as he tilted your chin up slightly, his fingers warm against your skin.

“Heather doesn’t even know we’re neighbors. I’m okay. Trust me,” you said, and then—almost on instinct—you reached up, your fingers brushing into his beard again. Just like last time. But this time, Robby didn’t pull away. His lips twitched faintly under your touch, and for a second, you swore he leaned into it. It made you rethink what you’d said about not being friends.

“Okay,” he said after a pause, dropping his hands, “you’re fine. Just… be careful, alright?”

You let go of him too, though your hand lingered a beat longer than it should’ve.

“I think I’m gonna skip the wine after all,” you muttered, still resting against the counter.

“Then I should probably head out,” he said, clearing his throat as he stepped back, hands slipping into his pockets. You nodded and led him to the door, your steps slow. As you opened it for him, something about the quiet made your chest tighten.

“Thanks for bringing the stuff,” you said quietly, meeting his eyes. “I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” he replied, pausing in the doorway. “I’ll see you around. Good night.”

“Good night, Robby,” you said, giving him a soft smile.

He offered a smile in return before turning toward his apartment—only a few paces away. You closed your door gently behind him and leaned your forehead against the cool wood. You’d cleared the air. Apologized. So had he. And yet… you wanted more. More answers, maybe. Or just more of him.

Maybe you would pour that glass of wine after all.

₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ 

Day 1,743 

You were finally back to work after four more days off—and as much as you hated to admit it, you were glad. The bruises around your nose had faded to a muted yellow and green, still tender but not nearly as obvious. You took the long way in, choosing to walk through the ambulance bay instead of your usual pit stop for coffee runs. No drinks for Heather or the crew today. You figured they could use a break from all the sugar—and maybe from you, too. After stashing your bag in your assigned locker, you headed out to the rig to start your checks. The back doors creaked open, supplies mostly where they were supposed to be. You were bent over, restocking the wipes, when a sudden knock on the door made you jump.

“Jesus, who the hell—” you started, only to stop short when you saw who it was. “Oh. Hey, Dr. Abbott.” Your voice leveled out, casual with just a trace of surprise.

“Heard you got elbowed by a patient,” Jack said, standing just outside the rig like he had nowhere else to be. You rolled your eyes, stepping out as he offered a hand.

 “Thanks for the reminder,” you said with a short laugh, accepting the help as you hopped down.

“You look better,” he added, releasing your hand. His tone was easy, but there was a flicker of something in his gaze—checking, maybe.

“Such a glowing compliment,” you smirked. “Really makes a girl feel great about getting clocked in the face.”

“I figured you could use something better than a pep talk,” Abbott said. “I brought you this,” the drink already waiting in his hand.

“Oh my God. You didn’t have to do that,” you said, taking it. “Thank you. How did you even know this was my favorite?”

“I asked around,” he said easily. “Which really means I asked Dana what you always order. Figured you could use a little get-better present.”

“Sorry I didn’t bring your usual,” you said, a small, apologetic smile tugging at your mouth.

“Nah, you’re fine,” Abbott replied easily. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I’d blame you if I started gaining weight. Kind of hard to preach taking care of patients if I can’t even keep myself in decent shape.” He flexed an arm in an exaggerated, half-mocking way.

“Relax, Hercules,” you laughed and gave him a light shove.

“What?” he said, hands lifting in mock defense. “I’m serious. I’m not that bright-eyed, borderline-stupid resident I was when I started. These days I can feel my back tighten just thinking about lifting a patient. Not exactly inspiring.”

“Cut yourself some slack,” you said. “My back hurts too sometimes—and not to toot my own horn, but I’m very clearly younger than you.”

You laughed again. This time Abbott nudged you back, just enough to make the point.

“Yeah, yeah. Rub it in,” he said. Then, after a brief pause, more thoughtful, “This might be random, but have you ever thought about being a doctor? Med school. The whole mess.”

“I don’t know. I never really had that kind of passion for it. I knew I wanted to help people, sure, but med school always felt… out of reach. Too competitive. Too expensive. And honestly?” you shrugged. “I think I’d hate being one of Robby’s med students.”

“Oh, come on. I think you’d do great,” Abbott said, scoffing softly. “I keep hearing about this one paramedic—quick on their feet, sharp, figures out what patients need before they even hit the ER. Saves us a hell of a lot of time. People notice that kind of thing, even if you don’t,” he added, tilting his head slightly like he was choosing his words carefully.You felt the heat hit your face and looked away before he could notice.

“Pssh,” you said, brushing it off with a laugh. “Like I said, I’d hate being a med student. Especially if I had to be one of Robby’s med students.” 

“That sounded suspiciously like my name,” Robby said from the edge of the ambulance bay, his voice cutting in as he approached from the side.

“Ah, Robby,” Abbott said, smiling and moving slightly closer to you to make space for Robby. 

“Good morning, Dr. Robby,” you said, giving a tight smile. You thought that saying Dr. Robby would be more appropriate considering the conversations you both had a couple of days again. Not friends. Just good co-workers. 

“Are you guys going to tell me why you were talking about me,” Robby asked. Before you could explain yourself, Abbott did for you. 

“I was just if they were interested in becoming a doctor,” Abbott said, giving a slight shrug. 

“I said that it was just in my card right now. Plus, I don’t think I would enjoy being a med student, especially in this environment…” you mumbled the last part. 

“Alright,” Robby said simply. That was it. Just a nod to go with it, unreadable as ever, and it left you guessing—couldn’t tell if he was irritated or amused.

“Um, I should get back to work,” you said, breaking the quiet. “It was nice talking to you, Abbott,” you added with a small smile as you turned toward the ambulance. As if on instinct, Abbott held out his hand. You took it without thinking, using it for balance as you hopped back into the rig. Behind you, voices dropped low—Abbott and Robby murmuring something you couldn’t quite catch—and you weren’t sure why neither of them had moved on yet.

“Okay, I’ve gotta head out,” Abbott said finally. “See you, Robby. See you, kid.”

You turned back at that, lifting a hand in a quick wave and smiling at him before he stepped away. Footsteps followed, receding across the concrete, and you assumed that was it—that both of them had cleared out.

Then—

A cough. 

You turned, a little startled despite yourself, and found him still standing there, arms loose at his sides, expression carrying that faint, amused edge that made it hard to tell whether you were in trouble or not.

“So, Abbott—” Robby started.

“What about Abbott?” you cut in, not looking at him as you turned back to the open compartment, hands busy refilling what needed to be refilled, anything to give yourself something neutral to focus on.

“I heard a rumor,” he said, letting the word hang there. “About you and Abbott…”

“Oh god. Not this again,” you said. “Heather already filled me in. Something about Princess eavesdropping where she shouldn’t,” you added, still not turning around.

“I told you to be careful,” Robby said, his tone measured as his arms crossed over his chest.

“I was careful,” you shot back. “And I got rejected. So what? And why are we even talking about this?” you said, not looking at him as you checked the shelves. “You know we’re not friends.”

“Well,” Robby said, not rising to it, “Abbott is my friend. I just wanted to know what was actually going on between the two of you,” he explained, calm but clearly not backing off.

“Then go ask him,” you said, straightening up and finally looking at Robby. “If you’re that determined to be nosy.”

The second the words left your mouth, the familiarity of it hit you—this tone, this tension, the way the conversation had quietly slipped into something you’d both done before.

“Alright,” Robby said. “Message received.”

You huffed and hopped down out of the ambulance, missing the hand he’d instinctively offered until it was already pulling back, the moment quietly abandoned.

“We’ve already talked about this,” you said. “We’re good coworkers. Neighbors. Nothing more, nothing less,” you added, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. “And I don’t want to talk about whatever you think is going on between me and Abbott. If you’re going to be this nosy, nothing’s even happened.”

“Right,” Robby said, the word dragging out a fraction longer than necessary, like he was still deciding whether he agreed with it.

“Right… I should probably get back to work,” you said, the silence nudging you into filling it. “And, uh—Heather might come by later. If we’re loud or anything, just… knock. Or text me,” you added, the tight smile feeling more like a reflex than a choice.

“Yeah,” Robby said, nodding once. “That’s fine. I’ll—uh, I’ll do that.” His mouth twitched like he was aiming for a smile and only halfway getting there. “See you, neighbor.”

He turned and walked off, leaving you standing there a second longer than necessary, the space he’d occupied still feeling oddly unfinished. You weren’t entirely sure what to do with any of it. Abbott’s words had left you lightheaded in the best way—being seen as capable, sharp, enough to even be considered for med school, for something bigger than the box you’d quietly put yourself in. It made your chest buzz, pride and possibility tangling together until you almost believed it yourself.

And then there was Robby.

The shift in him when you said you weren’t friends replayed on a loop in your head. The way he’d agreed too quickly, like he was forcing himself to accept something he didn’t actually want. Disappointed, maybe—but resigned too, as if keeping distance was safer, even if it cost him something. You let out a long breath and went back to work, grateful that by the end of the shift you and Heather were still riding that strange post-chaos buzz that came from surviving something exhausting together. Somehow, that leftover energy carried you both back to your place instead of straight into bed.

“Still not drinking?” you asked, holding up the bottle as you pulled it from the fridge.

“Nope,” Heather said. “Still on my little health kick,” she added, dropping into the chair and leaning back like she’d earned it.

“Bummer,” you said. “For you. Not me. Guess you’re stuck dealing with me again,” you laughed, setting the bottle and a glass on the table before pouring.

“I deal with your bullshit every shift,” she shot back, grinning. “This is just overtime.”

“By the way,” you said, letting the moment breathe just long enough to seem casual, “I figured out who was leaving those notes on my door.”

“Oh?” Heather said, instantly more alert. “Okay, now I’m invested.”

“It was Robby,” you said, exhaling as the wine filled your glass. “He’s my neighbor.”

“Oof,” she said. “That explains… a lot. Did you talk to him?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “He came by with some stuff for my bruises. Ice packs, gel, pain meds. Very… thoughtful,” you added, frowning slightly. “Not exactly on brand for him.”

“That’s because that’s not his ‘hospital Robby’ setting,” Heather said. “That’s his ‘quiet human’ one.”

“I invited him in,” you continued. “We talked. Cleared some things up. Apologized. And I told him we’re not friends,” you finished, voice dropping a notch.

“Ooof,” Heather hissed again, this time more sympathetic. “Yeah, that one probably landed.”

“I thought he was fine with it,” you said, lifting the glass and taking a sip. “We both agreed. But then today, when I said it again? He looked… disappointed,” you admitted, staring into the wine like it might explain itself.

Heather didn’t respond right away.

“I can tell this is getting under your skin,” she said finally. “Which means it’s not actually about the notes.”

“Nothing about this makes sense,” you said, agitation creeping in. “A guy I was sort of friends with, then fought with, then decided was just a coworker with boundary issues—and now he lives next door? Of course it’s stressing me out.”

“Yeah,” Heather said gently. “Because you don’t do unresolved. And Robby is basically unresolved in scrubs.”

“Exactly,” you huffed. 

“You remember how I mentioned setting you up with someone?” she asked, leaning forward slightly. “I talked to him. He’s interested. Normal. Emotionally available. Doesn’t leave passive-aggressive notes.”

“Heather—,” you groaned. 

“You need a distraction,” she cut in. “Work’s been heavy. Robby’s clearly in your head. I’m not letting you spiral into hospital hermit mode.”

You sighed, but you nodded, letting her steer the conversation somewhere safer. From there, it stayed easy—Heather doing what Heather did best, filling the space with stories that required absolutely no emotional unpacking. At some point, she launched into an over-the-top reenactment of a patient who’d managed to lodge something in a place the sun definitely didn’t shine, complete with hand gestures and sound effects you didn’t ask for. You lost it completely, laughing so hard you wheezed, clutching your side as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes.

It felt good—normal, even—to laugh like that.

That was when your phone buzzed against the table.

You groaned reflexively and reached for it, still smiling as you flipped the screen over—only for the amusement to drain from your face.

Unknown number.

Hey. It’s Robby. I know you and Heather are having fun, but as your very professional coworker, I’d appreciate it if you kept it down. Some of us need sleep.

 You scoffed under your breath. Of course now he found the nerve to text you—and of course he did it wrapped in sarcasm. Very professional coworker. You could practically hear the dry edge in his voice, the way he’d twisted your own words back at you. Just coworkers. Nothing less. Nothing more. The message wasn’t subtle; it was Robby taking the piss, poking at the line you’d drawn earlier like he couldn’t resist testing whether it still held.

₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

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[outcaststarfruit]

Waiting For You

Jack Abbott (The Pitt) x female! reader (One Shot)

Summary: After a long shift, Jack Abbott comes home to familiar hands and familiar tension. What starts with care quickly turns into something more—heated, close, and impossible to ignore.

Word Count: 4.3k

Warnings/Tags (18+ MDNI): mentions of a car accident, established relationship, oral sex (male receiving), ball play (??? LOL),cum swallowing, slightly submissive Jack, no PIV sex, porn with some plot basically

Author's Note: Totally forgot this was sitting in my drafts—whoops. Hope you enjoy the read! And if I missed any important warnings or tags, feel free to let me know. I’m still pretty new to writing fanfic, so I’m figuring out what counts

You sat on the couch, nerves making you fidget with your phone as it rested in your lap, eyes flicking between the screen and the TV. The news was covering a car accident—multiple vehicles, multiple victims—sirens wailing over shaky footage of twisted metal and flashing lights. Your stomach tightened when the reporter mentioned emergency responders being stretched thin. You already knew what that meant.

Jack had been called in. Again.

It was supposed to be his day off, but understaffing had struck once more, pushing your plans with him back yet again. The third time in the last two weeks. You weren’t furious, not exactly, but the disappointment still stung. You’d been looking forward to tonight. Still, you understood—he had responsibilities, people depending on him in moments that mattered far more than a quiet night on the couch. With a tired sigh, you sank deeper into the cushions and unlocked your phone to check the time. 8:01 PM. Late enough that hope was starting to feel a little foolish. You honestly doubted he’d make it over tonight.

It had been over a year since the two of you started dating, and more than three since you first met. The memory felt almost cliché now—the classic café meet‑cute. You working the counter, him coming in often enough to become familiar. A regular. Quiet. A little older than your usual type. A doctor with a reserved air that made him feel like a mystery you didn’t intend to solve at first.

Your interest had been platonic in the beginning. Friendly conversations, learning his order, small smiles exchanged across the counter. But slowly, without you quite realizing when it happened, that interest shifted into something deeper. When you finally admitted your feelings a year into your friendship, he shut it down gently. He wasn’t ready. A widow. Still learning how to exist in a world that had already taken too much from him. You’d been disappointed, sure—but you understood.

Another year passed before anything changed.

You still remembered the night clearly: him pulling you aside into the narrow alley next to the café after your shift, joking nervously to cut the tension. The tips of his ears had been bright red as he confessed that his feelings had changed, that he couldn’t stop thinking about you anymore. You’d said yes without hesitation. And to this day, you still teased him about it—about how he chose to confess his feelings in the least romantic place possible: an alleyway, only a few feet away from a garbage can.

You were just about to text him—thumb hovering over the screen, already forming the words it’s okay, you can just go home—when you heard it. Footsteps in the hallway. The soft jingle of keys. The familiar click of your front door opening.

Your heart jumped before your brain caught up.

You were off the couch in an instant, moving toward the door without even thinking, already knowing exactly who it was.

“Hey, baby,” Jack said, voice tired but warm as he dropped his bag to the floor and toed off his shoes.

He barely had time to straighten up before you were on him, arms sliding around his neck like you’d been waiting all night—which you had. He let out a surprised huff of laughter as you collided with him.

“Woah,” he said, amused, arms circling your waist and pulling you in close, squeezing you tight like he needed it just as much. “Someone missed me.”

“I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever,” you said, finally pulling back just enough to look at him—though your arms stayed right where they were. His face was lined with exhaustion, small wrinkles etched deeper than usual, freckles standing out against tired skin. He looked worn down… and still impossibly familiar.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. Work’s been—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You stepped in and kissed him, cutting off the apology before it could settle between you. Right then, nothing else mattered—not the long shift, not the sirens still echoing in his head, not the weight he’d carried through the door. All you wanted was him—his warmth, his steady presence, the way he leaned into you like he'd been holding his breath until now. You were just about to deepen the kiss, fingers twitching at his back, when Jack’s hand slid gently into your hair and tugged—firm, deliberate, bringing your mouth away from his with frustrating ease. You let out a soft whine, more instinct than protest, your lips chasing his for half a second before his voice cut through.

“I should probably shower first,” he said, voice low like it was just an observation. “I stink. And I doubt you want my dirty scrubs anywhere near your bed… or anything else in here.”

“Please. You think that ever stopped me before?” you said, a smirk playing at your lips as you stepped in closer, head tilted just slightly. “Pretty sure we’ve had sex in worse conditions—couch, kitchen counter… you dragging yourself in half-dead after a double shift. I was never exactly picky.”

The words landed with a spark—teasing, but threaded with something deeper. That earned a rough laugh and a warm kiss to your forehead, his arms slowly falling away from your waist. You took the cue and released him too, though part of you wanted to hold on longer.

“I’ll order dinner while you shower,” you offered, already turning back toward the living room. Jack followed you a few steps before breaking off toward the bathroom. You dropped onto the couch, grabbing your phone, but paused just as he reached the hallway. Something tugged at you—a quiet, familiar concern.

“Hey,” you said, looking back. “Do you need help showering? I know your leg’s been bothering you lately…”

Your eyes flicked down, not wanting to make it a thing.

Jack paused in the doorway, then turned enough to catch your gaze again. “I got it,” he said simply, the corners of his mouth lifting just a little. “But thanks for asking.”

Then he disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

You decided you’d had enough of the news and noise, flicked the TV off, and padded into your bedroom to wait. You settled onto the bed, back against the headboard, limbs loose and heavy, letting the quiet stretch out around you. About twenty minutes passed before you heard the bathroom door creak open and soft steps approaching—then Jack walked in, still damp, towel slung low around his waist, another smaller one in hand as he raked it through his hair.

You let out a playful whistle without thinking.

That got you a flat look from him—and then a towel straight to the face.

You yelped, half laughing as the damp fabric flopped over your head, temporarily blinding you. “What? I get punished for appreciating my very attractive boyfriend?”

You pulled the towel off and tossed it onto your side table. Jack was already heading toward the dresser, muttering something under his breath.

“I’m gonna start charging you for all this staring,” he said, voice dry as ever as he opened the drawer you’d cleared out for him. You remembered how surprised he’d been the first time you showed it to him—an empty space waiting in your dresser, just for his things. Like you knew he'd keep coming back. He hadn’t said much then, just gave you that look that said more than he ever would out loud. Like any good girlfriend (with absolutely zero shame), you stayed exactly where you were and watched as he pulled on a pair of sweatpants—no shirt. He didn’t bother telling you to turn around. Just gave you a sidelong glance and a half-smile like he knew you wouldn’t listen anyway. You grinned and adjusted yourself on the bed, sliding down enough to get comfortable with two pillows propped behind your back, already settling in for the night.

You finally pulled your eyes away from Jack—after watching longer than you probably should’ve—and turned your attention to your phone, scrolling through Instagram without seeing a single post. Behind you, the bed shifted, mattress dipping with his weight as he sat down heavily. A soft, tired grunt left him, the kind he made after pushing too hard for too long. You didn’t look, but you could hear the quiet clicks and the muted strain of movement. He was taking off his prosthetic—slow, practiced motions, careful but automatic. You knew he could handle it on his own; he always did. Didn’t like being hovered over. Didn’t ask for help.

Still, part of you wanted to be there for it—not because he needed you, but because you wanted to know all of him. Not just the parts that reached for you.

Without saying a word, you got up and crossed the room. He glanced up when you stopped in front of him, and you smiled—soft, without expectation. Just letting him see you. Letting him know you were here.

“Why don’t you ever ask for help?” you murmured, voice softer now, the edge of playfulness fading as you stepped in close—right between his legs—and slid your arms up around his neck. Your fingers laced together behind him, holding him there. Jack let out a breath through his nose, slow and tired, hands resting on your thighs as they moved in lazy strokes up and down. “Because I don’t need help.”

“But you’re tired,” you said, searching his face. “And I know you don’t exactly love dealing with your prosthetic after a shift like that.”

“I’m fine… dealing with it,” he muttered, eyes flicking away from yours.

You didn’t press, but you felt the wall go up—the one he didn’t like to admit was there. Jack was sure of himself in every other way, carried confidence like second nature, but you knew this was the exception. His prosthetic wasn’t shameful, not to him. But it was complicated. A reminder. A piece of him he didn’t offer up easily. You never gave him those looks—the ones he hated, full of sympathy or discomfort—but you saw him. And he knew that.

You leaned in and pressed a small kiss to the corner of his mouth, soft and slow, before your lips brushed against his ear.

“Stay here,” you whispered, your breath warm against his skin. “Don’t move… please.”

He shivered under your hands, the kind of reaction he couldn’t hide even if he tried.

You slipped your hands free from his and headed for the bathroom without a word. In the bathroom, you opened the mirrored cabinet and reached behind the usual clutter. The small bottle of lavender oil waited where you'd left it. You took it and padded back to the bedroom, steps quiet, light catching on the glass as you returned. Jack had already taken off his prosthetic and placed it carefully on the floor, foot angled just so, like it always was. He looked up as you approached, already shaking his head.

“You don’t have to do that…”

You ignored the half-hearted protest, kneeling between his legs, bottle in hand. “Oh please. It’s not a big deal.”

You’d been in this position before—in other situations, with very different intentions—but this felt heavier. The kind of closeness that didn’t come with teasing or urgency. You weren’t always lovey-dovey, not the kind of couple that drowned in soft talk and constant affection, but moments like these… they burned deeper. Quiet, intimate, a kind of rawness that settled under the skin and stayed there.

Jack didn’t ask for help. Not with this. But you knew how his prosthetic could dig in after a shift, the way it left angry red marks along skin that never really got a break. He never complained, but his body always told the truth.

You pushed his sweatpants up over his knee, revealing the end of his limb—faintly flushed, a little sore-looking in places. You warmed the oil between your hands, then reached out and began smoothing it into his skin, slow and steady. Your palms moved up and down with just enough pressure to ease the tension without causing discomfort.

Jack let out a low groan, more relief than anything else, head tipping slightly as your thumbs worked in slow circles.

Yeah. He wasn’t going to stop you now.

Your hands moved with slow, practiced pressure, massaging up and down the length of his limb with quiet attention, working carefully over the scar tissue. You focused on the skin—on being gentle where it was worn, firm where it needed relief—not on him. But he was focused on you.

Jack watched the way your brows pinched slightly as you worked, the way your bottom lip caught between your teeth in concentration. The warmth of your hands, the weight of your care—it all hit harder than it should have after the kind of day he’d had. And god, the things you said to him—like they were facts. How smart he was. How good he was to his patients. Like he hadn’t let you down a dozen times already. Like you still believed in him, wanted him, even when he wasn’t at his best.

He let out another low groan—not from tension this time, but from the way all of it settled inside his chest, full and unbearable.

“You’re always so damn good to me,” Jack murmured, voice lower now as he leaned back on one elbow, looking down at you with something softer in his eyes.

You glanced up at him and smiled, still massaging, still grounded in the moment. “Of course I am,” you said, teasing, easy. “Well, someone’s gotta spoil you—since you clearly won’t do it yourself.”

You were about to tease him again, maybe say something smug, when Jack suddenly sat up—his hand slipping behind your head, fingers firm at the nape of your neck, halting your movements before the words could even leave your mouth. Your gaze snapped to his face, and whatever easygoing expression he’d worn before was gone.

That’s when you noticed it—what your hands had missed in your focused care. The way the front of his sweatpants had grown noticeably tighter, the outline of him thick and straining against the fabric. Aching. You’d been so wrapped up in tending to him, in pampering and touching and teasing, that you hadn’t realized what it was doing to him. How long he’d been holding it in.

“Oh…” was all that slipped from your lips, soft and breathless—half surprise, half something else entirely. You always had a quip loaded, a teasing remark ready to toss his way, but your mind blanked at the sight of him now. You hadn’t expected this. You thought he’d be too tired, too wrung out from the shift, too worn down to want. And yet—there he was. Hard, aching, and watching you with that slow, simmering intensity that always made it hard to think straight.

Jack’s hand remained at the back of your neck, warm and steady, his thumb brushing absently against your skin. His voice came quiet but sure, low enough it sank right into your spine.

“You’re always so good to me…” he murmured again, like it was a truth he was still trying to wrap his head around.

You looked up at him, lips parting, voice softer but full of that low pull of want.

“Yeah… well, can you blame me?” you murmured, your hands moving slowly up his thighs. “Even after a long shift, you still take care of me. You’re such a good doctor…somehow, you always make time for me. Always put me first.”

You felt his fingers flex slightly behind your neck, and the way he looked at you then… like you were something he’d been holding back from touching all day. You moved toward him slowly, crawling up with deliberate intent, your body brushing his as you leaned in. Your lips grazed his skin in a trail of warm, slow kisses—over the faint line of his happy trail, across the taut muscles of his stomach, the rise of his chest, the curve of his neck. You hovered at the edge of his mouth, your breath mingling with his, teasing, but never quite landing the kiss.

Jack let out a low breath, chasing your mouth as you pulled back just slightly.

 “Oh, come on,” he murmured, his voice rough with restraint. “You’re just playing with me now.”

You smiled as you rose to your feet, settling between his thighs. His hands found your hips, then slid lower, palms fitting around your ass like they belonged there. You cradled his face in your hands, thumbs brushing over the stubble along his jaw as you studied him.  You remembered the first time you saw him. How his ears had flushed when you took his order. He’d been a little younger then—still steady, still composed—but there was a softness to him that hadn’t changed. 

“What’s going through that head of yours?” Jack asked, voice quieter now, eyes narrowing slightly as his hands moved in slow, lazy passes over the curve of your hips.

“Just thinking…” you murmured, your fingers trailing along the curve of his collarbone, brushing lightly over the line where skin met fabric.

“About what?” Jack asked, voice low—curious but edged with heat.

You didn’t answer—not with words. You dipped down instead, slow and deliberate, easing back to your knees in front of him. His eyes followed your movement, but before he could make a remark—teasing or otherwise—you leaned in and pressed a kiss over the hard line of him through his sweatpants, warm and lingering.

His breath caught instantly.

His hand slid into your hair, fingers threading through the strands as he exhaled sharply. You held his gaze as your teeth grazed him through the fabric—just enough pressure to pull a hiss from his lips, just enough to make his grip tighten, firm but not rough.

The tension between you stretched thin—charged, electric, and fully in your control.

You pressed another kiss over the thick fabric of his sweats, this time letting your mouth part slightly—your tongue tracing a slow line along the heat of him beneath. Saliva soaked into the cotton, leaving a damp imprint where your mouth lingered. A low moan rumbled from his chest as his hand slid to the back of your head, urging you closer without a word.

“Sweetheart… you’re really gonna keep teasing me like this?” Jack said, voice strained and rough, his hips tilting subtly toward your face.

You looked up at him, lips brushing the seam of his waistband. “I want to say yes so badly,” you said, fingers curling lightly at his sides, “but you deserve it… Dr. Abbott.”

The sound of his title from your mouth made him inhale sharply. His hips rolled again, instinctive and slow, like the word alone unraveled something in him. You used to wonder why he liked being called that in moments like these. You’d figured he’d want to keep work and everything else separate. At first, he couldn’t quite explain it either. But eventually, he’d admitted it had less to do with ego and more with what it cost him to earn the title. All those years of study, of doubt, of sleepless nights… and here, now, it grounded him. Commanded respect. Desire. And from your mouth, it sounded like something sacred. 

You curled your fingers around the waistband of his sweats and tugged them down slowly, earning a quiet exhale from Jack as he lifted his hips to help. You slipped them off with ease, bunching the soft fabric in your hands before using it to wipe your palms clean—making sure the leftover lavender oil wouldn’t interfere with what came next.

When you looked back at him, you expected boxers—some barrier, some pause before things really started. But there wasn’t one. His cock was already hard, the tip flushed deep red, heavy with need and aching for attention. The sight alone made heat curl low in your belly, a soft sound catching in your throat before you could stop it.

“Already waiting for me?” you teased, voice low and slow as you reached out, your fingers wrapping lightly around the base of his cock. 

“I’m always waiting for you…” Jack said, his voice low and rough as he rolled his hips into your hand, chasing the contact. You let your touch drift lower, hands gliding over the smooth skin before cupping his balls, gently massaging until his breath hitched. The sound he let out—half grunt, half moan—went straight to your core. You kept it up, slow and steady, watching his body react to every shift of pressure. It didn’t take long before he started to subtly guide your head closer, his hips tilting with quiet urgency—silent pleading for attention exactly where he needed it.

“Oh, Dr. Abbott,” you teased, your voice laced with mock sympathy, “I expected a little more restraint. Aren’t doctors supposed to be patient?” You let your hand slide back to the base of his cock, gripping just enough to earn another sound from deep in his throat.

“I’m not gonna last if you keep this up,” he muttered, almost to himself, eyes fluttering shut for a second before flicking open—like he couldn’t decide whether to be ashamed or just beg. “So please… just…”

The words trailed off, but the way he looked at you—flushed, freckles nearly hidden beneath that rising heat—said the rest. It wasn’t often you had the reins like this. Jack usually led. Directed. Owned every second. But tonight?

Tonight, he’d handed it over.

You leaned in slightly, lips curved in a quiet smile as you exhaled just enough warmth onto his cock to make him groan, head falling back as his fingers curled tightly into the fabric beneath him. You leaned in and pressed a soft, deliberate kiss to the tip, feeling the way his hips jolted at the contact. The movement brought the head of his cock right against your lips, warm and already aching for more. You could’ve dragged it out—taunted him a little longer—but you had told him he deserved this. And you meant it.

So you opened your mouth, just slightly, letting the tip slide in as your tongue flicked against it in slow, teasing strokes. You sucked gently, savoring the way Jack’s breath caught—then came the sound, a soft, broken whimper that sent heat curling low in your stomach. You moaned around him, the vibration earning another quiet gasp from above. You didn’t stop. You ran your tongue along the underside, slow and purposeful, then up along the cock, letting your lips follow. He twitched against your tongue—just enough to let you know. Encouraged, you sank lower, taking more of him in, letting the rhythm deepen.

“That’s it…” he breathed, his hand sliding into your hair and gripping the back of your scalp a little rougher this time, guiding you down until you gagged softly as the head of his cock brushed the back of your throat. Your nose pressed into his lower stomach, breath shaky and warm against his skin. Jack eased you back just enough for you to catch it, then guided you forward again, setting a slow, controlled rhythm that had you completely at his mercy now.

You looked up at him, letting him take over, and his eyes were closed in concentration, jaw tight, chest rising and falling as he moved you along his length. Drool slipped from the corner of your mouth, trailing down your chin, tears stinging at your eyes from the stretch and the pace—and you loved him like this, focused and undone, all control slipping through his fingers. It didn’t take long. Just a few more strokes, a few more shallow thrusts into your mouth, before his body tensed. You felt him twitch against your tongue, a warning you didn’t need. A low, broken grunt left him as he finally spilled his cum into your mouth, breath shuddering as he held you there for a second longer before easing you back.

A soft pop echoed in the quiet room as you pulled off him, his chest rising and falling with deep, uneven breaths. While he tried to catch his breath, you took a second to swallow—then leaned in and pressed a final, teasing kiss to his tip, which earned you a low groan from deep in his throat.

You pushed yourself up, knees still a little wobbly, and before you could fully steady yourself, Jack’s hand reached out, firm and instinctive, settling at the small of your back to hold you upright.

“Thank you… for that,” he murmured, lips brushing your stomach in lazy, affectionate kisses. You laughed softly, feeling the warmth of it as his fingers hooked in the waistband of your sleep shorts.

You caught his hand and leaned down, gently cupping his face until his eyes found yours.

“Go to bed,” you said, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth.

“But I was gonna return the favor,” he mumbled, a hint of a whine slipping through—just enough to make you smirk.

“Tomorrow,” you promised. “You’re exhausted, Jack. I can see it.”

He sighed like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy, which made you realize he was still completely bare. You raised a brow.

“You want sweats or are you sleeping naked?”

He cracked a lazy grin. “Pass me a pair.”

You grabbed a clean pair of sweats from the drawer and turned to hand them over—only to yelp when his hand smacked your ass, quick and teasing. Laughing, you tossed the pants at his chest in return, just like he’d once thrown a towel at you You helped him slide into them, fingers brushing skin in unhurried passes before climbing into bed beside him. He welcomed you instantly, arm curling around your shoulders as you settled against him, your head finding its usual place over his heart.

“You know I love you, right?” he asked quietly, voice low in the dark.

You let out a half-hearted groan. “Ugh, Abbott, don’t go all mushy on me.”

He chuckled, thumb tracing idle patterns along your arm. “Tough. I do love you.”

You sighed—but smiled, tipping your chin up toward him. “I love you too.”

[outcaststarfruit]

"Not My Scene"

Michael Robinavitch (The Pitt) x female! reader pt. 5

Summary: When you take a new job at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, you expect long shifts, thin walls, and the kind of exhaustion that settles into your bones. You don’t expect to keep crossing paths with the man you once tried very hard not to want. Between shared hallways, early mornings, and the controlled chaos of the ER, distance becomes harder to maintain.

Story Status: Incomplete

Word Count: 5.4k

Previous Part: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Author's Note: Whoa, another chapter in less than a day! I got a little too excited and ended up writing more than I planned. This one features a slightly messy reader, some tension, and a few moments I really enjoyed putting together. Quick warning: there’s a brief mention of a gun (not used), a bloody nose, and some mild sexual context (not explicit, and once again—not with Robby, IM SORRY). Other than that, I hope you enjoy the chapter!

Day 1,732

“That’s bullshit, right? Like—actual bullshit?!” you said, yanking open the fridge and grabbing the bottle of wine with more force than necessary. It had been a week since the whole mess with Robby, and now you were standing in your apartment with Heather, still reeling from the fallout.

You figured Robby had been bluffing when he threatened to go to your supervisor.

Apparently not.

Because now? You had a bright, shiny behavioral incident report stamped on your file and a verbal warning to match.

“I thought we were cool,” you muttered, reaching into the cabinet for two wine glasses, your voice quieter now—more tired than angry.

Heather, already perched at your kitchen table with her sleeves pushed up and her expression tight, let out a sigh. “I’m not defending him. But… dragging up my past relationship with him in the middle of a fight? That wasn’t exactly professional either.”

You winced but nodded. “Yeah, I know. I’m not proud of it. But I’ve been trying to talk to him all week. Every time I spot him, he’s already halfway out the damn building before I can say a word.”

You placed the glasses and wine down on the table, pausing when you caught the shift in Heather’s face—subtle, but there. Something uneasy flickered in her expression.

“I’m actually not drinking right now,” she said, clearing her throat and adjusting in her seat like she’d been bracing to say it.

You blinked. “Wait—seriously? Since when? This isn’t the Heather I know—the one who swore a glass of wine a night was a basic human right.”

She gave a small, noncommittal shrug. “Just felt like cutting back. Thought a little reset might be good.”

“Hey, that’s totally fine. No pressure,” you said, picking up the second glass and slipping it back into the cabinet. “But just so you know… you’re still stuck hanging out with drunk me tonight.”

You gave her a tired grin as you poured your own glass and sank into the chair across from her.

Heather rolled her eyes, but her mouth curved up just a little. “Lucky me.”

“Honestly? I’m still surprised he actually went through with reporting me,” you said, swirling the wine in your glass as you leaned back. “Makes me wonder if he bothered to report Langdon too—golden boy of the ER and all.” Your tone dripped with sarcasm.

Heather didn’t even bother hiding her skepticism. She took a slow sip from her water bottle, eyes steady. “Yeah… I doubt that happened.”

You scoffed quietly. “Figures. I just… I thought we were solid. Not best friends or anything, but we had a rhythm. Work friends, sure—but I figured that meant something. At least enough for him to hear me out before tossing me under the bus.”

Heather exhaled, setting her bottle down with a soft thud. “Hate to break it to you, but Robby doesn’t really do friends around here. Not outside of Abbott.”

Her words landed sharper than you expected. You blinked, trying not to let it show, but there it was—that sting you didn’t want to admit was disappointment. So it was just you. You’d been the only one who thought there was something mutual in that easy banter, in those quiet moments between calls. That maybe, just maybe, there was something to build on.

Apparently not.

“Right…” you murmured, voice quieter now.

A lull settled between you and Heather—comfortable, familiar. You sipped your wine slowly while she drank from her water bottle, both of you lost in your own thoughts for a moment. The weight of everything hung in the air, but you were tired of carrying it. Especially this thing with Robby, whatever it was now. You hated thinking of it as just work drama, but that’s how it played out. That’s how the ER ran—whispers behind whiteboards, eyes that lingered just a second too long in the hallway.

I heard the new paramedic and Robby got into it. I heard Robby reported them. I heard they might be suspended.  Blah, blah, blah.

You knew people talked. You knew they knew you’d heard them.

You needed a new subject.

“So…” you said, drawing out the word, aiming for casual. “Is there anyone you’re seeing right now?”

Heather snorted into her water. “That’s the pivot you’re making?”

“I’m allowed to want a little gossip,” you said, holding your hands up. “I’m exhausted from talking about work, and we haven’t hung out properly in forever. Let me be nosy about your love life.”

Heather leaned back, giving you a look. “First of all, there is no love life.”

You gave her a dramatic pout. “Tragic.”

“Second,” she continued, “you’re not wrong—we’ve barely seen each other lately. That’s on me. I’ve just been… pulled in a million directions.”

“It’s fine,” you said, your smile soft. “We both have. Life happens.”

Heather’s eyes narrowed just slightly, a knowing smirk tugging at her mouth. “What about you? Seeing anyone?”

You nearly choked on your wine, the warmth creeping up your neck before you could stop it.

“Well—I tried seeing someone,” you admitted, setting your glass down. “Didn’t exactly pan out.”

“Was it Abbott?” Heather asked, smirk spreading like she already knew the answer.

Your eyes widened. “How the hell did you know that?”

“I didn’t know for sure,” she said, picking up her water bottle. “But I mean… come on. First it was Robby. And don’t even try to argue—if I hadn’t been with him when you two met, you would’ve completely lost your cool and probably ended up in his lap.”

You groaned. “God, I hate how well you read me.”

“So yeah, it totally tracks that Abbott would be next,” she continued. “Older, keeps to himself, quiet but competent. There’s that whole tragic backstory energy thing going on. It’s very on-brand for you.”

You covered your face with your hands. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Oh—speaking of,” Heather added casually, like she was just remembering, “someone saw you. When you asked him.”

You froze. “Wait. What?”

“Yeah… Princess heard you,” she said, naming one of the ER nurses. “She was about to step out for a smoke or whatever, but when she got to the doors, she heard voices and decided to stick around.”

Your stomach dropped. “You’re joking.”

Heather winced. “I wish I was. She didn’t hear the whole thing, just the good part—your little ‘hey, wanna go on a date?’ moment. Said Abbott let you down real gentle, though. Which, I mean… good for you, but—”

“Oh my god,” you groaned, dropping your head to the table. “That’s humiliating.”

Heather didn’t sugarcoat it. “Yeah… and since you don’t really hang around the main nurses’ station much, you missed the whispers. But trust me—it spread fast. You’d think someone crashed a rig in the ambulance bay the way people were talking.”

You groaned again, dragging your palms down your face. “What exactly did they say?”

Heather leaned back, sipping her water. “Something like, ‘Did you hear one of the new paramedics shot their shot with Abbott and got rejected?’ Nothing too cruel. Just… you know. ER gossip.”

You let your head hit the table. “I’m never showing my face in that ER again.”

“This was, what—a week ago? You know how the ER works. Someone codes in triage and everyone forgets what they were gossiping about five seconds ago. That rumor’s already dead.”

“Thank god.”

You finally lifted your head from your hands, the tight knot of embarrassment loosening just a bit at Heather’s reassurance.

“But…”

 “There’s a but?”

Your voice had that familiar edge of dread, and Heather didn’t even try to hide the smirk that followed.

“But that doesn’t mean they’ve stopped calling Abbott Mr. Heartbreaker behind the nurses’ station.”

“Oh, my god.”

 You groaned, dragging your hands down your face.

 “I already felt bad for putting him on the spot. Now they’re teasing him over it? I need to apologize. This just makes everything worse.”

“Honestly? You wouldn’t be in this mess if you stopped flirting with men who schedule colonoscopies during lunch breaks.”

“Hey!”

You pointed a finger at her, trying to glare but failing through the laugh already building.

“I’m not the one who dated her attending—who, by the way, is old enough to have written your birth certificate and filed it by hand.”

The both of you lost it. You wheezed first. Then Heather cracked, and for a minute the apartment filled with loud, completely unrestrained laughter—just the kind that made your ribs hurt and your cheeks burn. Honestly? You needed it. Before you could fire back with another jab, a soft knock cut through the laughter.

“Are you expecting someone else?” Heather asked, already eyeing you as you pushed your chair back.

“Nope,” you said, standing. “But I’ve got a pretty good guess who—or what—it is.”

You opened the door.

No one stood there. Of course not.

You let out a quiet huff and stepped into the hallway, eyes drifting toward the peephole out of habit.  Right on cue, a neon‑pink sticky note was slapped crookedly against the wood. You peeled it off with two fingers and headed back inside.

“Well?” Heather asked. “Mysterious admirer or serial killer?”

“No one,” you said, then amended, handing her the note. “Well. Someone.”

“Please quiet down. I have a shift tomorrow. I would appreciate it—smiley face,” Heather read aloud, squinting slightly at the note.

“This isn’t even the first one,” you said, dropping back into your chair. “It’s, like… the tenth? I still have no idea who keeps leaving them.”

Heather didn’t say anything right away. She turned the note over, studied the handwriting, the angle of the letters, the aggressively cheerful punctuation.

“Any guesses?” you asked. “I mean, half the hospital lives in this building, but I’ve been too lazy to set up a camera.”

“It looks familiar,” she murmured. “I just can’t place it.”

You sighed. “What kills me is that they complain about us laughing—but not when I had a guy over last week.”

Heather’s head snapped up. “You had someone over?”

“Yeah,” you said casually. “Some guy in his twenties. You would’ve absolutely roasted me if you’d seen him. Not my usual type.”

“You do know these walls are paper thin,” she said.

“I know,” you shot back. “The notes make that pretty clear. I just… needed a break, okay? Abbott rejected me, I felt like shit, and I wanted to feel wanted. It was impulsive. It worked. I moved on.”

Well, it wasn’t like you’d truly moved on. Abbott still lingered in the back of your mind, a quiet presence you hadn’t quite shaken. What if you tried again—after more time, more buildup? What if he did like you, just not enough to be seen with you? That one stung. You pushed the thought aside before it could settle.

Heather watched you for a beat, then leaned back in her chair. “I could set you up with someone.”

You opened your mouth to say no—then stopped. Thought about it. About Abbott. About Robby. About how exhausting it was to keep circling the same emotional dead ends.

“…Yeah,” you said finally. “I think I’d actually like that.”

Heather smiled, already smug. “Just so you know, they’ll be closer to our age.”

You lifted your glass and took a slow sip. “Honestly? That might be exactly what I need. No more older men with emotional baggage and god complexes.”

Heather raised her water bottle in mock agreement.

The conversation stayed light until the very end—laughs mixed with a few tears, the kind that came from letting everything spill out after holding it in too long. Eventually, Heather checked the time and groaned, saying she had to head out. You walked her to the door, hugged her tight, and promised—again—that these hangouts would happen more often. You closed the door softly and turned back toward the table, eyeing the mess you’d made. Empty glasses, the wine bottle still sitting out. You picked it up, already heading for the fridge, when a knock sounded.

Another note? you thought.

You didn’t bother checking the peephole. You were fully expecting to open the door to an empty hallway and a bright pink sticky note taped to it.

Instead, you were met with the blonde woman you’d seen with Robby.

“Excuse me. Who are you?” she asked, her tone sharp and unapologetically rude.

Wow. Rude.

“Uh, the person who rents this apartment,” you replied, brow lifting. “I should probably be the one asking who you are.”

“Is Michael here?” she asked, already trying to step past you. You blocked her instantly, pushing her back before she could get anywhere near your living room. Michael? Who the fuck is Michael?

“Whoa, whoa—lady. You don’t just barge into someone’s home,” you said, irritation flaring.

She scoffed. “God, I wish Michael picked a better place to live…” she muttered, trailing off.

Your patience snapped. You started closing the door, ready to end the interaction entirely, when she stopped you one last time.

“Is this 206?” she asked.

“No. It’s 207,” you shot back, slamming the door before she could say another word.

You stood there for a moment, stunned. That was fucking weird. And god, she was rude. You decided you’d deal with whatever that was later. As much as you’d enjoyed hanging out with Heather, you weren’t the most social person, and the night had drained you more than you wanted to admit. You shook out your hands, took a deep breath, and finally started getting ready for bed. After dragging yourself through your nightly routine—half-asleep brushing your teeth, splashing water on your face, barely remembering to moisturize—you finally crawled into bed, tugging the covers up to your chin. The sheets were cool, the room still, and your body sank into the mattress like it was finally allowed to give out.

Finally.

But the peace barely lasted a minute.

A light, rhythmic thudding started against your wall. You blinked at the ceiling, willing it to stop. When it didn’t, you sighed and rolled your eyes, planning to ignore it.

Then came the moans—soft, breathy, and far too easy to make out.

"Right there, Michael."

“Oh god.”

You threw the covers off with a groan, sitting upright as irritation spiked in your chest. You thought about writing a sticky note—something simple and petty, like Be quiet, some of us have shifts in the morning—but the weight of exhaustion pulled at your limbs. Between your job, the write-up, and fucking Robby, everything already felt like too much.

You were tired. Of everything.

And this?

This was just the fucking icing.

Yeah, you were a hypocrite—you’d definitely been loud before, especially with that guy you brought home not too long ago. But at least you hadn’t gone around leaving passive-aggressive sticky notes afterward. And unlike whoever was currently christening the other side of your wall, you had work in the morning. You didn’t care anymore. You were going to say something—even if it embarrassed the hell out of them. You stormed over to your neighbor’s door, irritation bubbling under your skin, and knocked—louder than you meant to. The sharp thud echoed down the quiet hallway. You waited, listening. Inside, there was a flurry of movement—quick footsteps, something muffled—then sudden silence.

You knocked again, firmer this time. No way were you letting this go.

You lifted your hand to knock a third time, ready to keep going until someone answered—when the door swung open.

And there he was.

Robby.

Robby stood in a dark gray robe, slightly open at the collar, just enough to catch a hint of his chest. A gold chain rested against his skin, and the pair of reading glasses perched on his nose gave him a quiet, unexpected charm.

Your breath caught in your throat. You went still, ice flooding your veins.

It hit all at once: the woman asking for Michael, not Robby. The way his expression had flickered when you’d mentioned living nearby. The sticky notes—possibly his.  And the noise from last week—the bar guy, the too-thin walls, all of it? Yeah. He heard that. Every last second of it. Your heart dropped. So did any courage you’d gathered.

Of course. Of fucking course. Robby was your neighbor.

You both just stood there, frozen—matching expressions like you’d seen a damn ghost in each other’s face. Neither of you said anything at first, just wide eyes and stiff shoulders, the silence stretching way too long. You jumped in before he could.

“Uh, I was just wondering if you could keep it down,” you mumbled, eyes locked anywhere but on him. ‘I can, uh… hear it through my wall.”

Robby ran a hand over the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “Yeah. Yeah, shit—sorry about that. We’ll, uh… keep it down.” 

The eye contact never came. Neither of you could manage it.

“Okay. Um. Good night, Robby,” you blurted, turning so fast it was like a cartoon blur, your footsteps practically echoing in the hallway as you bolted back to your apartment.

You grabbed your blanket and pillow and settled onto the couch for the night, deciding the bedroom felt too close to Robby—like staying in there was somehow crossing a line, even with a wall between you. The cushions weren’t uncomfortable, but sleep didn’t come easy. You tossed. Turned. Stared at the ceiling.

Your mind wouldn’t shut up.

Sure, it was a win—kind of. You’d probably figured out who was behind the mystery sticky notes. But any sense of victory was drowned out by the deep, simmering embarrassment flooding your chest.

How the hell were you supposed to face him now?

You could barely string together a sentence in your head, let alone form one out loud: Hey, sorry you had to hear me hooking up with a guy I met two hours before. Also sorry I heard you doing the same. We good? Yeah. No. Not happening. The entire situation felt absurd. Messy. And way too intimate for two people who could barely make eye contact on a normal day. Eventually, the spiral slowed. Your thoughts dulled at the edges, and your eyelids grew heavier. You sank deeper into the cushions and let sleep take you, thankful for the escape.

₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ 

Day 1,735

It had been about three days since everything went down, and somehow the roles had reversed. Robby wasn’t the one avoiding you anymore—you were doing a perfectly good job of that yourself. If he walked into the ambulance bay while you were on break? Suddenly, you were inside the rig cleaning the compartments like your job depended on it. If you happened to spot him down the hall, eyes meeting for a second too long? You were already gone. Out the door, around the corner. Anywhere but there.

You were currently sitting on one of the new benches near the ER entrance, a cardboard cupholder beside you. One drink for Heather. One for Dana. And a caramel frap for Abbott—a quiet apology in the form of sugar and caffeine. There wasn’t one for Robby. You weren’t ready for that. You’d been hoping Abbott might come through this entrance, and after five minutes, you finally spotted him.

“Hey, Dr. Abbott,” you called out, just loud enough to catch his attention.

He looked over, gave a small wave, and headed your way. You stood up before he could reach you, feeling the need to meet him halfway—maybe out of nerves, or maybe just because of the last time you talked.

“Hey, kid,” he said, voice light as usual. “How are you this morning?”

“I’m good,” you said, though it came out a little too fast. “I just wanted to apologize. Heather told me someone overheard us last time, and... I didn’t mean to put you in that kind of position.”

“It’s fine. Really. Like I said, I was flattered,” Abbott said, his smile never fading.

“I got you this, as an apology,” you said, bending to grab the drink from the tray.

“You didn’t have to, but thanks. If I gain weight, I’m blaming you,” he laughed softly, taking the cup from your hand.

“You’ll have to get in line. Dana already warned me that if she has to size up her scrubs, it’s on me,” you said with a smile.

“Well, it’s a dangerous game you’re playing,” he replied, lifting the cup slightly. “Bribing your way through the hospital.”

“It works,” you shrugged.

“Really, though. Don’t worry about it. It’s in the past,” Abbott said, giving your shoulder a gentle pat.

Sure. In the past. But even as he said it, even with that easy tone of his, you still couldn’t help the way your eyes lingered on him. You liked talking to him. Being near him. You couldn’t help wondering what would’ve happened if someone hadn’t overheard you that day. If it had stayed between the two of you. You were just about to say something—maybe ask if he wanted to grab coffee sometime, or something dumb and casual—when you heard footsteps behind you.

Robby.

You didn’t need to turn around to know it was him. You felt it. But you turned anyway. There he was, walking toward the entrance, eyes locking on the two of you. On Abbott’s hand still resting on your shoulder.

“Hey, Robby,” Abbott said, pulling his hand back with a quick wave. Your heart stuttered. You grabbed the cupholder. 

“I’ll see you around, Dr. Abbott,” you said, already stepping away.

“See you around, kid,” he called, and you nodded, not daring to look back.

You didn’t need to see Robby’s face to know what it looked like.

“Good morning, Dana,” you said in a sing-song voice as you rounded the corner into the nurse’s hub.

Dana glanced up from her charting with a grin. “Well, someone’s in a suspiciously good mood.”

“I brought you a pumpkin spice latte,” you replied, placing the cup down in front of her like it was a gift offering.

“You do realize I’ve already warned you,” she said, wrapping her fingers around the cup. “If I go up a size in scrubs, it’s on you.”

“God, why is everyone blaming me for their future weight gain?” you groaned. “Abbott said almost the exact same thing this morning when I gave him his drink. Can’t a girl just caffeinate her coworkers without catching strays?”

Dana’s eyebrow lifted ever so slightly. “You talked to Abbott?”

“Yes, and I’m not telling you a damn thing,” you said, crossing your arms. “Heather already told me there’s some little rumor floating around.”

“Rumor?” Dana asked, tilting her head slightly. “Wait… so it actually happened?”

“Not confirming anything,” you said smoothly, grabbing Heather’s drink. “But here—can you pass this to her for me?”

Dana took it with a smirk but said nothing else. You were debating whether to mention the apology to Abbott when a quiet but familiar voice cut in beside you.

“Good morning.”

You didn’t have to look to know it was Robby. His voice was low, a bit softer than usual.

Dana beat you to it. “Morning.”

You forced a quick smile. “Morning,” you echoed, coughing lightly to fill the space. Without waiting for a response, you blurted, “Alright, gotta run—see you later!” and spun on your heel, heading straight for the ambulance bay before either of them could say another word.

The first half of your shift had been… decent. Transfers went smoothly, handoffs were clean, and most importantly—patients were making it through. You were tired, sure, but it was the good kind of tired. The kind that reminded you why you did this in the first place.

“This shift hasn’t been going too bad,” you said, rolling your shoulders as you stretched after clearing a call.

“Oh my god, why would you say that?” one of your coworkers groaned. “You just summoned hell.”

You snorted. “You don’t actually believe that superstition shit.”

You regretted those words almost immediately. A black sedan came flying into the bay, brakes screeching as it stopped far too close to the ambulance. You jumped back on instinct, heart spiking. The driver’s window rolled down hard.

“Hey—hey! I need help!” the man shouted, voice frantic and sharp. “This idiot’s overdosing. You better help him or I swear to god—”

He jabbed a finger toward the passenger seat. From where you stood, you caught a glimpse of something dark and metallic near his lap—gun? Knife? You weren’t sticking around to find out.

“I got it, I got it,” you said quickly, already moving.

You yanked the passenger door open. The patient was slumped sideways, skin ashen, lips tinged blue, fingertips cyanotic. Shallow, barely-there breaths. Opioid overdose. No question. You were already digging into your kit, fingers moving on muscle memory as you pulled out the Narcan. No time to wait. You administered it immediately, eyes flicking between the patient’s chest and their face.

“Get me a gurney—now!” you yelled over your shoulder.

Your voice cut through the bay, and this time your partner moved, sprinting back toward the rig. You stayed planted, one hand steadying the patient, the other ready—because with Narcan, you never knew what was coming next. You and your partner managed to get the patient onto the gurney, straps snapping into place just as the black sedan peeled away from the curb, tires screeching as it disappeared down the street. There was no time to process it—no plates, no questions—just another problem already moving out of reach. You shoved the ER doors open with your shoulder, adrenaline still buzzing in your veins.

"Suspected overdose—Narcan administered just outside in the bay—" your voice rang out, steady but urgent, before it was abruptly cut off.

Pain exploded across your face. An elbow slammed into your nose with a sickening jolt, followed by a sharp, unmistakable crack that made your vision blur.

“Where am I?” the patient shouted, suddenly thrashing against the straps. “Where’s my phone? What the fuck did you do to me?”

You stumbled back on instinct, hand flying up to your face as heat and pressure bloomed fast. “Shit,” you muttered, already stepping aside as ER staff surged forward, voices overlapping, hands moving to restrain the patient and take control of the gurney.

Your partner glanced back at you for half a second—eyes flicking to your face, registering the hit—but the moment passed as they were pulled back into the handoff. The patient was yelling, monitors were being hooked up, orders barked out.

And just like that, you were no longer the priority.

“You alright, sweetheart?”

Dana’s voice hit you before you even registered she was there. She had already crossed the ER floor, quick on her feet, concern etched across her face. You felt yourself slump harder against the wall, head tipping back as the sharp, radiating pain bloomed across your face.

“Jesus—look at you,” she said, already reaching out to assess the damage.

You flinched and swatted her hands away, not harshly—just enough to say not now.

 “I’m fine. I just... I need a second, okay?” you muttered, straightening up even as your nose throbbed and your balance threatened to dip.

Dana gave you a long, assessing look, but didn’t press. “I’m calling someone if you pass out.”

You didn’t answer. You turned and slipped away as quietly as possible, trying to ignore the looks from passing staff and the smear of blood on your gloves. One hand clamped over your nose, you made it past the ambulance bay, around the corner, far enough to be alone.

You hit the pavement a little too fast and winced, sitting with your back against the brick wall, legs sprawled. You were still shaking. Nose bleeding. Heart hammering.

Fuck.

You leaned your head back, blinking up at the sky, but tears started to blur your vision anyway—hot, frustrated, adrenaline-soaked tears. You didn’t know if it was the pain, the way your body was finally coming down, or just everything catching up with you. Probably all of it. You were a mess. Frazzled hair. Blood-smeared uniform. Crying quietly on the pavement like you’d hit your breaking point. And maybe—just for a moment—you had.

“I’m fine, Dana. I told you I just needed a minute,” you muttered, your voice muffled by your arms curled tightly around your knees.

“Not Dana,” a familiar voice said, closer than you expected. “Look up.”

Your head snapped up before you could stop yourself, and the wave of embarrassment hit harder than the pain. Robby stood there, hands braced on his hips, expression unreadable—somewhere between worry and disbelief.

“Robby…” you started, voice a little hoarse. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” he said, already crouching down in front of you. “Come on—up.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but your body had other plans. When you pushed yourself off the ground, your balance tipped and the world swayed. He steadied you with one hand as you rose shakily to your feet, his other hovering near your arm like he wasn’t sure whether to guide you or just let you lean. A beat passed—longer than it should’ve—and then, quieter:

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he muttered, like it slipped out before he could stop it. His jaw flexed once, eyes flicking away as if he regretted saying it at all.

“Alright, stay there,” he said. His hands were already reaching for your face, moving with a kind of clinical focus you’d seen in him a dozen times. Still, the warmth of his touch startled you—gentler than you expected.

You didn’t stop him. Didn’t really have the energy to.

His thumbs brushed beneath your eyes, fingers tilting your chin slightly. You found yourself looking at him again. Really looking. The soft crinkles at the corners of his eyes. The threads of gray in his beard. The way his brow furrowed in concentration as he assessed you.

Then—pressure. Sharp and direct on the bridge of your nose.

“Fuck—ow,” you hissed, recoiling slightly. “You seriously thought pressing on it was the move?”

“I’m checking for a step-off,” he said evenly, not looking the least bit sorry. “I need to see if the bone’s displaced.”

“You could’ve warned me,” you grumbled.

“I figured you’d complain either way,” Robby said, still focused, still close. “Try not to move.”

He pressed again—more pressure this time—and you winced hard, hand shooting up to grab his wrist.

“Christ, Robinavitch, what the hell are you doing? You trying to rearrange my face?” you snapped.

Your fingers stayed wrapped around his wrist, and that’s when you realized how close the two of you had gotten. His body angled in, his hands on your cheeks, and your back pressed firmly against the brick behind you. Too close. Too warm. Too much. He didn’t flinch. Just met your eyes like it didn’t even register how much space he was stealing.

“Back to Robinavitch, huh?” he said quietly. “Noted.”

 “Then stop manhandling my face like you’ve got something to prove, and maybe I’ll upgrade you to Robby again,” you shot back, your fingers still curled around his wrists.

“You’re bleeding, your nose might be fractured, and you’re standing out here acting like you didn’t just take an elbow to the face.” He tilted your head gently, like that would somehow prove his point.

And then—maybe out of impulse, maybe just to make a point—you pressed your palms against his cheeks, fingers brushing through the edge of his beard.

“How’s that feel?” you asked, voice low. “Comfortable? Because it sure as hell isn’t for me.”

His face went still under your hand, but not cold. His skin flushed warmer against your palm, just enough to catch. His brow twitched like he wanted to say something, but didn’t. His hands dropped from your face—slower than they needed to—and you let go too.

The air between you felt heavier than before. Unresolved.

But he didn’t say a word. Just stood there, jaw tight, eyes on yours.

You cleared your throat, needing to cut through the silence hanging between you.

"You should probably get that checked inside," Robby said, his voice low but steady—more of a suggestion than an order, though it carried weight.

"Yeah... yeah, you’re right," you mumbled, already turning toward the ER. "Thanks for... checking on me."

The words felt clumsy in your mouth, like you weren’t sure where they were going. You didn’t look back. Didn’t trust yourself to. Your face throbbed, but not as much as the mess brewing in your chest. Robby had a way of pulling you in and pushing you out without even trying—and now you weren’t sure what stung more: your nose or the fact that you almost didn’t want to walk away.

₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ 

Taglist: @angelamariaxo @eliza7up @jamespottergirlfriend @pixviee @idiothaz @nerdgirljen @yassspose @xoxabs88xox @aereth @majorelika @seeminglyincurablesadnes @probioticpro @dizzybee03 @bluestarbaby @foreverchangingfandoms

[margottenenbaum222]

‘fuck the police’ IM TRYING DAMN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[outcaststarfruit]

"Not My Scene"

Michael Robinavitch (The Pitt) x female! reader pt. 4

Summary: When you take a new job at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, you expect long shifts, thin walls, and the kind of exhaustion that settles into your bones. You don’t expect to keep crossing paths with the man you once tried very hard not to want. Between shared hallways, early mornings, and the controlled chaos of the ER, distance becomes harder to maintain.

Story Status: Incomplete

Word Count: 5.9k

Previous Part: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Author's Note: Hey everyone! Sorry again for the delay—I got caught up enjoying the holidays and, honestly, forgot to write. Happy New Year, btw! I'm aiming to have the next chapter posted sometime next week. Also, maybe I lied a little about this story being a very slow slow burn. Feelings are definitely coming into play, but I promise they won't be getting together in the next chapter. It's still a slow burn, just not as glacial as I originally planned. One quick note: there are some medical inaccuracies in this chapter. I'm not a paramedic, but I've done my best. There is also implied sex in this chapter—it’s mentioned but not explicit (and sorry to say this, but it’s not between the reader and Robby. I’m sorry… but soon! hopefully...). Hope you enjoy.

Day 1,724

Abbott rejected you today. Plain and simple.

It started with you changing your routine—skipping your usual shortcut through the ambulance bay and entering through the front of the ER instead, hoping you might catch him on his way in. You stationed yourself a few feet from the entrance, leaning against the wall with your earbuds in, trying very hard to look casual.

You were not casual.

The first time he noticed you, it was easy. He offered a brief smile, thanked you again for the caramel frap, and teased that you were single-handedly responsible for him reconsidering his caffeine habits before sunrise. The second time, he slowed as he passed, eyes catching yours where you lingered near the wall, and said—half amused, half curious—“You always show up around this time, or am I just lucky today?” You laughed, brushing it off with a shrug, like it was no big deal… even if your pulse told a different story.

The encounters were inconsistent. Some days you had to clock in early. Other days, he never came through that entrance at all. But on the mornings you did manage to run into him, you spent the rest of the shift buzzing—grinning at nothing, replaying his tone, feeling embarrassingly giddy for hours afterward. You finally made up your mind. If you saw him today, you’d say something. You’d ask him out—clean, honest, no overthinking it. If you didn’t see him? Then you’d take it as a sign and spend the rest of the day convincing yourself it had been a terrible idea anyway.

So you waited.

You leaned against the wall near the entrance, earbuds in but forgotten, thumb scrolling mindlessly through Instagram without really seeing anything on the screen. Your attention snapped the moment the doors slid open. There he was. You pulled one earbud out too fast and straightened before you could talk yourself out of it. 

“Hey—Dr. Abbott,” you called, immediately regretting how loud it sounded in the open space.

He turned at the sound of his name, recognition crossing his face before he lifted a hand in a brief wave. A small smile followed—tired, but genuine—as he waited for you to approach. He glanced back towards the entrance, then back at you, like he was doing a quick mental check.

“Hey,” he said. “I don’t usually get ambushed before a shift. Should I feel special?”

You almost laughed. Almost. Instead, you swallowed. Maybe it was the early hour. Or the fact that you were finally feeling settled—like you weren’t borrowing space in your own life anymore. Either way, you didn’t want to overthink it.

“This might be a little forward,” you said, pushing through before your nerve could fail you. “But I was wondering if you’d want to go out sometime. Like—on a date.”

He didn’t interrupt. Just watched you, steady and unreadable.

“I figured I should just ask,” you added quietly.

A small smile tugged at his mouth. “I appreciate the honesty,” he said. “Most people don’t go that route.”

“That sounded better in my head,” you admitted. “I just wanted to know if you were interested… ”

There it was. The pause.

He didn’t rush it. Didn’t look uncomfortable. If anything, his expression softened—thoughtful, almost careful.

“I’m really flattered,” Abbott said after a beat. “Truly. But I’m not in a place where I’m looking to date right now.”

The words landed gently. Still firm.

“Oh,” you said, nodding immediately. “Yeah—totally. That makes sense. Sorry for putting you on the spot.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

“It really does mean a lot,” he said instead. “Especially coming from—”

“It’s okay,” you cut in, forcing a smile. “I’m an adult. I can handle a rejection.”

It wasn’t true. But it sounded convincing.You stepped back before he could respond, already turning away. “I’ll see you around.”

You didn’t look back. You told yourself it was better this way—clean, uncomplicated. But the way he’d declined—kind, measured, impossible to argue with—lingered long after you walked away. 

Tears burned at the back of your eyes—not just because Abbott had turned you down, but because it felt like proof of a pattern you couldn’t seem to escape. You thought about how it always went wrong. About Robby—how you’d wanted him at the worst possible time. About the string of dates that went nowhere, conversations that fizzled before they ever had the chance to matter. You’d had hookups, sure. Easy ones. Convenient ones. The kind that ended before morning and asked nothing of you. Pleasure without attachment. No real connection. No intimacy that lingered.

It made you wonder, in the quiet, cruel way your mind always did when it had too much space—if this was just how it was meant to be. Maybe love was something you’d missed the timing on. Maybe your person existed, just… not yet. Years away. Or never. The thoughts came too fast, crowding in on each other, leaving you raw and unfocused—so distracted by everything churning inside you that you didn’t see the person in front of you until you collided with them.

“Oh—shit, I’m sorry,” you blurted as steady hands caught you by the upper arms, gently pulling you back. You looked up—and of course, it was Robby.

Because it would be him. Right here. Right now. Always around when you felt like falling apart.

“It’s okay… wait—hey,” he said, his voice dipping low as recognition settled in. “You alright?”

His eyes caught yours, then dropped just enough to catch the glossiness beneath them. Your stomach twisted. You’d finally let it settle in—you and Robby were friends. Maybe technically work friends, sure, but even that felt too narrow now. Things had shifted. You used to be stubborn about keeping it all unlabeled, untouched. But time had its way. He wasn’t just the guy you worked with anymore, and he definitely wasn’t just Heather’s ex.

It had taken weeks—little moments here and there, casual conversations that slowly picked up weight, mornings that fell into rhythm like second nature. Somewhere in the quiet, the edges smoothed out. The awkwardness faded. And without even meaning to, you’d started looking forward to the sound of his voice.

You liked talking to him. And, despite yourself, you trusted him.

But right now? With his hands on your arms and that look on his face?

It was too much.

So you deflected.

“Just… a lot on my mind,” you said quickly, easing back so his hands dropped. “It’s nothing serious. You don’t need to worry.”

It wasn’t a lie—but it wasn’t the truth either. You weren’t about to tell Robby that Abbott had turned you down flat, or that the rejection scraped deeper than you expected. That right now, you felt small. Unwanted.

That just wasn’t the kind of friendship you had with Robby. It didn’t stretch into late-night talks about dating or feelings or anything close to romantic. That part of your life—those conversations—were still meant for Heather. Maybe because of how all this started, or maybe because you couldn’t imagine looking Robby in the eye and admitting anything deeper.

Whatever the reason, that topic stayed off-limits. You didn’t go there with him. And honestly? You weren’t sure you ever could.

“We can talk about it… if you want,” Robby said, voice even but a touch hesitant. It wasn’t pressure—just a soft offer, the kind he only made when he wasn’t sure if he was stepping too far in. You glanced at your watch. Twenty minutes until shift. Not a lot of time, and you didn’t want to eat into his either.

“Like I said, don’t worry about it. I’m good now,” you replied, giving him a small smile that didn’t quite settle right on your face as you wiped under your eyes with your jacket sleeve.

Robby held your gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then nodded. “Alright… you wanna head in together?”

Before you could answer, your eyes flicked over his shoulder—just a reflex—and there he was. Abbott. Standing a few paces behind you, clearly waiting. Probably for Robby. Maybe already listening. You didn’t dare turn to check.

Your mouth went a little dry.

“I’m okay,” you said quickly. “I still need a sec to breathe. Plus, I forgot something at my apartment.”

A lie. One you delivered with ease by now.

“You live nearby?” Robby asked, brow lifting—not suspicious, just curious.

“Yeah. Those buildings five minutes out,” you said, gesturing vaguely. “Heather told me about them. Rent was decent, so I jumped on it once the offer came through.”

Robby nodded again, but this time, something flickered behind his expression—like a thought hitting him sideways. You couldn’t tell what it was exactly: realization? discomfort? His face didn’t give it away fully, but it made you pause. Before you could ask, he beat you to it.

“Sorry to cut this short,” he said, already shifting his weight like he was ready to move. “Need to catch Abbott for something. But if you ever wanna talk more… I’m around.”

The mention of Abbott’s name landed cold in your gut, but you forced another smile.

“Yeah. No worries. And, uh… sorry for crashing into you earlier.”

“You’re good,” he said, brushing past with a pat to your shoulder.

His touch stayed longer than he did—warmth blooming under your skin, like your body hadn’t quite registered he was gone.

You shivered, and didn’t bother pretending it was the wind.

That was earlier. Now, you were hunched over a half-empty glass at a bar a few blocks from your apartment, quietly watching an ice cube dissolve in circles. You’d gone home first—stood in your kitchen long enough to consider just crawling into bed and wallowing alone. But something about the silence felt too sharp, too heavy. So instead, you dragged yourself out. If you were going to sit in your misery, you figured you might as well do it somewhere with music, dim lights, and the distant hope of distraction.

You hadn’t expected to pick a spot this close to the hospital. That had been your first mistake. A quick glance around confirmed what you were already half-suspecting: a few familiar faces from work dotted the room. Great.

Still, you stayed. You weren’t here to socialize. Just to forget for a while. Sip something cheap and strong. Maybe, if the universe felt generous, catch the attention of someone decent-looking who wouldn’t mind being taken home for the night. Nothing serious. Nothing complicated. Just a temporary fix for the hollow space you couldn’t seem to fill.

This would do, you told yourself, letting out a quiet sigh as the ice clinked softly against the side of your glass.

Luckily—or maybe unfortunately—your silent wish for distraction didn’t go unheard. Someone slid into the barstool beside you with the kind of casual ease that said they were either feeling brave or stupid. You didn’t bother looking right away, still swirling your glass and watching the ice cube disintegrate like it had done something personal to you.

“Hey,” came a voice, smooth but a little rehearsed. “You come here often?”

You scoffed under your breath. Classic. You considered brushing them off entirely, but honestly? You were too worn thin to pass up the attention.

“No,” you said, finally glancing over. “I don’t.”

The guy looked to be in his mid to late twenties—noticeably younger than your usual type. If Heather could see you right now, she’d probably stop mid-sentence to question you. You could already hear the disbelief in her voice, the since when do you go for men younger than you? She still hadn’t let you live down your reputation for liking men with a few grays in their beard and a solid 401(k). You’d once chucked a pillow at her for calling you a “geriatric groupie.”

Still… this guy wasn’t bad. Decent face. Nice enough smile. Good enough.

“I thought so,” he said, his voice dripping with charm he hadn’t quite earned. “A pretty little thing like you doesn’t exactly blend in here.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Instead, you leaned in slightly, lips curling into a smirk.“Do you have other intentions… or do you actually want to get to know me?” you asked, voice low and playful as you leaned in, letting the question hang between you with just enough bite.

He blinked, caught off guard—but instead of matching your energy, he laughed nervously and leaned back a little, clearly flustered. His cheeks turned just the faintest shade of pink.

Cute.

Alright then, you thought. Might as well enjoy yourself.

From there, the conversation stayed casual, playful. You kept things light—smiling, teasing, letting your fingers trail lazily along the inside of his thigh under the bar. He didn’t push, and you didn’t really care who he was. You were tipsy. You were bored. You didn’t want to think about rejection or Robby or the fact that nothing you wanted ever seemed to stick. You just wanted to feel wanted for a little while.

What you didn’t notice right away—too focused on your drink and the flirty back-and-forth with the stranger—was Robby. He was tucked into a booth on the far side of the bar, partially shadowed by dim lighting and the angle of your seat. You only caught sight of him when the guy you were chatting with—still nameless in your mind because, honestly, you couldn’t be bothered—leaned in at just the right moment after a joke you'd made. Your laugh faltered.

There he was. Robby. Seated across from a woman who looked more like someone he might actually belong with. She was pretty. Blonde. Polished in that effortless, subtle way. Definitely closer to his age.

“You’re so funny,” your date-of-the-moment said, snapping your attention back as he sat upright again, grinning.

“Not a lot of people say that,” you replied with a faint smile, brushing your fingers along his cheek in a way that felt automatic. The flush that rose to his ears was almost endearing—almost.

The conversation kept going after that, but your mind didn’t. Not really. It kept looping back to the booth in the corner. To Robby and his… date? Colleague? Whoever she was, you weren’t planning on walking over and finding out. A good friend might’ve said hi, maybe waved. But you weren’t in the mood to be good. Not tonight.

You smiled at the guy across from you, but your focus was slipping.

A breeze stirred at your side as someone passed close by.

“I’m gonna hit the bathroom real quick. Be right back,” the guy said, planting a kiss on your cheek before heading off.

You blinked, caught off guard. Bold move. You’d give him that. Still, the second he was out of sight, you scoffed under your breath and turned your body fully toward the bar, away from both the booth and your temporary distraction.

“I knew that was you,” a voice said suddenly, sliding in on your other side.

You blinked, sluggish from the alcohol, head turning slower than it should’ve. You didn’t recognize the voice right away.

“Oh, Robby,” you muttered once you saw him. “The last person I expected tonight.”

“Didn’t think it was you at first,” he said, voice even, almost amused. “Then your… date leaned out of the way, and, well. Hard to miss.”

“He’s not my date,” you said with a wave of your hand, the word dragging. “Just some guy I met tonight.”

“Could’ve fooled me. Looked like you two were flirting.”

“So you were watching,” you teased, leaning a little too close. “Creep.”

Robby gave a half-smile, unbothered. “Not like that. Just… noticed.”

“You ER people are always nosy.”

“Part of the job,” he said, shrugging one shoulder.

You nudged him lightly, your arm brushing his. “Sooo… you here on a date?”

He chuckled. “I guess you could call it that.”

You tilted your head, squinting like that would help you read his expression better. “C’mon, Robby. We’re friends now, right? We can talk about this stuff.”

Your own words made something twinge in your chest. Hours ago, you’d been convincing yourself not to talk to Robby about feelings. Now you were toeing that same line again—blurring it with the help of cheap drinks and blurred thoughts.

“Is it going badly?” you asked.

“It’s fine,” he said with a slow breath. “She’s nice. Pretty. But I doubt there’ll be a third date.”

“Why not? Someone else on your mind?” you asked, voice soft but curious—pressing on the boundary like it might give.

“No one else. Just… not feeling it,” he said plainly. Your stomach twisted. Whether from disappointment or frustration or the drink, you couldn’t tell. This couldn’t be happening again. Not tonight. Not for him.

“You said you’re on the third date but not really into it… so why go for a third?” you asked, voice a little lower now.

“Abbott’s idea,” Robby said with a shrug. “Said I’m too pent up. Figured getting back out there wouldn’t hurt.”

You snorted at that, but the sound felt hollow. Of course Abbott would be involved. 

You were just about to crack a half-hearted joke—something about how Robby should get back to his date, even if he clearly wasn’t enjoying it—when an arm slid across your shoulders.

“Hey, I’m back… who’s this?” the guy asked, voice close to your ear. Right. Him.

“Just a friend,” you replied, gently pushing him back out of your space. “You don’t need the details. We don’t know each other like that.”

You reached for your drink and knocked the rest of it back, the burn helping mask the discomfort crawling under your skin.

“You should get back to your date, Robby,” you added, turning to him with a tight smile. You didn’t mean it—not really. If you had it your way, he’d stay. Especially if the alternative was sitting across from someone you didn’t care about, pretending this night wasn’t hollow. However, you were afraid that one wrong word could undo all the progress you’d made and send you straight back to the beginning with Robby. You liked what you had now—easy, familiar, safe—and you didn’t want to be the one who ruined it.

“Yeah,” Robby said after a pause, voice even but quiet. “I’ll let you be. Be careful, alright?” He gave your shoulder a light pat, same as before—quick, familiar. But this time, the warmth of it lingered too long.

Another shiver ran through you, sharp and immediate.

“Sheesh. He’s kinda old,” the guy muttered as he reclaimed his seat beside you.

You blinked, frowning. What a weird comment to make.

“Like I said,” you muttered, your tone edged with irritation. “He’s just a friend. No need for comments like that.”

The guy shrugged, already pivoting back. “Sooo…”

You sighed, cutting him off before he could pretend to be subtle.

“My place is closer. No, you can’t stay the night.”

That got a reaction. His eyebrows jumped, and a grin curled across his face. You didn’t wait for a reply—you were already sliding off the stool, grabbing his arm to steer him toward the exit. Not because you were eager, but because you were tipsy and restless and couldn’t sit in that bar any longer.

Still, just before you stepped out, you turned for one last glance over your shoulder.

Robby was still at his booth. But he wasn’t looking at the woman across from him.

He was looking at you.

And even in the low light, even through the blur of drink and noise, you could tell—he wasn’t smiling. There was something in his face that felt like… disappointment. Or maybe frustration. You couldn’t read it fully. Maybe Robby was lying about the date going alright—it looked more awkward than anything, your drunk self thought. 

“Come on,” you said, dragging your ‘date’ toward the door. “Let’s go.”

₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ 

Day 1,725

You groaned as soon as you opened your eyes, a dull ache pulsing behind your right temple while your alarm blared relentlessly. Shit. Drinking before a workday—solid choice. You winced and sat up slowly, the room spinning just enough to make you regret every sip from the night before.

At least the guy you’d brought home had the decency to leave when it was over. No awkward goodbyes. No small talk. Just gone. You moved through your morning routine on autopilot, moving slower than usual, your head still heavy as you grabbed your things and made your way to the door.

Before you opened it, you paused, already half-smirking to yourself. You were expecting it—a neon pink sticky note, maybe taped crooked, slapped against your door with another passive-aggressive message from your mysterious neighbor. Something like: Keep the moans down. I have a shift tomorrow. You snorted at the imagined complaint.

But when you pulled the door open… nothing.

No note. No sarcastic handwriting. Just silence.

A pang of disappointment nudged at you. You’d been loud last night—on purpose, even. Letting yourself feel something, anything, after the mess of emotions that had followed you home. You hadn’t cared about the noise or the walls or anyone on the other side of them. Least of all the neighbor who always seemed one sarcastic comment away from becoming the only mildly entertaining part of your week.

And now, nothing.

No comment. No note. No reaction.

You weren’t sure why that felt like a letdown.

You didn’t let yourself dwell. Instead, you focused on something easy—coffee runs before the shift. One for Heather. One for Dana. One for Robby. You paused at the idea of getting one for Abbott… then shook it off. After what happened, the last thing you wanted was to make things weird—or worse, seem like you were still trying.

Balancing the drink tray in one hand, you nudged open the ambulance bay doors with your hip.

“Morning,” you called out to the EMTs nearby with a quick smile.

“No drinks for us?” someone called after you, half-joking.

“I’ll owe you next time,” you tossed over your shoulder, grinning as you made your way toward the main hub.

You spotted Dana at the nurses’ station, flipping through a chart, and headed straight for her.

“Morning! Got you a pumpkin spice latte with oat milk,” you said, sliding the cup from the tray and handing it over.

“Oh my god, thank you,” Dana said, eyes lighting up as she took the drink. “You know I’m blaming you when none of my pants fit.”

You leaned in, voice low. “Perks of being the best nurse in the ER. Just don’t let the others hear, or they’ll start demanding bribes too.”

Ever since you brought Robby that caramel frap, you’d felt a little guilty for not thinking of Dana sooner. If anyone deserved a little pick-me-up before chaos hit, it was her.

Dana laughed at your joke and before you could ask anything about Robby, she beat you to it. 

“If you’re about to ask where Robby is—he’s not here yet,” Dana said without looking up, adjusting her glasses with a practiced flick.

You felt the heat rise in your neck, caught before you could even try to play it cool. Lately, it was becoming harder to ignore that Robby was one of the only reasons—besides Heather—that you looked forward to being here at all.

“I was actually going to ask about Heather,” you said, clearing your throat.

Dana finally glanced your way, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Mhm. Sure you were.”

“She’s not here yet either,” she added a beat later, more casual now. You exhaled, trying not to let the weight of it show. Work had been pulling you and Heather in opposite directions lately—quick hallway catch-ups, half-finished texts. It had been a while since you’d had real time together. You made a mental note to invite her for drinks later.

You were just about to turn and bring the rest of the drinks to your team instead when you felt someone step up behind you—close enough to shift the air.

“Morning,” Robby said, coming to stand beside you.

You glanced over with a smile, already reaching for the drink you’d picked up for him, but paused. From your angle, something about his expression felt… off. Not upset exactly, but guarded. He still wasn’t looking at you. Normally, Robby wasn’t one for long eye contact, but this felt different—intentional. His posture was a little stiffer, and the tips of his ears were flushed pink, like he was caught off guard or trying to hide something. Strange.

“I got you a caramel frap,” you offered, pulling the cup free and handing it to him.

“Thanks,” he said, taking it with a short nod and a tight smile. Still not looking at you.

You frowned slightly but didn’t push. There wasn’t time, anyway—your shift was about to start.

“Dana, can you give this one to Heather for me?” you asked, holding out the last drink, already deciding you’d grab something for the rest of your team another time.

“Of course,” Dana said, taking it with an approving hum.

“I’ll catch you both later,” you said, backing toward the hallway.

“See you later, sweetheart,” Dana called after you with a grin.

But Robby stayed silent. Just a quiet throat clear. You gave him one last glance, but he didn’t say anything. So you didn’t wait.

You had a job to do, and no time to fall behind.

This call in particular was kicking your ass—and the shift wasn’t even halfway over. It had been back-to-back runs with barely enough time to catch your breath, but this one was yours to handle, and you were locked in.

“We got you, John. You’re alright,” you said, helping your partner guide the gurney out of the rig as smoothly as possible.

The patient had been in a car accident—conscious, responsive, vitals within range. Not crashing, thankfully, but definitely banged up. His left arm was broken, twisted just enough to make you wince, and there was still the chance something else was brewing beneath the surface.

You kept your tone calm, focused. “Almost there, okay? You’re in good hands.”

You transferred care and stepped back as the ER team took over, monitors already chirping as hands moved fast around the bed. Your part was done. For now.

You leaned back against the side of the ambulance, eyes closing as you finally let yourself breathe. Just a minute. That’s all you needed.

“I’m grabbing a smoke,” your partner said, already halfway gone. “Yell if you need me.”

You lifted a thumb in response, too drained to say anything. The quiet that followed felt earned.

It didn’t last.

“Hey.”

The voice was sharp enough to cut through your fog. You opened your eyes and straightened as Langdon came into view. You’d only interacted with him when you absolutely had to—handoffs, quick clarifications—but that was more than enough. Something about him always carried an edge, like he was already annoyed before you even spoke.

“Is there a problem?” you asked, keeping your tone neutral.

“There is,” Langdon said, irritation written all over his face. “Why didn’t you give epi en route? His pressure tanked as soon as he hit the bay.”

You pushed off the rig, posture firm now. “Because he didn’t need epi. He was stable in the field. Vitals were within range the entire transport.”

Langdon shook his head, already pulling numbers from memory. “He came in hypertensive and bradycardic.”

“Not with us,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “When we handed him off, he was alert, normotensive, heart rate steady. No signs that warranted epi. Whatever happened after—that wasn’t on scene.”

Langdon’s jaw tightened, like he didn’t appreciate the correction. But you held his gaze. You knew your call. And you weren’t about to let him rewrite it.

“It’s your job to make sure the patient doesn’t roll in crashing,” Langdon snapped, stepping into your space like he had something to prove. “We’ve got enough chaos in the trauma bay without you handing us a shitshow.”

You let out a sharp breath and straightened up fully. “Look, man. I don’t know what the fuck your issue is, but we did our part. Vitals were solid the whole ride. If things went sideways after we got here, that’s on you guys, not on me.”

Langdon’s jaw tightened. “You didn’t do your job. That’s what this is. You missed something, and now the ER is cleaning it up.”

Your patience snapped. “Listen. I’m not some fucking medical student shadowing a shift. I’m a licensed paramedic. I’ve been doing this long enough to know when a patient’s stable. So don’t stand there and talk to me like I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

“Well, last I checked, you’re not a doctor,” Langdon fired back. “I am. And I don’t have the luxury of fucking up in the field and shrugging it off.”

You stepped forward, eyes hard. “Man, fuck you. Say that shit to me again and see what happens.”

You were ready to light him up—completely done with his bullshit—when a voice behind you cut in, sharp and firm, halting the spiral before it went nuclear.

“Hey! What the hell’s going on out here?” a voice barked from across the lot.

Langdon stepped aside just enough for you to see—though you didn’t need to. You’d recognize Robby’s voice anywhere.

Langdon turned toward him. “This paramedic botched a call. I was trying to correct their mistake.”

You scoffed, stepping forward. “I don’t need correcting—and you’re not in charge of me.”

Robby’s eyes bounced between the two of you. “Langdon—”

“They didn’t give epi en route. The patient crashed on arrival. That’s on them,” Langdon cut in, arms crossed, tone clipped.

“I was there,” you shot back, voice rising. “He was stable until we pulled in. You’re just pissed you couldn’t control the situation.”

“Enough,” Robby said, sharply this time.

Silence dropped heavy over the loading bay.

“Langdon, head inside. I’ll talk to you later.”

Langdon didn’t move. “Robby—”

“Now,” Robby said, voice low but firm.

Langdon threw you a glare, jaw tight, before turning on his heel and stalking back toward the ER.

You exhaled, tension still coiled tight in your shoulders as Robby finally looked at you—his expression unreadable.

“What the hell happened back there?” Robby asked, voice sharp as he came up beside you.

You didn’t even try to hold it back. “The problem is that you don’t know how to fucking control your residents.”

Robby’s brow lifted, eyes narrowing slightly. “Langdon’s your problem, not me.”

“Yeah? And he works under you, doesn’t he?” you snapped. “I don’t need a lecture about professionalism. I did my job. Yours is making sure your residents don’t shove their mistakes onto us.”

Robby’s jaw tightened. “And I do that by making sure they know how to work with the rest of the team—not against them.”

You exhaled hard, jaw tight. “Look, Robby, I’m exhausted. I’m not about to stand here and get blamed for something I didn’t screw up.” You turned your back to him, heading toward the back doors of the rig.

“I’m not here to defend him,” he said, keeping pace behind you. “I just want to know what happened.”

“I said I’m tired. Go talk to him if you want answers.”

“And I’m tired too,” Robby muttered, more to himself than to you. “But that doesn’t mean I get to walk away from shit when it gets hard.”

You froze for half a second before grabbing the latch. “Then go handle it. You’re not my boss. If there’s a real issue, take it up with my supervisor.”

He didn’t reply right away. And honestly, you weren’t sure why you were lashing out like this—why your throat felt tight or why your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the sting of Abbott’s rejection still sitting too close to the surface—and everything it had dragged up with it.

“I’m still an attending. I have a say in how things run down here,” Robby said, his voice cool but clipped. It made you pause with your hand still on the latch, turning fully to face him.

“You’re seriously playing that card right now?” you scoffed. “Like I said, you’re not my boss, Robby. I’m not one of your med students, and I’m sure as hell not one of your residents.”

He didn’t flinch. “Maybe I’ll take it up with your supervisor then. File a formal complaint.”

“Have fun with that,” you muttered, turning back toward the rig. The sharp, humorless laugh that left him in response nearly made you turn around again.

He started to walk off—but you couldn’t help yourself. Your voice came low, bitter, almost reflexive.

“No wonder Heather left you. Pulling that hierarchy bullshit.”

It was meant to stay under your breath, but it landed loud enough. You felt it hit by the way Robby immediately turned back toward you, tension climbing in his shoulders.

“What did you just say?” he asked, his tone no longer even trying to stay calm.

You didn’t back down. “I said: no wonder Heather left you.”

His jaw clenched. “You’re pissed at Langdon, so you take it out on me? I came out here to deescalate—get both sides. It’s called professionalism, but you clearly had something else in mind.”

“So what are you gonna do about it, Dr. Robinavitch?” you snapped, using the full name like a slap.

Robby stared at you, something sharp flickering in his expression—anger, maybe, but mostly disbelief. Then he shook his head and turned, walking off without another word.

Whatever. Not your problem.

But as the day stretched on, that moment stayed with you. Sat heavy. You’d lashed out, misplacing your frustration like it was nothing. Robby didn’t deserve that. You found yourself running through possible ways to bring it up, rehearsing the words quietly between calls. An apology hovered in your throat—but by the time your shift calmed enough to act on it, he was nowhere in sight.

“Hey, Dana,” you asked, voice lower than usual. “Is Robby still around?”

You’d been ready to leave, willing to put the whole thing off until tomorrow, but something made you stop short at the nurses’ station. Might as well rip the Band-Aid off now.

“You just missed him,” Dana said, adjusting a chart without looking up.

“Right. Thanks,” you murmured.

You took the quicker route through the main entrance instead of the long loop through the ambulance bay. The waiting room was packed—you weaved through patients and chairs, head down. You thought briefly about how easy this could’ve been if you just had his number. One quick message: Can we talk? But you’d never asked. And judging by the way you’d left things, you weren’t sure he’d want yours now.

Cold air hit you as you stepped outside, biting at your cheeks. No sign of him. You exhaled and started toward the corner, deciding to just try again tomorrow—until something made you stop.

There he was. Robby. Standing just a few yards ahead with the blonde from the bar—the same woman he’d been out with the other night. She had both hands wrapped around his, eyes on him like he was the only person in the world.

He hadn’t noticed you—his back was turned, posture easy, relaxed in a way that stung more than you wanted to admit.

You weren’t sure what the tight pull in your chest was, or why it hit so fast. But it was there, undeniable. Heavy and unfamiliar.

₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ 

Taglist: @angelamariaxo @bluestarbaby @eliza7up @jamespottergirlfriend @pixviee @idiothaz @nerdgirljen @yassspose @xoxabs88xox @probioticpro @dizzybee03

[outcaststarfruit]

Resident Privileges

Michael Robinavitch (The Pitt) x female! resident! reader (One Shot)

Summary: You weren’t supposed to end up at your attending’s place after a snowstorm, wearing his clothes, wet from his shower. You definitely weren’t supposed to end up under him—saying his name like it meant something, clinging like you’d waited years.

Word Count: 11.7k

Warnings (18+ MDNI): slight power imbalance (attending/resident dynamic), slight age gap, protected sex, explicit masturbation (f), mild voyeurism, light hair pulling

Author's Note: Hey everyone! I decided to take a little breather from Not My Scene and work on something different. I hope you enjoy it—I had a really fun time writing this one.

The snow crunched sharply beneath your boots with every step, the sound echoing in the otherwise quiet morning as icy air slapped against your face. You were on your way to work on Christmas Day—less by choice and more because there was nowhere else to be. Your family lived out of state, and traveling was far beyond what your budget could handle this year. Besides, picking up a shift meant money, which felt especially necessary now that your car had completely betrayed you.

You let out a tired sigh as the memory resurfaced: standing in the parking lot after a late shift, turning the key again and again, the engine refusing to respond. In frustration, you’d leaned forward and softly bumped your forehead against the steering wheel, the hollow honk of the horn breaking the silence.

Normally, the twenty-minute walk from your apartment wouldn’t have been a problem—almost refreshing, even. But today was different. The forecast had warned about snow all week, and you’d brushed it off without a second thought. A bad mistake. Your scarf did little to shield you from the biting wind, and despite the thickness of your jacket, the cold still found its way in, creeping down your spine. Your toes ached with numbness, and with each step, you wondered how much longer you could ignore just how unprepared you were for a morning like this.

You gave in and headed straight for the ER entrance instead of taking your usual route—normally, you went out of your way to avoid it, adding a few extra minutes just to slip in through the ambulance bay. Today, though, the cold had won. You couldn’t take another second of it. Some people liked to imagine the ER growing quiet on snowy days—everyone sensibly staying indoors, wrapped up and safe. That illusion never lasted long. More snow meant more accidents. Kids slipping on ice while running too fast, parents rushing after them and losing their footing too. Drivers underestimating slick roads, tires skidding, metal crunching against metal. Snow didn’t slow the ER down; it fed it.

You pushed through the crowded entrance, weaving around bodies and raised voices, and cast a sympathetic glance toward the receptionists, who were already worn thin by impatient parents and their red-nosed, sniffling children. At least the warmth hit you immediately, seeping into your bones as the doors slid shut behind you, and your shivering finally began to ease. You made your way to the lockers, fingers stiff as you peeled off layers of winter gear. Snow-damp boots came off with a dull thud, replaced by your reliable non-slip sneakers. It felt like shedding the outside world—cold, chaos, and all—and stepping fully into the shift waiting for you.

“Nice socks,” someone said behind you—dry, unmistakably amused.

You stiffened before you even turned around, already knowing exactly what they were talking about. When you did face them, your gaze flicked downward first, traitorously confirming it: the fuzzy socks—bright, soft, covered in tiny cartoon cats—were peeking just over the tops of your shoes. Just enough to be seen. Just enough to be humiliating.

And of course, it was Robby.

He stood there in his winter gear, a beanie pulled low over his head, eyes openly dropping to where the socks betrayed you before lifting back up to your face. One corner of his mouth curved, like he was trying—and failing—not to smile. Heat flooded your cheeks, then your neck, then everywhere. You’d worn them for warmth. Purely practical. No one was supposed to notice. Definitely not him. The fact that they were sticking out like that felt like a personal attack by the universe.

You’d had the biggest crush on this man for two years now, and somehow this—this—was how he caught your attention this morning. When you first met him as a first-year resident, he hadn’t meant much to you. Polite. Sharp. Occasionally frustrated, but never unfair. If anything, he pushed you to be better, and you rose to it. Somewhere along the way, that professional respect shifted into something else. Calling it a crush felt childish at your age, but there was no better word for the way your stomach still flipped around him.

You remembered exactly when it changed.

It had been a brutal case—confusing, scattered symptoms, everyone quietly stuck. Then something clicked. A detail from a medical journal you’d skimmed half-asleep two nights earlier surfaced, and you spoke up. The patient stabilized. The room finally breathed.

Robby pulled you aside afterward.

“Good catch,” he said, voice low. “Amazing work.” His hand rested briefly on your shoulder.

It should’ve been nothing. Just professional praise.

But the way he looked at you lingered. The faint lines at the corners of his eyes deepened as he gave you a small, genuine smile. The warmth of his hand made your stomach twist in a way you hadn’t been prepared for.

You hadn’t thought of him the same since.

And now, standing there with fuzzy cat socks peeking over your shoes, you wondered if this was the worst—or most on-brand—way for him to notice you today.

“Nice beanie,” you said, keeping your tone light as you bent down and subtly tugged your scrubs lower, trying to hide the socks peeking out at the worst possible angle. Robby stepped over to his locker—only two away from yours, close enough to make you acutely aware of him.

 “Why are you working on Christmas?” he asked, brow lifting slightly as he pulled off his gloves, then the beanie. “I thought you celebrated.”

You leaned back against your locker, turning to face him, ready to answer—but whatever you were about to say evaporated when he shrugged out of his sweater. Robby was almost always in one, sleeves pushed up out of habit, like he never gave it a second thought. Today, though, he pulled it off completely and tossed it into his locker without ceremony.

You felt absurdly like a Victorian man catching sight of a woman’s ankle for the first time.

He wasn’t buff in any exaggerated, showy way. His build was the quiet kind, earned over years in the ER—solid, capable. His forearms were dusted with graying hair, his hands steady, familiar in a way that made your chest tighten. 

You could very easily imagine those arms around you while you bounced on his—then you slammed the door on the thought, clearing your throat sharply before it could spiral into anything more dangerous.

“Uh—my family’s out of state,” you said, rubbing at the back of your neck. “And unfortunately I don’t make attending money, so interstate holiday travel isn’t really in the cards. What about you? Just… no plans?”

Robby glanced up from his locker, one brow lifting, mouth quirking the way it always did when he was deciding whether to be sincere or a little bit of an asshole. “I’m Jewish,” he said plainly. “We don’t do Christmas. I figured after all these years you’d have picked that up.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry,” you muttered, the apology landing awkward and too quick.

He snorted under his breath, clearly enjoying the look on your face. “I’m kidding,” he said, shutting the locker with a dull clang. “Not about being Jewish. About you knowing me better.”

The words lingered longer than they should have. You wished—dangerously—that you did know him better, in several ways you probably shouldn’t be thinking about at work. You seriously needed to get laid before your brain betrayed you. Robby checked his watch, already slipping back into work mode. “Alright. Showtime,” he said. “Shift’s starting.”

“Hopefully it’s an easy one,” you replied, straightening up, bracing yourself.

₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

You wished you could take back those five stupid, tempting words you’d said before the shift even started. You’d basically cursed yourself. The night turned into a full-blown disaster—anti-vax parents screaming inches from your face, alarms blaring, charts piling up—and at one point you nearly lost three patients in rapid succession. Somewhere in the chaos, you snagged the back of your scrubs on a gurney and felt fabric give way, the tear loud and traitorous.

Thank god you’d gone with plain, boxer-style underwear that morning. Of course, that didn’t stop Myrna from catching sight of it and laughing way too hard, teasing you mercilessly about skipping the sexy stuff. Your face burned as you clapped your hands behind your back, half-running, half-ducking toward the scrub dispenser, praying no one else noticed. You were endlessly grateful Robby hadn’t been around to see you like that—exposed, flustered, one bad second away from completely losing it.

And now here you were. Outside. The cold hit you immediately, sharp and unforgiving, the kind that sliced straight through your jacket. The street was mostly dark, only a few flickering streetlights casting weak pools of yellow on the pavement. The twenty-minute walk home, which had seemed reasonable hours ago, suddenly felt like a truly terrible decision.

You were halfway through debating whether freezing to death might be more financially responsible than calling an outrageously priced Uber when a sharp honk cut through your thoughts. You turned, startled, and there he was—Robby astride his motorcycle, bundled up like he was bracing for the Arctic, helmet tucked under his arm.

For a split second, you expected him to smirk, to tease you for still being out here shivering under the streetlights. But despite all his earlier jokes about you not knowing him well enough, you did know this much: Robby wasn’t the kind of person who’d mock you for being stranded in the cold.

“You need a ride?” he called out over the quiet street.

You nodded immediately, already moving toward him—quick steps, careful on stiff legs that had been on their feet far too long.

“I think I could kiss you for saying those words,” you blurted, breathless as you stopped in front of him. “I would love a ride.”

Regret hit you almost instantly. You weren’t lying—God, you weren’t—but he was still your attending, and you cringed inwardly, replaying the words on a loop. You waited for a reaction, a raised brow, a comment, something. But Robby gave nothing away, his expression unreadable in the low light.

Bummer.

Without a word, he handed you his helmet. His only helmet.

“Uh—aren’t you also going to wear a helmet?” you asked, taking the one he was offering. It felt heavier than you expected, solid in your hands, suddenly very real.

Robby shrugged like the question barely registered. “Wasn’t planning on playing chauffeur tonight,” he said easily. “So I only brought one. Besides—I don’t wear one anyway.”

You slid the helmet on, fingers fumbling with the strap. “An ER doctor who doesn’t wear a helmet,” you said, tightening it with a huff. “That’s… concerning. You know motorcycles are basically death traps, right? You’re actively tempting fate.”

He went quiet for a beat, the engine idling beneath him, vibrating through the cold air. For a second you thought he might ignore you completely. Then he glanced back over his shoulder, a crooked, almost tired smile pulling at his mouth. “And yet,” he said, “here we are. Me giving you a ride.”

You scoffed softly. “Hey, I told you—my car died. And like I said earlier, I don’t exactly have an attending’s salary lying around. Believe me, I wish I did.”

“One more year,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Then you’re on the other side of it.” He tilted his head toward the seat behind him. “Alright. Hop on before we both freeze to death.”

You did—but immediately froze again, this time unsure of what to do with your hands. You’d never been on a motorcycle before. You’d seen the movies, of course—the passenger wrapped around the rider, arms locked tight—but that felt like a boundary you weren’t sure you were allowed to cross. Robby was… Robby. Your attending. Complicated. So instead, you reached back and grabbed the rear of the bike, fingers curling around cold metal. Practical. Distant. If you fell, at least you knew a pretty decent ER.

You laughed silently at your own thought.

As if he sensed it, Robby glanced back at you, eyes flicking briefly to where your hands were planted, then up to your face.

“We’re ER doctors,” he said, voice dry, edged with that familiar mix of confidence and challenge. “I figured you of all people would understand motorcycle accidents—how they happen, why they happen.”

“Please cut me some slack,” you replied, letting out a nervous little laugh. “I’ve literally never been on a motorcycle.” You kept your arms stiff at your sides instead of reaching for him, suddenly hyperaware of exactly where you were—and who you were sitting behind.

Before you could overthink it—or panic—Robby reached back. His hands closed around your forearms, steady and decisive, and he pulled you forward, guiding your arms around his waist like it was second nature. Your thoughts instantly went static. His back was solid and warm against your chest, heat bleeding through layers, anchoring you there. If anyone saw you right now, they’d probably assume you were a couple, and that idea alone sent an unwelcome rush through you, making the closeness feel suddenly overwhelming.

You drew in a slow, steadying breath, focusing on the cold air, on balance, on not completely short-circuiting—already knowing this moment would replay in your mind later, vivid and dangerous, long after you got home.

Robby asked for your address, and you gave it to him without overthinking it. The second the words left your mouth, he twisted the throttle and the bike lurched forward, speed snapping on so fast it knocked the air from your lungs. You reacted on instinct—pulling yourself closer, arms tightening around his waist as the world streaked past in a blur. You pressed your face awkwardly against his chest, eyes squeezed shut like that might somehow make this feel safer.

Terrified didn’t even scratch the surface. You couldn’t wrap your head around why anyone chose this—speed blurring the edges of the world, nothing between you and the asphalt but balance and hope. Every turn felt like it could be the one that sent you flying, wind clawing at your clothes, your body tense and braced like it could hold the road together by sheer will.

And yet… Robby was the only thing tethering you to the moment. Solid, steady, warm through layers of fabric. Somehow, having your arms wrapped around him made it slightly less like dying. You doubted you’d ever get this close to him again—not like this, not with your chest pressed to his back, thighs tight against his. So you let yourself enjoy it. Just a little. Let your mind tip into that dangerous place where you want tangled with adrenaline, let the feel of him register—his scent, his weight, the quiet strength in how he moves.

Your muscles stayed clenched, but your thoughts drifted as you counted down in your head, a silent chant: five minutes. Five minutes and you’d be home. You could survive five minutes.

You thought that too soon.

When you finally opened your eyes, flashing lights washed the street ahead in red and blue. Police cars blocked the road completely, tape stretched across the intersection. Your stomach dropped as Robby eased off the speed, the realization sinking in that the ride—and your nerves—weren’t done yet.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered, loosening your hold around Robby as the cold blue-and-red strobe of cruisers painted the street ahead in chaos.

Robby didn’t even sound surprised. “You must’ve pissed off a witch in a past life,” he said, glancing at the barricades. “Some real cursed energy following you around.”

You gave him a light smack on the chest, tired and instinctual. He let out a short, low laugh, head tilting just slightly like he was enjoying himself more than he should’ve been.

“Mind hanging here?” you asked, already sliding off the bike. “I want to see what the hell’s going on.”

“Go for it,” he said easily. “I’m not going anywhere. Take your time.”

You trudged forward, cutting through a dense knot of reporters standing just behind the yellow tape. Cameras tracked your movement, and you caught a few judgmental glances as you pushed through—but you didn’t have the energy to care. You were running on caffeine, adrenaline, and the sheer willpower it took not to melt against Robby on that bike and grind yourself stupid. The vibrator in your nightstand was practically calling your name.

“Hey—excuse me!” you called out, flagging down the nearest officer.

“Ma’am, please stay behind the line,” he said automatically, barely sparing you a glance.

“Right, yeah, sorry,” you said quickly, lifting your hands slightly. “I was just wondering if you could tell me what’s going on? My apartment’s literally right there—like right there—and I just got off shift, I’m dead on my feet, and if there’s any chance I can cut through and—”

“Can’t help you, ma’am,” the officer interrupted. “We’ve got an active scene. No foot traffic. It’s not safe.”

You sighed through your teeth, nodded once. “Got it. Thanks.”

Turning on your heel, you headed back toward Robby and the bike, your exhaustion pressing down heavier with every step. Of course tonight wasn’t done screwing with you.

When you reached Robby, he now had a worried expression, probably from the tired and exhausted expression you had on your face. 

“They’re not letting me through,” you said, the helmet still snug on your head as you walked back to him. Your voice came out slightly muffled, distracted. “Apparently it’s some kind of active investigation. ‘Unsafe’ or whatever.”

Robby didn’t get a chance to respond before guilt hit you square in the chest. He’d gone out of his way to give you a ride—saved you from freezing your ass off—and now you were stranded in front of your own apartment like the universe had a personal vendetta. You didn’t want to drag him further into your mess.

“You should probably head out,” you said quickly, fingers fumbling with the helmet strap. “I’ll text Trinity, see if I can crash on her couch tonight.”

He didn’t answer right away. You caught the faint sound of leather shifting as he adjusted his grip on the handlebars.

“What are you gonna do—walk thirty minutes in this cold?” Robby said, like it was the dumbest idea he’d ever heard, and frankly, he wasn’t wrong.

“Shit… yeah, that’s—yeah, no,” you muttered. You hadn’t exactly thought this through. “Would you maybe—do you mind giving me a ride to her place?”

There was a beat of silence. His eyes flicked away, and for the first time, he looked just the tiniest bit hesitant.

“Santos already has to deal with Whitaker staying over,” he said. “But… if you’re okay with it, you could come back to mine.” He didn’t look at you as he said it, and the air between you suddenly felt a little tighter. Your brain scrambled to catch up. Robby’s place. The idea hit you with the force of a slap and a kiss at the same time. Heaven—getting a glimpse into his real life, the off-shift version of him you only got flashes of in call rooms and coffee lines. And hell—because you were already stupidly down bad for him, and being alone in his space? Dangerous.

But your mouth betrayed you before your logic could stage a protest.

“Yeah—um. Sure. That sounds great. Totally forgot about Trinity’s Whitaker situation,” you said, voice pitching too high.

You swung one leg over the bike, sliding in behind him again. This time, without hesitation, you wrapped your arms around his waist and pressed your cheek against his upper back, the warmth of him soaking into your skin instantly.

Robby groaned. Low, surprised.

“Wait—did I hurt you?” you asked, lifting your head, concern flaring.

“You’re good,” he said quickly. “Don’t worry about it.”

What you didn’t realize—what didn’t even register as your thoughts spun around how the hell this night got here—was that in the shuffle of getting on, your hand had grazed lower than intended. Just enough to make him clench his jaw and fix his eyes straight ahead.

After another bone-rattling fifteen minutes of wind, speed, and secondhand body heat, Robby finally slowed to a stop in front of his place—and it took you a second to process that this was his place.

You climbed off the bike, feet crunching into the thin layer of snow on the driveway, and let out a low whistle as you took in the clean lines, the dark wood, the neatly manicured front hedges. The porch light cast a warm, golden glow over everything, but the house still looked like it belonged in a glossy real estate listing: calm, expensive, untouched.

“Damn,” you said, pulling off the helmet, your hair a mess beneath it. “This is… this is nice. Like kill-for-it nice. My apartment’s so cramped I can microwave something and flush the toilet from the same spot.”

Robby smirked, locking up the bike. “Glad you approve.”

God, you thought, watching him walk ahead and unlock the door. You’d kiss him right now if it wouldn’t explode your entire career.

He pushed the door open and held it for you. You stepped inside—and immediately frowned. The interior was pristine. Too pristine. The air smelled faintly of cedar and expensive soap, and the living room looked like it had been arranged by someone hired to stage it, not live in it. Every pillow perfectly placed. Every book on the shelf spine-out, untouched. Not a single mug or jacket or personal trace in sight.

“Robby?” you asked, glancing around like you were waiting for someone else to step out of the shadows.

He made a soft noise in response, distracted as he tugged off his gloves and pulled the beanie from his head, hair mussed beneath it.

“You sure this is your house?” you asked, voice laced with suspicion. “It looks like a Better Homes magazine spread. And not in a cozy way. No offense, but… this place doesn’t feel lived in.”

He shrugged lightly as he pulled off his thick sweater, his scrubs still on underneath. “You’re not wrong. I’m barely here. Work eats most of my time—and whatever’s left, I usually just crash or find something quiet to do alone.”

You peeled off your own layers, still scanning the space. The quiet in here felt sterile, like the walls hadn’t heard a voice in days.

“That’s kind of… sad?” you said, tossing your jacket over a nearby chair. “What do you even do in your nonexistent free time? Any girlfriends stashed in the walk-in closet?”

Robby gave a faint grin. “Fish once in a while. And no—no girlfriends.”

Score, you thought, trying not to let it show on your face. No girlfriends didn’t mean no entanglements, though. You knew that. You’d seen him and Collins in the break room too many times, all those carefully drawn lines and the way they’d step over them when they thought no one was watching.

But you were watching.

You were left in your scrubs and socked feet, the hardwood cool beneath your toes. Without saying anything, Robby lifted your snow-damp jacket and bag from the chair and carried them off, clearly unwilling to let melting slush bleed into his carefully controlled space. You cleared your throat and wandered farther into the living room, eyes roaming. Everything felt intentional—books lined with precision, frames spaced just so. It looked less like a home and more like a pause button someone never pressed again.

One photo stopped you.

You leaned in, studying it. A younger Robby, graduation robes hanging loose on his shoulders, smiling so wide it softened his entire face. His parents stood on either side of him, proud and close. He looked lighter then. Like the job hadn’t carved lines into him yet.

“You being nosey?” he asked from behind you.

You smiled without turning. “Absolutely. I doubt I’ll ever be invited here again, so I’m gathering intel. Gotta give the ER something to gossip about.”

He moved to your side—close. Not touching. But close enough that you could feel his presence settle in beside you, steady and unmistakable.

“Who said you’re not coming back?” he said.

You glanced at him, scoffing softly. “Once I start sharing your secrets? You’ll ban me for life.”

He laughed, low and easy, and the sound lingered in the quiet room. The two of you stood there, shoulders nearly aligned, eyes drifting back to the photo. The silence stretched—but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was loaded.

And then you opened your mouth before your brain caught up.

“Honestly,” you said, voice lighter than your pulse felt, “if we were the same age and went to med school together… I would’ve totally had a crush on you.”

The words landed and stayed there.

Your heart kicked hard. “That—sorry. Not appropriate. You can take me to HR if you want,” you added quickly, turning toward him, heat climbing your neck.

But Robby didn’t laugh it off right away.

He looked at you—really looked. His gaze lingered, flicking briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. “You’re fine,” he said finally. “All you did was remind me how long it’s been since that picture.”

Another silence fell.

This one was different. Thicker. The kind that made you painfully aware of how close you were standing. You noticed everything all at once—the warmth of him, the quiet rise and fall of his chest, the faint crease between his brows when he thought too hard.

You couldn’t decide where to look. His eyes. His lips. The lines time had etched into his face.

And he didn’t look away either.

For a second—just one—it felt like the space between you might disappear. Like all it would take was a breath, a shift forward.

Robby’s jaw tightened.

Then he cleared his throat, sharp and deliberate.

The moment snapped, leaving the air charged and unfinished, the almost still hanging between you.

“Wanna shower?” Robby asked, already stepping back, like he could feel the heat between you pressing too close.

You blinked. “Nah… I didn’t bring any extra clothes,” you said, the words sticking a bit in your throat. “Didn’t exactly plan to end up at my attending’s house tonight.”

The second it left your mouth, you felt how wrong it sounded—wrong in that technically, professionally, absolutely should-not-be-happening way.

“You can borrow something of mine,” Robby said—fast. Too fast.

Your stomach flipped. Your skin lit up like it’d been struck.

“I mean—if you don’t mind,” you stammered, trying to keep your tone casual, failing miserably. “I’d actually love a shower. I probably have half the hospital’s germ population on me. Cold season’s been brutal.” You let out a breathy laugh, awkward and desperate to lighten the air.

He gave a short nod. “Be right back.” No smile. No comment. Just that clipped response as he disappeared down the hall, leaving you standing in the middle of his quiet, curated living room like some surreal guest star in someone else’s life.

You rocked gently on your heels, arms crossed loosely, brain buzzing.

Motorcycle ride. His house. Now a shower. And soon… his clothes.

It felt like some weird, slow unraveling. Like you’d slipped into a version of reality where Robby wasn’t just your attending—he was a person. A man. One you maybe wanted too much, and definitely shouldn’t have ended up alone with tonight.

After a minute or two, Robby came back with a folded pair of sweatpants, a soft T‑shirt, and a brand‑new package of boxers. He handed everything to you, then quickly pointed down the hall. “Bathroom’s there,” he said, already turning away.

You thanked him, and he left you to it.

Once the door closed, you let out a long breath and leaned back against it, the weight of the situation finally crashing down on you. This was real. His house. His clothes. You needed a shower—now—before your brain completely short‑circuited. You stripped quickly and stepped under the spray, warm water hitting your face and rolling down your body. You thought it might calm you down. Ground you. Instead, it did the opposite.

Your mind went straight to Robby. The way his hand would rest at your back for just a second when he squeezed past you in the ER. The quiet praise when you did well. The firm tone when you messed up—never unkind, always deliberate. The heat and steam made it harder to think straight. Your breathing slowed, then stuttered, thoughts drifting into places you’d avoided (somewhat) all night. Places that felt reckless and vivid. His bed. His desk. The kitchen counter. The couch you’d stood near minutes ago.

A soft sound slipped from your throat before you could stop it. You bit your lip, leaning into the tile as sensation built, your thoughts spiraling—wondering how he’d touch you, how close he’d get, whether he’d hold back or give in completely.

Your breath hitched as your fingers found that sensitive spot inside, a jolt of pleasure sparking through you—harder to reach alone, but when you did, it lit you up. You adjusted the angle, pressing deeper, hitting it again and again, the tension low in your belly pulling tighter with every slow stroke. The water crashed around you, hot and relentless, echoing the rush in your veins—until it all snapped loose, your body shuddering with release, a quiet gasp slipping from your lips.

You couldn’t believe what you’d just done.

Your heart was still knocking hard in your chest as you rinsed off fast, determined not to think about it—to shove the memory down into some dusty corner of your brain and pretend it hadn’t happened. But the shame clung to you worse than the steam. Robby had been nothing but kind all night, and here you were, pressed up against his tile wall, hand between your legs, coming to the thought of him.

You stepped out of the shower, still flushed and unsettled, and stared at the clothes he’d left for you. Guilt crawled up your spine. Sweatpants, T-shirt, boxers still in their package. He hadn’t hesitated. He didn’t even make a comment. And you had the nerve to—

You shook your head hard and grabbed the towel, trying to shake off the thought entirely. You spotted a blow dryer tucked under the sink and used it quickly, just enough to take the damp out of your hair so you wouldn’t leave a trail behind. Your reflection in the mirror didn’t look guilty, but you felt it—low and sharp in your chest.

You dressed fast. No bra—no chance in hell. After a shift like the one you’d pulled, a bra felt like an enemy. You padded barefoot down the hallway, trying not to think about the fact that you were wearing his shirt, his sweats. Your skin was still warm, your nerves buzzing under the surface.

When you stepped back into the living room, you stopped short.

Robby sat on the couch, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, reading. A thick hardcover rested open in one hand, his other hand absently brushing along his jaw as he read, fingers stroking the stubble there like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

From where you stood, the light caught just enough—his brow drawn in concentration, the faint movement of his lips as he read something he didn’t like, the way his whole face shifted when he focused.

You realized you were staring.

Hard.

You needed to say something before he looked up and caught you. 

“What are you reading?” you asked, your voice low as you stepped into the room, padding across the floor toward the couch.

Robby looked up—and didn’t answer. Not right away. His eyes landed on you and just... stayed there. You watched the shift in his expression, subtle but unmistakable. The way his gaze dragged down your body, slow, like he hadn’t meant to but couldn’t stop himself. You, in his clothes. Standing in his house. Still warm from the shower.

If the lights had been on, you might’ve missed it—but the soft glow from the lamp caught it just right: the faint blush rising across his cheekbones, the red blooming down his neck. Robby. Blushing.

“Some old medical journal I picked up a few years back,” he finally said, clearing his throat and snapping his attention back to the page like it owed him an excuse.

You hummed, noncommittal, and sat down at the opposite end of the couch—far end. Any closer and you weren’t sure what would come out of your mouth. Probably something reckless. Like how badly you wanted him to fuck you.

You glanced around, pretending to admire the living room again, anything to keep your eyes off him.

“I’m gonna change. Take a shower,” he said suddenly, standing a little too fast. “Remote’s somewhere around here. If you don’t see it, check the drawers.”

He turned and left before you could respond, disappearing down the hall.

You stared after him, heart thudding.

You sat there for a while, eyes fixed on the black screen of the TV, its reflection showing only the room’s quiet stillness—and your own restless discomfort. Eventually, you sighed and did what Robby had suggested, getting up to check the drawers for the remote. You opened one after another, hands brushing through neatly arranged remotes, coasters, a few magazines—nothing.

Still no remote. And now you were just... standing there. Overthinking again.

You needed a distraction. Something.

Your eyes flicked down the hallway toward the room you’d seen Robby walk into. You hesitated for half a second, then made your way toward the slightly ajar door, knocking lightly as you spoke up.

“Hey, Robby, I couldn’t find the remote. Just wondering if it might be in—oh.”

You’d already pushed the door open.

Definitely his room—king bed, perfectly made, clean and quiet. But it was the sight beside the bed that froze you in place.

Robby.

Standing there.

Wearing nothing but a pair of navy boxers.

Your eyes dropped before you could stop yourself.

His chest was dusted with graying hair, soft and sparse, leading down to a clean trail that vanished beneath the waistband. A gold chain glinted against his collarbone, subtle and well-worn. And below that, the heavy outline pressing against the front of his underwear was impossible to ignore.

Worse—lower, near the base—was a small, darker patch of damp cotton.

Your breath caught in your throat, and your mouth opened without any words following.

“I’m so sorry,” was all you managed to blurt out before slamming the door shut with a sharp thud that echoed louder than your voice. Your heart was racing, your face burning, and you didn’t stop moving until you were back in the living room, sinking hard onto the couch like the cushions might swallow you whole.

You need to leave. That was your first thought. The only thought, really.

But you couldn’t—not now. Not with the storm thickening outside, the wind pressing harder against the windows. And even if you could walk out, what would that even look like? A hasty exit, no explanation, and then what—face him again on Monday like nothing happened? Pretend you hadn’t just walked in on your attending half-naked and burned the image of his dick print into your skull like a brand?

No. That image wasn’t going anywhere. It was hard-wired into your brain.

You inhaled slowly, forcing yourself to sit up straighter. You were going to talk about it. Like adults. That was the plan.

Okay. No panicking. You’re going to talk about this. Like mature adults. You could handle this.

Except you hadn’t been particularly mature earlier—not with your fingers buried deep inside yourself in his shower, thinking about what it’d feel like if he was the one making you come.

You dropped your head back against the cushion and closed your eyes.

You were so fucked.

About thirty minutes slipped by, though it felt like hours—each second stretching thin with the low white noise of water running somewhere down the hall. You sat curled up on the couch, the weight of everything you hadn’t said pressing against your chest.

The book Robby had been reading lay open in your hands. You’d tried to focus, to read the passage he'd marked before stepping away. But you kept circling back to the same paragraph, eyes scanning the same lines without taking in a single word. You were too distracted. Not by the story—by him. By everything that had happened, and everything you hadn’t dared to say aloud.

You didn’t hear him come in. Didn’t notice the shift of the cushions or the quiet creak of the floorboard.

“You’ve been staring at that page for a while,” came his voice, rougher now, the faintest hint of a chuckle behind it.

You jumped, heart skipping as you quickly closed the book. “That paragraph was just… super interesting,” you said, forcing a small smile as you turned to face him.

He was sitting on the far side of the couch again—matching sweatpants to yours, but a plain black t-shirt clinging just enough to show the outline of his shoulders. His hair was still damp, curling slightly at the ends. He didn’t look at you right away.

Say something. Be mature, you told yourself. It was already in the air between you, hanging there like a held breath.

“Robby…” you started carefully. “Can we talk about what happened or—”

“I’d prefer not to,” he said quickly, gaze fixed on the space ahead of him. Not on you. Not yet.

That hit harder than it should have. But something inside you snapped into focus.

“Okay, well,” you said, sitting up straighter. “I just wanted to say—and yeah, I know this is completely inappropriate considering you’re my attending—but I like you. Not as a coworker. Not as a friend. And again, I know that’s—”

“It’s not appropriate,” Robby cut in, voice firmer. “Let’s just leave it there.”

You blinked. No. No, no, no. Was that it? Was he rejecting you?

Silence bloomed between you, thick and pulsing. You stared down at the book still in your lap, words swimming. “Being appropriate kinda went out the window the second you invited me over,” you muttered.

“That’s not—” Robby turned slightly toward you, finally. “You couldn’t get home. You don’t have a car. What was I supposed to do? Leave you stranded?”

You scoffed, looking at him now, heat rising in your chest. “I gave you a reasonable solution. You could’ve taken me to Trinity’s. Simple. Or a hotel. Also simple. But you didn’t. You asked me to come here.”

Robby’s eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw tightening. “And you said yes.”

“I said yes because I like you,” you snapped, voice sharper now. “What’s your excuse, huh?”

The question hung there, raw and electric, waiting.

He didn’t answer.

Just silence. Not cold. Not dismissive. Just tight. Loaded.

You shifted on the couch, jaw clenched. “Whatever,” you muttered, arms crossing. “I’m calling an Uber. Going home. I’ll bring your clothes back tomorrow.”

You didn’t even know where that bratty edge in your voice came from—but it was there, biting and defensive, a cracked shell around the heat building in your chest.

You started to turn, half-reaching for your phone, but Robby’s hand caught your upper arm—strong, steady, not rough. Just… decisive.

“Don’t,” he said quietly. “It’s dangerous out there. Roads are iced. Just stay. Leave in the morning.”

You were already halfway to telling him no—but then he tugged you gently toward him, not letting go. The distance between you vanished in an instant. You were still on opposite ends of the couch, technically—but now you were angled toward him, his face inches from yours, your knees brushing. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, the tension buzzing between you like a current.

His eyes locked on yours. Serious. Tired. Wanting.

Close.

Too fucking close.

Your breath hitched, your voice barely more than a whisper. “So… are you gonna kiss me, or just keep staring at me all—”

Robby moved before the last word left your mouth.

His lips caught yours, slow and sure, like he’d been holding back for years and finally gave up fighting it. The kiss wasn’t greedy—it was deliberate. Measured. His mouth moved against yours with the kind of control that only made it hotter, like he was studying your lips, committing the shape and softness to memory.

Then his hand slid up, threading into your hair—and he gave the smallest pull. Not harsh. Not planned. But enough.

A moan slipped out of you, soft and unfiltered.

That was all it took—next thing you knew, you were straddling him, thighs bracketing his hips, your knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of him. It happened so fast, but his hands were already on you, gripping your waist like he’d been waiting for this.

You never imagined you’d end up here—like this. Not just with Robby, but on him.

His mouth found yours again, hotter now, messier, no restraint left in it. His tongue dragged slowly along your bottom lip, deliberate, teasing—until you opened for him without hesitation.

The kiss turned urgent, greedy. There was no memorizing anymore, no careful cataloguing of touch. Just friction. Breath. Need. You rolled your hips into his, slow at first, but purposeful—and you felt him respond instantly, the press of him growing harder beneath you.

You moved again, chasing that same pressure, and let out a quiet, shaky whine when your body caught it just right.

You were about to do it again when his hands tightened at your waist, halting your rhythm.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low and hoarse against your lips, breaking the kiss just enough to speak. You whined again—soft, needy—but the sound caught in your throat when he dipped his head and started trailing open-mouthed kisses along your neck, each one slower, wetter, more possessive than the last.

“Robby?” you breathed, voice strained, thick with the effort of holding back another moan.

He didn’t stop—not right away. “Hmm?” he murmured against your throat, still kissing along your skin, only now with more pressure. His lips dragged, lingered, sucked gently just below your jaw, pulling dark bruises to the surface like he wanted them there. Marking you. Leaving pieces of himself behind. If you dropped dead right now, at least you’d go out knowing you had a memory of him on you. Proof it had happened.

“I…” you started, your hips twitching forward again, trying to grind into him, but failing—blocked by his hold. “I touched myself earlier. In the shower.” A pause. “Thinking of you.”

That stopped everything.

Not all at once—his lips hovered just above your skin, his breath still hot against your throat—but his hands locked around your waist, grip firm, almost punishing.

You could feel the shift in him like a wire pulled taut.

“Robby?” you whispered, suddenly unsure. Afraid maybe you’d pushed too far. That he’d pull away. Tell you to get dressed. Tell you to go.

But then—he moved.

He rolled his hips up into you, slow but deep, the pressure hitting exactly where you needed it. It knocked the air from your lungs.

“Oh, God…” you whimpered, trembling.

“Show me,” he said, voice rough, low, raw. “Please.”

You moved fast, urgency overriding any sense of grace—lifting off his lap and shoving your sweatpants and underwear down in one motion. No hesitation. No shame. Not tonight. Not with him.

It wasn’t smooth, wasn’t seductive—it was frantic, messy, real. Just fabric bunched around your thighs, heart pounding as you stripped yourself bare in front of the man you’d spent two years secretly aching for. Robby groaned the moment he saw you—low, rough, like the sight punched the air out of him. You climbed back onto his lap, slower this time, but left space between your bodies—just enough. His hands stayed at his sides, but his eyes followed every move like they couldn’t afford to miss a second.

“I thought about the ways you’d have me,” you said, breath uneven, nerves crackling just beneath the surface. “HR would absolutely destroy me if they heard what I imagined.”

You let out a breath of laughter, half‑shaken, as your fingers drifted lower. You began to circle your entrance slowly, deliberately, never taking your eyes off him.

Robby’s gaze dropped immediately. Locked in. Focused.

“And I regretted it,” you said softly, voice catching. “Before you say anything—it wasn’t what you think.”

His eyes flicked up, meeting yours.

“I regretted it because... all you’ve done tonight is be good to me,” you continued, your voice cracking open with every word. “You gave me a ride. You let me stay. You gave me your clothes. And I—I was in your shower, rubbing myself at the thought of you.”

You choked on the last line, a whisper pressed between confession and craving, and as your fingers slipped inside—slow, trembling—you didn’t look away from him.

You couldn’t.

"My actions weren’t exactly innocent either,” Robby said quietly.

He caught your wrist, guiding your hand away—not abruptly, not unkindly—and replaced it with his own. The difference was immediate. Where your movements had been restless and searching, his were measured. Steady. Confident in a way that made your breath hitch, eliciting a wet sound with each exhale. He didn't rush. He never did.

You'd thought about his hands more times than you cared to admit. Not just because of how they looked—but because of what they represented. Long shifts. Endless hours. Lives held together by precision and calm under pressure. His hands weren’t soft, but they weren't rough either—worn in quiet ways. Small calluses. Faint scars. Evidence of work, of discipline, of someone who carried responsibility without ever asking for praise.

You admired him more than you should have. Your attending.

A shiver ran through you when he touched you properly—when he found that place you always struggled to reach on your own, like he already knew exactly where to go. Squelching noises echoed in the room as his finger explored your depths. Your head tipped back, a sound slipping out of you before you could stop it.

"You were right," he said, voice low, steady even as his focus stayed entirely on you. "It wasn't appropriate." A pause. "I wanted you. Still do."

His thumb pressed just enough to make your pulse stutter.

"I just didn't know how to get there," he continued, quieter now. "How to talk to you. How to cross that line without blowing everything up."

His words sank in just as deeply as the way he was touching you—controlled, intentional, devastatingly sincere.

“Robby… please… another one…” you stammered, voice cracking as your back arched off the couch, hips shifting restlessly beneath his hand.

He looked up at you, that same sharp glint in his eye—cool, unreadable, maddening. “Another one?” he said, voice low and too calm. “Another what, sweetheart?”

“Dr. Robby, please…” you whined, breath catching in your throat, need pouring out of you like you were coming apart.

And just like that—he gave in. He always did when you asked like that.

No more teasing. No more questions. Just the firm, practiced weight of his hand as he gave you exactly what you needed. You gasped as he pushed deeper, two fingers now, slow but relentless. He curled them deliberately, pressing into that spot that made you twitch, made your breath shatter. His thumb moved to your clit, circling with just the right pressure, no hesitation—just control. He worked you like he knew every weak spot in your body, like he’d been waiting to prove he could undo you better than you ever imagined.

You clenched hard around him, every muscle in your body drawn tight as the heat low in your belly surged, coiled, snapped.

“Right there—right there—” you gasped, hips jerking as you came hard, everything flooding over at once, too much, too fast.

And Robby didn’t say a word—he just kept his hand steady, watching you fall apart like it was the most natural thing in the world.

There was a brief stretch of silence—just the sound of your breathing trying to steady as your head rested against Robby’s shoulder. His chest rose beneath you, warm and solid, and then he let out a soft laugh, the sound brushing your ear, warm enough to make you shiver.

“What’s so funny, Robinavitch?” you asked, smirking as you gave his cheek a light slap, pressing a slow kiss just below his jaw.

“Nothing,” he said, voice threaded with something close to disbelief. “Just… trying to process all of it. Having the woman I’ve been into for over two years sitting on my lap, coming apart in my hands, and not bolting for the door after?” He gave a small shake of his head. “Yeah. That’s a lot.”

You stilled, lifting your head slightly to look at him.

“You’ve liked me that long?”

“Yeah,” he said without hesitation. “At first I just thought you were beautiful—couldn’t stop looking, if I’m being honest. And then I kept watching you work. Smart as hell. Steady when everything’s on fire. Stubborn in a way that’s almost admirable.”

He shrugged, one hand still tracing lazy circles into your hips, grounding both of you in the moment. “It got real easy to start imagining you… in different ways.”

You stared at him, quiet now, all that boldness from before folding into something warmer. Something unsure.

“Don’t get all mushy on me, Robby,” you muttered, biting his shoulder gently, just enough to pull a reaction from him.

He let out a sharp groan, eyes fluttering shut for half a second.  “Keep that up,” he said, voice darker now, “and I’m gonna show you exactly what else I pictured.” 

"I doubt you could keep up with me, old man," you teased, arms winding around his shoulders, your chest pressed flush to his as the words ghosted against his jaw.

Robby smiled at that—but not fully. There was something in his expression, something quieter behind the smirk.  He shifted beneath you, hips rolling up just enough to press against your center, and you felt it—the drag of him against your now hypersensitive skin. Your breath hitched sharply, your fingers tightening slightly at his shoulders as heat pulsed through you.

"Are you gonna fuck me," you whispered, brushing a soft kiss to his lips, "or are we gonna keep dry humping like a couple of virgins scared of getting caught?"

Robby let out a soft chuckle, more breath than sound. “Get up.”

You didn’t hesitate. You lifted yourself from his lap, heart thudding, eyes locked on him as he moved to stand. While he did, you reached for the hem of your shirt—his shirt—and pulled it over your head.It dropped to the floor, and suddenly, you were standing there—completely bare in front of him, nothing between you but the air and everything unsaid.

Robby took you in, his eyes darkening as he stood, slow and deliberate. “Someone’s ready,” he teased, his voice dropping to a low, rough vibrato that sent heat pooling low in your belly. You followed his gaze downward, then flicked yours to the hard, heavy weight straining against his sweatpants, and smiled. “Yeah,” you shot back lightly, your tone playful but breathless, “looks like someone else is too from what I can see.”

Whatever Robby was about to say vanished the moment you grabbed him and crashed your lips to his, dragging him into the heat of you with no warning, no hesitation. It wasn’t some sweet, slow kiss you craved anymore—no, you wanted him breathless, undone, falling apart. Your arms locked around his neck, holding him flush as you forced his mouth open, tongue slipping inside without asking, claiming him like you already owned every inch.

The sound he made—fragile, high, almost a whimper—sent a shock straight down your spine. You’d replay it forever if you could. Etch it into the back of your mind like a looped recording, to summon on nights when your thighs clenched tight and your hand moved beneath the sheets, whispering his name into the dark.

One hand slipped from his neck, trailing deliberately down his chest, slow enough to tease, precise enough to make him twitch. You found him straining against his pants, thick and throbbing beneath the fabric—so much more than what your late-night fantasies had guessed. Those nights where your fingers curled deep inside you, desperate, imagining this exact pressure, this exact weight.

You started stroking, just enough friction to drive him crazy. He let out a moan—low, rough, unguarded—and you felt it everywhere, from your slick thighs to your pounding chest. He was already losing himself. And you were just getting started.

“Easy,” he murmured, his voice rough with restraint, eyes locked on yours in that intense, teasing gaze. “We’re not rushing this.”

And somehow, that made it worse—in the best possible way, the promise of what was to come hanging thick in the air between you.

Robby lingered between kisses, breath warm against your mouth, his lips grazing yours as he murmured, almost reluctantly, “Come on, sweetheart. We should at least make it to the bedroom.” You let out a soft, involuntary whine when he pulled back, your body immediately missing the closeness. Before you could protest, his fingers threaded through yours, steady and reassuring as he led you down the hall. His thumb brushed slow, absentminded circles over your skin, and the simple touch sent little flickers of electricity straight up your arm.

When you stepped inside, you finally took the room in properly. Everything about it felt him—carefully kept, quietly intentional. The bed was made with crisp precision, sheets tucked tight, pillows aligned just right. Matching side tables framed it, each topped with a softly glowing lamp that cast the room in a calm, golden light. A low dresser sat opposite the bed, the closet door to the right left slightly open, folded clothes visible inside.

And then there was the mirror.

A full-length mirror stood beside the dresser, angled directly toward the bed, unapologetic in its placement, like it was meant to catch everything.

You sank onto the edge of the mattress, right in front of it, the bed dipping subtly beneath your weight. From here, you could see the whole scene—the rumpled pillows behind you, the way the light softened the walls, the two of you reflected together in the glass. Tilting your head, curiosity slipping into your voice, you asked, “Why do you have a mirror right in front of the bed?”

Robby’s cheeks flushed instantly, color blooming and creeping down his neck. That familiar, endearing awkwardness surfaced as he rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting away. “It’s—it’s not what you think,” he said quickly, stumbling over the words, which was almost funny coming from the same guy who’d had you completely undone just moments earlier.

Before you could so much as tease him about the fact you clearly weren’t the first person to sneak into this tucked-away little hideout—something that, to your surprise, clawed up a flicker of jealousy in your chest—Robby stepped forward. Close. Closer than he’d ever been during your overlapping shifts. And that’s when it hit you, hard.

He was tall. You’d noticed it before, in little moments—how he always leaned down a bit when you talked—but now, standing there in front of you with only inches between, you had to tilt your chin to meet his eyes. It sparked something dark and hot low in your belly, made you want to melt right into him.

Robby noticed how covered he was compared to your naked body—and with an amused huff, tugged his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. The gold chain you'd glimpsed earlier now hung perfectly against his chest, catching the dim light.  You let out a low, teasing whistle, grinning like you were one of those filthy construction workers on lunch break, watching a wet t-shirt contest walk by. “Damn,” you breathed.

There he was. Broad, solid. A dad bod in all its glory—soft around the edges but firm where it counted, thick in ways that made your imagination run wild. He wasn’t sculpted, not like the guys in magazines, but fuck that—you didn’t want carved marble. You wanted heat and weight and sweat and him.

“Sorry I’m not up to your standards,” Robby muttered, shirt already forgotten somewhere behind him.

You raised an eyebrow, eyes flicking down and then back up with a smirk. “You must have me confused with someone else,” you murmured as you leaned in, planting slow, hot kisses along his torso, trailing lower and lower, breath skating down toward his cock. “Because I’m exactly where I want to be.”

He sucked in a sharp breath, visibly faltering. Whatever snarky reply he had on deck dissolved when your hands went for the waistband of his sweats—but before you could get any further, his fingers twisted in your hair, gripping your scalp just firm enough to make you gasp, and pulled you up to face him.

“As much as I’d love to let you do that,” his eyes narrowed on yours, “I’m not twenty anymore. I don’t think I’d last long.”

You gave him your best wounded pout. “That’s fine,” you whispered, fingers not leaving his waistband. “I already came anyway. I can do it.”

Robby let out a quiet, throaty laugh at your boldness, shaking his head. “No, sweetheart,” he said, and you felt that word like a drag of heat between your legs. “I’d rather be in you.”

Your breath hitched. You clenched your thighs tight without meaning to, chasing the smallest bit of friction to ease the aching throb pulsing through you. And god, he saw it. Smirked like he knew what he was doing to you.

“Lay down for me,” Robby said, and the command slid from his mouth like second nature—steady, unhurried, sure of itself.  You obeyed without a second thought, back hitting the mattress as he crawled on top of you, covering you with his weight. His gold chain dangled inches from your face, swaying slightly with every subtle movement. You could hear it shift, a soft clink against his chest, and instead of distracting you, it made everything hotter—more real.

He dipped his head, kissing along the bruises he’d already painted on your skin earlier, lips brushing over each tender mark like he was proud of them. Then his mouth trailed lower, tongue gliding down between your breasts, slow and deliberate.

“I remember the first day you walked in,” he murmured between kisses. “All sharp edges and straight posture, so damn determined to get everything perfect right outta the gate. I thought—shit—she’s gorgeous. But I couldn’t do a thing. Me, being your attending…”

The confession made your breath catch, a quiet moan escaping you at the thought that even then—when you were trying to prove yourself—he’d been looking at you like this. You tangled your fingers into his hair, massaging his scalp while he sucked fresh marks into your skin, layering new bruises over the old.

“Robby, please…” you whined, hips twitching under him, voice soaked in desperation.

“Let me enjoy this,” he whispered against your collarbone, tone so gentle it ached. “Just… let me.”

And enjoy it, he did.

His mouth touched everywhere but where you needed him most. He kissed along your ribs, your hips, even the curve of your stomach. Torturously slow. Every press of his lips was heavy with intent, with control. It was maddening. Deliciously so. By the time he reached your neck again, he latched onto that soft spot just under your ear and sucked—hard enough to make your thighs jerk together.

Then he paused, like something just clicked in his mind.

“You got a condom?” he asked, lips ghosting over the mark he’d just left behind.

“In my bag,” you whispered, barely able to form the words. The second you said it, he was gone—springing up like a man possessed.

You didn’t even have time to laugh. He was back in under two minutes, holding the little foil packets, eyes already dark with hunger and purpose. You propped yourself up on your elbows and caught the raised eyebrow he shot at you.

“…What?” you asked, tilting your head.

“What the hell you got so many for?” he asked, peeling one off the stack and tossing the rest onto his dresser with a snort.

You grinned wickedly. “Can’t a girl have options? Plus, you weren’t exactly throwing signals, old man. I figured if you weren’t interested, I could just ask Abbott to rail me instead.”

His jaw flexed. You saw it. That flicker of jealousy flared behind his eyes, just like you hoped. The only sound he gave was a sharp little tch of disapproval, and god, it made you grin harder.

“I’m lying,” you said quickly, voice sweet as syrup. “You’re the only old man I’ve got heart eyes for.”

That finally cracked him—he huffed out a laugh, shaking his head as he ripped open the condom, eyes already drifting down to where you were waiting for him, aching.

But the playful teasing, the low laughter, the back-and-forth spark between you both—it all faded the moment Robby hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats and started easing them down. The second his pants dropped, your breath caught in your throat.

You had felt how thick he was, sure—stroking him through layers of fabric had already lit a fire in your belly—but seeing him now, bare, swollen, made your entire body clench with need. A moan slipped out before you could stop it, the image of him inside you flashing through your mind so vividly it nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.

His cock stood proud and hard, flushed dark and glistening with need—an angry red that told you exactly how long he'd been holding back, how badly he wanted this. Wanted you.

Robby stepped out of his pants slowly, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world and every second was just another way to wind you tighter. He tore the condom wrapper fully open with a flick of his wrist and rolled it on deliberately, putting on a little show just for you. His eyes never left your face, watching the way you shifted under his gaze, how your thighs pressed together without thinking.

Then, as if that wasn’t enough, he reached down and grabbed one of your breasts—fingers curling around the softness with a firm, teasing grip. His thumb dragged over your nipple, slow and deliberate, pulling a gasp from you like he was playing an instrument he knew all too well.

“If you don’t put it in already, I swear to god, Robinavitch,” you growled, fingers digging into his arms as you yanked him down against you, thighs parting in desperation. But before another word could leave your mouth, you felt the thick head of Robby’s cock drag slow and heavy along your slit—coating it, teasing it, sending shudders through your core. Your body reacted instantly, your hole clenching around nothing, already aching to be filled.

Robby let out a low, amused chuckle at the way you trembled beneath him. “We haven’t even started,” he said, grinning like the bastard he was, “and you’re already about to fall apart. Thought you said I couldn’t keep up with you?”

You opened your mouth to snap back, but your words caught in your throat when you felt him start to push inside—slow and deliberate, splitting you open inch by inch.

When Robby finally bottomed out inside you, there was a moment—just a breath—where everything stopped. And thank god for it. You needed that pause. You were already stretched so wide, filled to the brim, every inch of him pressing into places that had only existed in your fantasies until now. If he pushed just a bit deeper, he’d be right against that spot you’d spent countless nights trying to reach with your fingers, the one that always left you gasping when you hit it just right.

He hovered above you, his weight deliciously heavy, but not enough to crush you. One arm was braced beside your head, steady, while the other curled slightly at your waist. His forehead rested against your shoulder, and you could feel the heat of his breath—uneven, ragged—blowing against your skin.

“Tell me when I can move,” he rasped, his voice barely holding steady. You nodded without hesitation, your body still adjusting, pulsing around him like it didn’t know whether to beg him to move or stay perfectly still.

A minute passed—maybe less, maybe more—but once your body stopped trembling, once the stretch turned to aching pleasure, you made your move. You locked your legs around his waist, ankles pressing into the small of his back, and pulled him in even deeper. You both moaned—his more like a strangled curse against your throat—as the new angle dragged him right against the spot he’d been just shy of hitting before.

“You should’ve warned me,” he said, already starting to move in a slow, aching grind. “I’m not gonna last long like this.”

“It’s o-okay,” you managed, barely able to speak as your head tipped back and your body clamped around him again, greedy for every single thrust.

His hips started to lose their rhythm the second your mouth brushed his ear, a broken moan spilling against his skin. That sound—it hit him harder than it should’ve, raw and real, like it clawed straight through the restraint he’d been clinging to.

“I’ve dreamt about this, you know?” he grunted between thrusts, his voice strained, hungry, every word laced with the kind of honesty that only came when a man was close to unraveling. “How I’d have you. How I’d fuck you. Hell, I thought about bending you over one of the supply carts at the hospital more than once.”

His hips kept grinding into you, chasing something deeper, harder, rougher. You couldn’t respond with anything more than needy moans—your body said everything your mouth couldn’t. Whimpers replaced your pleas, and all you could do was feel.

“Robby… please… right there,” you gasped, your voice thick with desperation, barely coherent, every syllable drawn from the heat boiling in your gut.

“Of course,” he rasped, like he was vowing something holy. “Anything for you… anything for you.”

And he gave it to you. Again. Again. Hitting that spot with unrelenting precision, like he knew your body better than you did.

You were his resident—eager, determined, off-limits. And he was your attending, the one who should’ve known better. The words rang in his head as his thrusts deepened. He’d watched you grow over the years—watched you go from that nervous, eager intern fumbling through charts, to the confident, sharp doctor who could command a room with a glance. And god, he wanted you every step of the way.

There were nights he’d gone home aching, fisting his cock with the image of you still burned behind his eyes—how you looked thanking him after a long shift, how your voice softened for patients, how your smile slipped out when you thought no one was looking. He’d imagined how he’d ask you out. Rehearsed it in the on-call room, in his car, even mid-rounds.

But he never did.

He was too much of a coward.

And now, you were underneath him, clinging to him, saying his name like it meant something. Touching him like he was yours. Seeing him like he always wanted to be seen.

It nearly made him lose it right then and there.

But he didn’t. He held on. Because he needed more—more of your voice, more of your body, more of the way you trembled when he gave you exactly what you needed.

You didn’t last much longer after that. Your fingers dug into his waist, dragging him down into a kiss that was all teeth and breath and heat, mouths crashing together like you were trying to swallow him whole. You moaned his name one last time, just as everything inside you snapped. The tension that had been building since the first time he looked at you like he shouldn’t finally cracked wide open.

Your body clenched tight around him, pulling him deeper as your climax tore through you, hot and blinding. He whimpered—whimpered—and spilled inside you seconds later, hips jerking as he buried himself to the hilt.

Then silence. Just breath. The slow fall back to earth.

You took in one deep inhale, chest rising, and then let out a soft laugh. It bubbled up out of you before you could stop it.

Robby tilted his head, already mocking. “What’s so funny, huh?”

“Nothing,” you grinned, breath still shaky. “Just… realizing I had absolutely filthy sex with my attending. HR’s gonna have a field day.”

He smirked lazily at that, gave you one last kiss—gentler this time—before pulling out. You whimpered at the loss, your body already missing the weight of him. He gave you a soft look, then stood and wandered off toward the trash, condom in hand.

“Wow,” you said, propping yourself up on your elbows. “You’ve got surprisingly strong hips for an old man.”

He looked over his shoulder, gave you that flat, not laughing but trying not to smile kind of stare, and scoffed as he turned back to his dresser. From the corner, he pulled a small towel.

You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Uh-huh. And how many other girls have you used that crusty thing on?”

He looked over at you with mock offense. “First off, she’s clean. Second… you’re the first one I’ve invited over. You get a gold star.”

You snorted as he pulled your thighs toward the edge of the bed with practiced ease, making you yelp a little. “Wow. Truly honored,” you said with a grin, tossing your head back into the pillows.

“No, really,” he murmured while cleaning you up. “Two years pining after one of my residents. Never told Abbott, but he figured it out. Knew the second I started stalling rounds just to stay near you.”

You kept your eyes closed, forearm draped over them. His words settled into your chest like warm weight.

Then you felt it—his lips, soft and smug, placing a kiss right on your clit. 

“Robby!” you gasped, flinging your arm off your face and glaring at him, wide-eyed.

“What?” he said, grinning like the bastard he was. “She’s pretty. I just needed to show her a little appreciation.”

“You dirty old man,” you muttered, grabbing a pillow and tossing it at him. He caught it with one hand, smirking over the edge like he was proud of himself—and he absolutely was.

[outcaststarfruit]

"Not My Scene"

Michael Robinavitch (The Pitt) x female! reader pt.3

Summary: When you take a new job at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, you expect long shifts, thin walls, and the kind of exhaustion that settles into your bones. You don’t expect to keep crossing paths with the man you once tried very hard not to want. Between shared hallways, early mornings, and the controlled chaos of the ER, distance becomes harder to maintain.

Story Status: Incomplete

Word Count: 5.8k

Previous Parts: Part 1, Part 2

Author's Note: Hey everyone! Sorry for the delay. I thought I was on a roll, but writer’s block hit me hard and I wasn’t sure how to keep this chapter going—until now. It’s finally here! There are definitely more Robby moments than in the last part, but when I say slow burn… I mean slow burn. I’m not sure when the next chapter will be up with the holidays coming up, but I’ll do my best. Thanks so much for reading! If you are interested in being tagged in future updates, I have a pinned post with a Google form link.

Day 1,627 

Two years had passed since that day. The sharp, nagging guilt you’d carried at first had softened into something quieter—still there, still real, but filed away as a mistake you’d learned from rather than one you kept punishing yourself for. Life had kept moving, whether you were ready for it or not.

You stayed close to Heather through residency, showing up in the ways you knew how. Dropping off meals when her schedule swallowed her whole. Dragging her out of the house when she’d gone too long without sunlight or rest, insisting on coffee runs or aimless walks that counted as breaks, even if she pretended to protest. You watched her grow tougher, sharper, more exhausted—and somehow still herself. You focused on your own career, too. You went back to school, took on extra training, logged the hours, and made the jump from EMT to paramedic. It was hard work, but it felt earned. For a while, you were content—busy, tired, but proud of where you were headed.

Then the bills started stacking up.

Rent crept higher. Groceries cost more. One unexpected expense turned into another, and your savings thinned faster than you liked to admit. You caught yourself doing the math late at night, staring at your bank app with a tight feeling in your chest. More than once, you considered asking Heather if you could crash with her for a while—just until you got back on your feet. The thought alone made your stomach twist. You hated feeling like a burden, hated even more that you might need help.

Before you could gather the courage to ask, Heather mentioned an opportunity that immediately caught your attention.

You’d mentioned money in passing, trying to keep it light, when she casually told you that PTMC was hiring paramedics. Better pay. Better hours. She mentioned, almost as an afterthought, that there was a small apartment complex nearby—mostly paramedics and hospital staff—cheap, close, and built for people who needed to be on call and out the door fast.

It sounded too perfect. Too practical. Too much like exactly what you needed.

You applied the same day. The opportunity was too good to pass up—and you applied before you could stop yourself from thinking about who else might still be there.

And now here you were—standing in the middle of your new studio apartment, the echo of the empty space still clinging to the walls. Your boxes were stacked haphazardly in one corner, labels half-smudged from the move, and the offer letter from PTMC sat folded on the counter like proof that this was actually happening. Six weeks ago, it had been nothing more than an idea. Now it was real.

The apartment wasn’t anything to brag about. It was smaller than your old place, the kind of space where the bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom felt like they were practically overlapping. One step in the wrong direction and you were in another “room.” But it was clean, affordable, and—most importantly—only a five-minute walk from the hospital.

That alone felt like a win.

You turned slowly, taking it all in. The bare walls. The quiet hum of the building settling. The unfamiliar but promising sense of starting over. A small smile tugged at your lips as you rolled up your sleeves and reached for the nearest box.

Everything will be okay, you told yourself.

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Day 1,635 

It was early Tuesday morning, about a week into the move, and your apartment was finally starting to feel lived in. You were in the middle of organizing your new cabinets—cleaning, rearranging, and mostly just dancing your way through it—while early 2000s hits blasted from your speaker. Not too loud. Loud enough to feel good. You still weren’t entirely sure how thin the walls were, though.

Since U Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson filled the space, and you sang along without hesitation, spinning once in socked feet, completely alone and unapologetic. You were in a good mood—lighter than you’d been in a while. The boxes were nearly all unpacked. You were almost done setting everything up. And next week, you’d start at PTMC. A new environment. A better paycheck. A fresh start. You were halfway through the chorus when the sound cut through the music.

A soft knock at the door.

You jumped to your feet, heart skipping as you crossed the room—definitely not expecting company. Instinctively, you leaned toward the peephole, only to frown when all you saw was yellow. Something was pressed directly over it. You let out a small huff of irritation and pulled the door open.

No one stood in the hallway.

Just a single sticky note, stuck neatly over the peephole.

You peeled it off and read the message, written in careful, deliberate handwriting:

Not trying to be a jerk—just a heads up that the music is coming through the wall. Appreciate it.

Well. That explained the knock.

Your impromptu dance party was officially over—but honestly, you couldn’t even be mad about it. You closed the door, turned the volume down a few notches, and went back to the cabinet, the quiet hum of the apartment settling in around you again. Still, you caught yourself glancing once at the note before setting it on the counter, wondering which neighbor had left it.

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Day 1,637 

You were dressed comfortably for an early Thursday coffee run, hair still damp, sneakers slipped on without much thought. You’d been trying to make the most of the quiet week before starting work again—wandering the neighborhood, testing out local cafés, letting yourself enjoy the pause before long shifts took over your life. You pulled your door open, keys already in hand, and stopped.

Another note was stuck neatly to the wood.

You peeled it off, recognizing the careful, deliberate handwriting almost immediately.

Hey—just a heads up. I can hear your TV pretty clearly from my apartment. I’d appreciate it if you could turn it down. Thank you.

You stared at it for a moment, jaw tightening just slightly.

Another one.

You exhaled slowly, folded the note once, then crumpled it and slipped it into your pocket. Something to deal with later. You weren’t about to get into it with a neighbor this early in the morning—especially not on an empty stomach and before caffeine. You closed the door behind you and headed out into the cool air, already pushing the thought aside as best you could.

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Day 1,639 

You came back from an errand run with grocery bags biting into your fingers, essentials balanced awkwardly in your other hand. Balancing everything against your hip, you dropped the bags by the door and reached into your pocket for your keys.

That’s when you saw it.

Another note, stuck squarely at eye level.

You stared at it for a beat. You’ve got to be kidding me, you thought. You peeled it off and read:

Sorry to bother you again. The blender carries through the wall, and I’m on early shifts this week. I’d appreciate it if you could keep it down late. Thanks.

Your patience snapped. With a sharp exhale, you crumpled the paper in your fist and tossed it onto the floor. You’d been trying—really trying—to be considerate. Turning things down. Checking the clock before playing music. But your blender? That felt excessive. The audacity of it made your jaw tighten. You didn’t even know who was leaving the notes. And without a name or an apartment number, you couldn’t respond—couldn’t explain, couldn’t clarify, couldn’t even apologize. Starting something with the wrong neighbor wasn’t exactly on your to-do list.

You huffed, bent down, and picked the note back up before heading inside. After setting the groceries on the counter, you made a beeline for the small drawer at your desk. You rummaged through it until you found a Post-it and a pen. Without overthinking it, you wrote:

If you’re having issues with the noise, please text me so we can figure it out.

You added your phone number at the bottom and pressed the note firmly to your door. 

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Day 1,641 

There were no text messages from an unfamiliar number. No missed calls. But when you opened your door the next morning, the Post-it you’d left behind was gone.

That, at least, meant it had been seen.

Leaving your phone number out like that had been a bold move—maybe even a reckless one. You hadn’t known who your neighbors were, only that most of the building housed PTMC staff. And PTMC was a big hospital. Big enough that logic didn’t rule out the possibility of someone… strange. You pushed the thought aside before it could spiral.

You focused instead on getting ready.

You buttoned up your light blue uniform shirt, smoothing the fabric as you checked your reflection in the mirror. You looked presentable. Put together. Steady. Today was your first day at PTMC, and you weren’t about to let nerves—or an anonymous neighbor—throw you off. You took one last breath, squared your shoulders, and headed out the door.

The start of your shift passed in a blur of introductions and logistics. You walked through the usual routine—meeting your supervisor, signing what felt like endless paperwork, and getting a quick tour of the EMS room and the ambulance bay. They showed you where to stash your gear, where radios were charged, which corners of the department to avoid during peak hours, and the small, unspoken rules you’d need to know if you wanted to survive here.

You realized somewhere in the middle of it all that you’d forgotten to tell Heather you were starting today. The thought barely had time to settle before it slipped away again—you’d been bouncing from place to place all morning, and besides, she was probably buried in work anyway.

At one point, trying to find your way back to the ambulance bay on your own, you took a wrong turn and ended up in the waiting room.

And wow.

The space was packed. People filled every chair, spilled along the walls, voices overlapping in a low, restless hum. You paused for a second, taking it in, before quickly ducking out of the way. You’d dealt with chaotic patients, aggressive scenes, and high-stress calls—but this was a different kind of endurance test. You couldn’t help but feel a surge of respect for the receptionists holding it all together, calmly fielding questions and complaints from people who’d already been waiting far too long. You shook your head and found your way back, reminding yourself that this was only the beginning of the day.

Speaking of high-stress calls, you were currently riding in the back of the ambulance, focused on the man strapped to the stretcher after a high-speed collision. He was unconscious, body slack beneath the straps, the monitor beeping steadily beside him. You worked on autopilot—adjusting the oxygen mask to ensure a proper seal, checking the IV line to make sure it was patent, calling out vitals as they flickered across the screen. Your fingers moved from cuff to pulse point, confirming readings, watching for any change in his breathing or heart rate. Every few seconds, your eyes flicked back to his chest, counting respirations, listening for anything that didn’t sound right.

The sirens eventually blurred into background noise as you focused on the task in front of you, doing everything you could for the man strapped to the stretcher. Five minutes passed in a rush of movement and clipped communication, and then the ambulance rolled to a stop at the bay. The doors flew open. Cool air hit your face as you and your partner maneuvered the stretcher out, wheels rattling briefly before settling. You pushed through the ED doors, guiding the stretcher inside as the noise shifted—sirens replaced by voices, alarms, and the controlled chaos of the department.

Heather was already moving toward you.

She jogged up to the stretcher, eyes sharp and focused, and for half a second her expression flickered—surprise cutting through her professionalism before she smoothed it away. There was no time for greetings, no space for anything but work. Still, you caught the brief acknowledgment in her glance before she turned fully to the patient, already in motion.

“Twenty-four-year-old male. High-speed MVC. Unrestrained. Initially altered at the scene—lost consciousness shortly after extrication,” you said, fingers tight around the stretcher rail as it rolled forward.

Heather was already at the patient’s side, eyes scanning his face and chest as she walked. “Vitals?”

“BP ninety-two over fifty-eight and trending down. Heart rate one-eighteen. Sat’s ninety-three on a non-rebreather.”

She reached for the monitor briefly, confirming the numbers herself. “GCS?”

“Thirteen en route. Dropped to twelve about five minutes out.”

“Any obvious external bleeding?” Heather asked, pulling back the sheet with a quick, practiced motion.

“Negative. Reported abdominal pain prior to loss of consciousness.”

Heather nodded once, already moving toward the doors. “Fluids?”

“One large-bore IV established. No response so far.”

She glanced ahead, then back to the team, voice firm and clear. “Okay. Trauma bay one.”

“Copy,” you said, adjusting your grip as you helped steer the stretcher toward the bay.

You finished up what little remained to be done in the trauma bay, straightening equipment and making sure everything was cleared while your partner stepped outside to make a personal call. You considered saying a proper goodbye to Heather, but she was already fully absorbed in the patient—hands moving, voice steady, attention elsewhere. There was no room for anything personal right now.

So you slipped out instead.

You adjusted the radio at your hip as you walked, eyes down, mind already shifting back into work mode—until you collided with someone solid, your shoulder catching against theirs.

“Sorry about that,” you said automatically as you looked up.

And then you froze.

Robby stood in front of you.

Two years had done subtle things to him. A little more gray threaded through his hair and beard, lines etched more deeply around his eyes—evidence of long shifts and longer nights. He looked older, yes, but not unfamiliar. Still, the reaction you’d once braced for never came. No rush of heat. No restless itch. Just awareness. Recognition. You’d grown since the last time you’d seen him. Whatever pull had once unsettled you had dulled with time and distance, filed away with other mistakes and phases you’d outgrown. Your gaze lingered only a second too long before you caught yourself. He clearly had somewhere to be.

His eyes met yours briefly, something flickering there—recognition, nothing more—before he stepped past you.

“It’s okay,” he said quietly, already moving on.

Good. There was no need for anything else. 

You headed back toward the ambulance without hesitation, slipping easily into routine as you started the cleanup. Gloves off, fresh ones on. You wiped down the stretcher rails, sprayed disinfectant across every surface that had been touched, and replaced used supplies with practiced efficiency. It was familiar work—methodical, grounding—something you’d done often enough that your body moved on autopilot while the adrenaline slowly drained away. Halfway through, your partner called to say they had to leave early because of a personal emergency. That left the rest of the cleanup to you. Everyone else in the bay was tied up, but you didn’t mind. You’d handled this on your own plenty of times before. About twenty minutes later, the rig was finally ready—clean, restocked, back in service. You hopped down from the ambulance and closed the doors, the sound echoing softly through the bay.

You barely had a second to breathe before you became aware of someone approaching from the direction of the ED, a familiar presence close enough to make you pause.

“You forgot to tell me you were starting today.”

The voice caught you off guard. You turned and found Heather a few steps away, looking exhausted in the specific, bone-deep way only residency could manage. Still, she was smiling.

You blinked, then smiled back. “I didn’t forget. I just… figured you were slammed. Fourth-year resident now and all—I assumed you barely have time to sleep, let alone check in on me.”

She scoffed lightly, stepping closer. “Okay, wow. So now I’m too busy to be informed?”

“That’s not what I meant,” you said quickly, laughing. “I just didn’t want to pile anything else on you. You’ve got enough going on.”

Heather shook her head. “I’m busy, not unreachable. And you starting here definitely counts as something I should’ve known.”

She studied you for a moment, then softened. “So—how are you feeling? Overwhelmed? Excited? Wondering why you ever thought this was a good idea?”

“Excited,” you admitted. “Mostly about the paycheck. But yeah… it’s still work.”

Heather snorted. “Saving lives is fun until you remember none of us are getting paid what we’re worth.”

You smiled. “How’s your day been?”

She opened her mouth to answer—but your radio crackled sharply at your hip, cutting her off. Another call.

“Shit,” you muttered, already shifting gears. “I’ve gotta go.”

Heather nodded, instantly back in work mode. “Go. We’ll catch up later. And—hey. I’m glad you’re here.”

You were already moving when her voice followed you, grounding and familiar, before the noise of the bay swallowed it whole.

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Day 1,642 

You’d managed to get off early the night before, clocking out around seven-thirty, which felt like a small victory after your first day. It gave you enough time to reset—straightening up the apartment, throwing in a load of laundry, squeezing in a quick workout, and packing lunch for the next day. It felt productive in the way only a good first shift could make you feel, like you were finally settling into something steady.

You woke up early the next morning with the intention of treating yourself to breakfast instead of making it at home. You’d already found a café a few blocks away that felt promising—quiet, unpretentious, good coffee. You grabbed your keys, tugged your jacket on, and reached for the door.

That’s when you noticed the bright pink sticky note.

It was stuck neatly at eye level, the edges pressed flat like whoever placed it there had taken their time.

Could you please keep things quieter after 11 p.m.? I’d really appreciate it.

You huffed out a breath, a sharp scoff escaping before you could stop it. You didn’t bother peeling it off. You couldn’t realistically rearrange your entire routine around someone you didn’t even know. Sure, you understood apartment living—thin walls, shared space, the unspoken expectation of courtesy—but you were already trying. You still deserved to live comfortably in your own place, without tiptoeing around every sound just to keep the peace.

You shook your head, stepped away from the door, and headed down the hallway toward the stairs, leaving the note exactly where it was. 

After a ten-minute walk, you stepped into the café—small, but open enough that it didn’t feel cramped. The air smelled like coffee and warm pastries, the kind of place that already felt familiar even on your first visit. There were only three people ahead of you in line, and you immediately spotted an open seat by the window, sunlight spilling across the narrow counter that faced the street. You placed your order and were handed a small receipt for your breakfast sandwich, then claimed the seat, setting your coffee down as you waited. You scrolled absently through Instagram, half-aware of the quiet hum around you, not noticing the presence of someone familiar seated just two chairs away.

“Hey—uh,” a familiar voice said, low and tentative.

You looked up from your phone.

Robby was sitting two seats down, angled slightly toward you now. A paper cup rested between his hands, glasses perched on his nose, his tired brown eyes studying the counter in front of him more than your face. He looked worn in a way that felt earned—dark circles, faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the kind of exhaustion that didn’t disappear with sleep. Two years ago, the sight of him like this would’ve sent your thoughts spiraling. Now, it just surprised you that he’d spoken at all.

“Oh—hey,” you said, shifting in your seat. “Did you… need something?”

He shook his head once, almost immediately. “No. I just—” He paused, jaw tightening briefly, like he was choosing his words carefully. “I wanted to apologize. For the grocery store. And… for how I handled things back then. It wasn’t okay to corner you.”

“Oh,” you said, the sound soft, noncommittal.

Robby nodded, eyes flicking toward the front counter where orders were being called. “I saw you yesterday,” he continued quietly. “And I figured it’d be better to say this now—here—than let it hang over us at work.”

He glanced at you then, just briefly. “This felt like the least complicated place to do it.”

Not comfortable. Just… contained.

“Apology accepted,” you said quietly. After a beat, you added, “And… I should probably say I’m sorry too. For getting involved with you and Heather. It wasn’t really my place.”

Robby shook his head almost immediately. “You don’t need to apologize for that.” His voice stayed low, steady. “You were her friend. You showed up when she needed someone. I didn’t—” He stopped himself, exhaling through his nose, his shoulders dropping just slightly. “That part’s on me.”

Silence settled between you, not sharp but uncomfortable in its own way. The two of you stared out the front window as people passed by outside, traffic moving in a steady blur. Neither of you rushed to fill the space, letting it stretch—heavy with things said and things still left untouched.

You hated this. You’d come out here for ten quiet minutes and a breakfast sandwich, not to sit two seats away from your friend’s ex—someone you’d left things unresolved with, no matter how carefully you’d tried to convince yourself otherwise. The silence was starting to stretch in a way that made your shoulders tense. If you didn’t say something soon, you were going to grab your food and bolt.

Your eyes flicked to the oversized black coffee cupped between his hands.

“Okay,” you said, breaking the quiet. “Genuine question—why do doctors always have the most boring coffee orders?” You gestured toward the cup. “I mean, as a former barista, black coffee was a blessing during rushes, but… it’s not exactly good.”

You winced internally. You were rambling. Definitely rambling.

Robby huffed out a quiet laugh and shook his head. “I don’t even know why I ordered it,” he admitted. “I actually prefer tea.”

You blinked. “You know they sell tea here, right?”

That earned you a faint, sheepish shrug. “I guess I didn’t notice.”

An actual smile tugged at your mouth this time. “Honestly, I pegged you as more of a large caramel frappuccino with extra whipped cream.”

He laughed—real, surprised—and glanced down at his cup. “I’ve never tried one,” he said. “So I can’t say I hate them.”

“You should try one—just don’t blame me if you get hooked. College me learned that the hard way.”

The barista called your name, cutting the moment short.

You gathered your things, sliding off the stool and setting your food on the counter instead of sitting back down. “I’m gonna take this as my cue to go. I’ll see you at work—and, uh… I’m glad we cleared things up.”

“Yeah,” Robby said, nodding. “Me too.”

You hesitated, then added, “Heather can finally stop talking about you needing an apology. She brings it up sometimes. Not often—but she mentioned it again when I told her I was working at PTMC.”

He raised an eyebrow. “She asked you to apologize?”

“Kind of,” you said, a bit tense.  “She understood where I was coming from. Just thought I could’ve handled things differently. She still liked you back then.” You paused. “Not sure about now.”

Robby exhaled, a tired sound. “I don’t even know where we stand,” he admitted. “As friends. Coworkers. Not—” He waved a hand vaguely. “You know.”

“I do,” you said. “She still talks about you sometimes. Not the bad stuff.”

He shook his head, a small smile breaking through despite himself.

“See you at work,” you said, lifting your bag.

“See you,” Robby replied, watching you go.

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Day 1,703 

At work, your conversations with Robby stayed strictly professional—efficient, neutral, exactly what they needed to be. Outside of it, though, things softened. In the mornings when you both happened to end up at the same café near your apartment—a coincidence that started to feel almost routine—you talked easily, lightly. What began as accidental overlap slowly turned into something close to weekly, the familiarity settling in without either of you naming it.

It wasn’t anything like the rigid, carefully measured exchanges you’d had with him back when he was still with Heather. The tension had eased. The edges weren’t so sharp. You learned small, harmless things about him—where he went to medical school, what year he graduated (which you teased him about more than once), when he’d finally become an attending. Nothing heavy. Nothing that crossed a line. And yet, somewhere along the way, it felt like you were inching toward something resembling friendship.

Almost.

There was still a boundary there—one you were acutely aware of, one you felt firmly in control of. You told yourself Heather would be fine with it. She’d said as much herself, insisting there was no bad blood between her and Robby anymore. Still, the guilt crept in occasionally, quiet but persistent, like you were betraying her in some small, unspoken way just by allowing him back into your orbit.

You pushed the thought aside.

Your attention had started drifting elsewhere anyway—to Jack Abbott, the other attending at PTMC.

Which, unfortunately, complicated things.

You’d only recently found out that Abbott and Robby were friends. Great. Just great. You still remembered the first time you’d really noticed Abbott—post-shift and exhausted.. Something about him had set off warning bells in your head, every instinct telling you to stay away, while another, far less reasonable part of you urged you to do the exact opposite. You hadn’t acted on it. Not yet.

Mostly because you hadn’t had the chance.

Your schedules barely overlapped—day shifts for you, nights for him—leaving little more than brief exchanges in passing. Muted excuse me’s in hallways. A nod here, a glance there. Nothing substantial. Nothing you could build on.

But you were aware of him now.

And that felt like the beginning of something you weren’t sure you were ready to deal with.

You sighed as you finished getting ready, keys already in hand, and reached for the door—only to stop short. Another sticky note was plastered directly over your peephole. Of course it was. You leaned in just long enough to read it, irritation prickling beneath your skin.

I can still hear your music and TV. I’d appreciate it if you could turn it down. Thank you :)

The smiley face did absolutely nothing to soften the message. If anything, it made it worse.

“God, another one,” you muttered under your breath as you ripped the note off the door and shoved it into your pocket. Over the past two months, they’d kept appearing—never constant, but frequent enough to wear on you. Too often to ignore. Too often to feel coincidental. And still, you had no idea who was leaving them.

The not knowing was the worst part.

More than once, you’d considered buying a small camera, something discreet to mount near the door. Just to see. Just to know. But the idea of spending money you didn’t really have—on something that could just as easily invite more trouble—stopped you every time.

You pushed the thought aside as you headed out, work waiting whether you were irritated or not.

You hadn’t gone far when a different café caught your eye, its chalkboard menu propped up outside. It was small, tucked into the corner of the block, and only a five-minute walk from PTMC. You slowed, scanning the offerings—until one line jumped out at you.

Caramel Frappé with whipped cream!

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as Robby’s voice echoed in your memory. I’ve never tried one. On impulse, you changed direction and stepped inside. A few minutes later, you walked back out with two small cups in hand, condensation already forming against the plastic. One for you. One for him. Drinking a frappuccino at seven in the morning was ridiculous. You knew that. But the thought of seeing Robby’s reaction made it feel worth it.

Thankfully, the walk was short. You cut through the ambulance bay and into the central hub of the ER, the familiar hum of movement and voices already filling the space. Even after a few weeks, you still felt a faint edge of awkwardness being here—new to the hospital, new to the rhythm, never quite sure where you were supposed to linger and where you weren’t.

You didn’t spend much time in this part of the ER unless you had a reason to be there, so stepping inside still felt a little like trespassing. That feeling eased almost immediately when you spotted Dana—the short, blonde woman you vaguely recognized from Heather’s party. She greeted you without hesitation, warm and easy, making space for you like you’d always belonged there. 

“Good morning, Dana,” you said, setting the cups down on the hub.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Dana replied, smiling as she glanced up—then immediately down at the drinks. Her brow lifted. “You looking for someone?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Is Robby here already?”

“I think he’s by the lockers,” she said, fingers already moving over the keyboard. Then, without looking up, “Mind if I ask why?”

“Oh—” You let out a small laugh. “He mentioned the other day that he’s never had a caramel frap. A new café opened nearby and they had them, so I grabbed one.”

Dana hummed, clearly entertained. “Huh. Wouldn’t have pegged him for a sweet drink.”

“Honestly, I kind of did,” you said. “I just don't think he’d admit it.”

“Well,” she added lightly, eyes still on the screen, “if he hates it, I expect you to remember what I like next time.”

You smiled. “Deal. I’ll see you around.”

“Go get him before it melts,” Dana said, waving you off.

You turned the corner toward the lockers and nearly walked straight into a conversation already in progress.

“Oh—” The sound slipped out of you before you could stop it.

Robby was there. And standing beside him, leaning casually against the lockers with his arms crossed, was Jack Abbott. The sound wasn’t loud, but it was enough. Both of them looked up at the same time. You felt your pulse spike, already bracing yourself for the awkwardness—until Robby said your name, easy and familiar, and gave you a small wave that pulled you out of it.

“Hey,” he said. “You’re good.” He shifted aside slightly.

You walked over, forcing yourself not to overthink every step. Robby turned slightly, angling toward the other man. “This is Jack—Abbott,” he said, even though you already knew the name from far too much scrolling through the hospital directory. “Jack, this is—” he nodded toward you “—the new paramedic I was telling you about.”

You smiled quickly. “Nice to officially meet you.”

Abbott looked you over once—not in a way that felt invasive, just observant—before giving you a short nod. “Likewise.”

“I’d shake your hand,” you added, lifting your chin toward the two cups balanced carefully in your grip, “but I’m a little tied up.”

His gaze dropped to the drinks, brows lifting slightly. “Is that a caramel frap?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Two of them.”

A corner of his mouth tipped up. “Dangerous choice before a shift.”

“I love caramel fraps,” he admitted easily. “Don’t get them nearly as often as I want to.”

Heat crept up your neck as you finally got a good look at him—shorter than Robby, solid, broad shoulders under his jacket, graying hair threaded through brown. Calm, self-possessed. Very much your type. Without thinking too hard about it, you held one of the cups out toward him. “You can have mine. I just realized I’m more in the mood for hot coffee anyway.”

Abbott paused, surprised—then took it. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Well,” he said, lifting the cup slightly in acknowledgment, “I appreciate it.” His attention stayed on you as he added, “Nice meeting you.”

“Nice meeting you too,” you said, the words slipping out a little lighter than you intended.

He gave a brief nod to Robby, then headed off down the hall, already unscrewing the lid.

It wasn’t until Abbott walked away that you remembered Robby had been there the whole time.

“So,” Robby said after a beat, his voice pulling your attention back to him. “Was there something you wanted?”

“Oh—yeah.” You blinked, refocusing. “I stopped by a new café that opened nearby. They had caramel fraps, and I remembered you saying you’d never tried one.” You held the cup out toward him. “So. I grabbed one for you.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said, even as he took it from you.

You shrugged, suddenly aware of the quiet that settled between you as he looked down at the cup, then back up. You shifted your weight, buying yourself a second.

“So,” you said, stretching the word a little too long. “We’re… friends, right?”

Robby glanced at you, lips pressing together briefly. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d say so.”

“Okay. Good.” You nodded once, then rushed on. “And before you answer this—please don’t judge me. I’m being serious.”

His brow lifted slightly. “That usually means I should brace myself.”

“I know you’re not technically my boss,” you said, words tumbling out faster now, “but is there, like… a rule about paramedics dating attendings?”

He stilled. “Why are you asking?”

“And I’m not talking about you,” you added quickly. “I’m not hitting on you. I’ve—changed.” You hesitated. “Mostly. I just wanted to know if it would be an issue if I asked Abbott out.”

Robby let out a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh, shaking his head.

“Oh my god,” you groaned. “Please don’t laugh. I already regret saying this.”

“I’m not laughing,” he said. “Just—processing.” He took a second, then added, “There’s no rule. Officially.”

“Unofficially?”

“I wouldn’t go barking up that tree.”

You squinted at him. “Don’t tell me you dated him too.”

“No,” Robby said immediately. “Abbott’s just… complicated.”

You tilted your head. “And you’re not?”

He huffed. “I wouldn’t say that.” Then, quieter, “Just—if you do anything, be careful.”

You nodded. “Okay. I will.”

Another pause stretched between you.

“So,” you said, glancing at the cup. “Are you actually going to try it?”

“Try what?”

“The drink.”

“Oh.” He took a small sip, face carefully neutral. You watched him a little too closely.

“You like it,” you said, already smiling.

“It’s… fine,” he replied, shrugging.

“Sure,” you said. “That’s doctor-speak for ‘I absolutely like this.’”

He didn’t argue. You checked the time and straightened. “Oh shit—I’ve gotta go. My shift starts soon. I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah,” Robby said. “See you.”

You walked away before he could say anything else, the faintest sense that you’d just crossed—or maybe loosened—a line you’d sworn you were in control of.

₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Taglist: @angelamariaxo @bluestarbaby

[outcaststarfruit]

Not My Scene | Get Tagged for Updates

Hi everyone! I’ve made a taglist interest form! I honestly didn’t expect this fic to get so much attention, but I’m incredibly grateful that it has. You’ve all been so kind and supportive—thank you so much for reading. If you’d like to be tagged in future updates, feel free to click the form below.

Thank you again! I’m currently working on the next part 🤭

Not My Scene | Get Tagged for Updates

Thank you all so much for reading, liking, and leaving such sweet comments—I honestly didn’t expect this much attention. Since this is an on

[outcaststarfruit]

"Not My Scene"

Michael Robinavitch (The Pitt) x female!reader pt.2

Summary: When you take a new job at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, you expect long shifts, thin walls, and the kind of exhaustion that settles into your bones. You don’t expect to keep crossing paths with the man you once tried very hard not to want. Between shared hallways, early mornings, and the controlled chaos of the ER, distance becomes harder to maintain.

Story Status: Incomplete

Word Count: 3.1k

Previous Parts: Part 1

Author's Note: Hi everyone! This is part two of Not My Scene. There isn’t a ton of Robby/reader interaction in this chapter, but trust me—it’s coming. I wanted to spend some time on world-building before things really kick off. I’ll add a full summary and tag list once the story is finished. Just a heads-up: there’s a non-graphic mention of abortion in this chapter. Hope you enjoy!

Day 783 

Ever since that day, you’d only seen Robby a handful of times, usually at the small get-togethers Heather hosted at her house. When you did run into him, you kept your conversations brief and careful, the kind that stayed firmly in professional territory. Any personal questions were few and far between—and when they came up at all, they were always about Heather. Even with all the precautions you’d put in place, the distance you maintained, the topics you avoided, it still felt like you were somehow intruding. Like simply being in the same room as him was already too close, already toeing a line you had no intention of crossing.

You’d started to feel far too tangled up in their relationship. What had begun as a joke—your offhand comment to Robby, two years ago, about Heather filling you in on all their arguments—had slowly, almost imperceptibly, turned into reality.

At first, it was harmless. The kind of complaints friends always share.

Robby forgot to pick up the bottle of wine I asked for before dinner.

Robby was in a mood after work.

 Robby snapped at me during a shift, but he apologized.

Nothing alarming. Just the normal frustrations that come with loving someone. You listened, nodded, offered reassurance when it felt appropriate, never thinking much of it.

But over time, the tone shifted.

The complaints grew heavier, sharper, and slowly, that sweetness you’d once associated with Robby curdled into something bitter. Each story Heather shared left an unpleasant weight in your chest, the edges of your earlier admiration dulling into discomfort. You’d crossed a line in your own head early on, but you shut it down. Heather was your friend long before Robby ever entered the picture, and that mattered more than anything else. She was the shoulder you cried on, the person you could laugh with for hours, the one you cared for fiercely and wanted nothing but happiness for. 

With time, the complaints shifted, becoming more layered and harder to ignore: 

It feels like Robby is here and not here at the same time. He knows how to calm me down, how to hold everything together when I’m falling apart, but the second I ask how he is doing, he shuts me out. I keep telling him he doesn’t have to carry everything alone, that he can talk to me. He always says he will. He just… doesn’t.

Sometimes I think he forgets we’re not just resident and attending. We’re partners! At least, we’re supposed to be. But when things get hard, it feels like he’s still talking to me from a distance, like I’m something to manage instead of someone to lean on.

And honestly? I’m tired. I don’t know how much longer I can keep trying to make this work. I don’t even know if I want to anymore.

You’d floated the idea of her breaking up with Robby once—carefully, gently—but Heather hadn’t taken it well. She still loved him, even if loving him hurt. You told her that if she was afraid of the fallout—especially the possibility of him lashing out at work—you wouldn’t let her face it alone. You’d stand beside her through all of it. Report him. Take him to court. Whatever she needed, you’d be there. Maybe you were overcompensating. Maybe it was guilt, lingering and sharp, from that night you never told her about—the half-second too long you’d spent staring, the thoughts you’d shoved down before they could turn into something worse. You didn’t know. You just knew you’d promised yourself you’d protect her, no matter what.

You sighed.

You were on break now—if it could even be called that. Five hours into your shift, breaks were rare, something you grabbed whenever you could. Working as an EMT was relentless. Life-or-death calls. Patients who fought you every step of the way. Family members who hurled threats when there was nothing more you could do. The pay was decent for the years of experience you’d earned, but some days, a raise felt long overdue. Still, you worked hard. The rush of stabilizing a patient, of getting them to the help they needed, made it worth it. For now.

You reached for your jacket pocket, craving the familiar comfort of a cigarette you’d been rationing all shift—only to freeze when your phone buzzed insistently against your back pocket. You should’ve muted it. You almost ignored the call, until you glanced at the screen.

Heather.

She never called you while you were working. She knew better.

Something tightened in your chest.

You answered anyway, forcing a light tone, joking about how much she must miss you—but the sound that came through the line wasn’t laughter.

It was a choked sob.

“Oh my god, Heather—are you okay? Are you safe?” you blurted, your voice sharp with panic.

All that answered you was more sobbing, ragged and uneven, the kind that made your stomach twist. You froze, terrified of saying the wrong thing, of pushing her further when she was already breaking. Before you could gather yourself, Heather forced the words out.

“I’m—” she hiccupped, breath catching. “I’m… pregnant.”

Her crying dulled into quiet, broken hiccups, like she’d said the word once and it had taken everything out of her.

“I… with Robby?” you asked softly, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I just—I don’t know what to do.”

“How are you feeling?” you asked, grounding yourself in practical questions. “Have you told him?”

“No. I can’t,” she said, her voice trembling again. “Not when I don’t even know if I want to keep the baby.”

Silence settled between you, heavy and careful. You closed your eyes, taking a breath, giving yourself a second before you spoke again.

“Listen to me,” you said gently. “Whatever you decide, you’re not doing it alone. I’ll support you. I’ll be there—no matter what.”

Your throat tightened as you spoke, tears stinging your eyes. You couldn’t begin to imagine what she was carrying in that moment—the fear, the grief, the weight of a decision that felt impossibly big.

“…Thank you for saying that,” Heather said quietly. “I just didn’t know what else to do, so I called you.”

“You don’t have to decide anything right now,” you replied, steady and sure. “You don’t even have to tell Robby yet. Like I said—I’m here. Whenever you need me.”

“Thank you,” she murmured again. “For everything.”

The line went quiet, but this time the silence wasn’t sharp or heavy. It settled between you, gentle and grounding, the kind you both needed after the tension of the past few minutes. You drew in a slow breath, letting it steady you.

Then reality rushed back in.

“Oh shit,” you said under your breath. “I need to get back to work. My break ended five minutes ago. Call me if you need anything—anything at all.”

“Yeah,” Heather said softly. “I will. Thank you. Again.”

You exchanged quick goodbyes before ending the call. When you rejoined your team, no one commented, no one asked—either they hadn’t noticed you were gone, or they chose not to. And even if they had, it wouldn’t have mattered. A call came through almost immediately—a car accident, five minutes out. There was no time to think. No space to process what Heather had just told you.  You moved because you had to. But somewhere between the sirens and the rushing cold, Heather’s voice stayed with you—quiet, shaking, and asking for an answer you didn’t have yet.

₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Day 797 

Heather decided not to keep the baby.

You knew this because she was sitting on the opposite end of your old couch now, knees drawn in slightly, a half-crushed box of tissues resting beside her thigh. She wouldn’t look at you. She’d told you she couldn’t—not yet—not like this. So you let the silence do what it needed to do, heavy and careful, filling the space where words kept failing her.

The final argument with Robby had happened two days after that phone call with you. Heather hadn’t given you every detail—she didn’t need to. Even between best friends, some moments were too intimate, too raw, to be handed over piece by piece. What she did tell you came in fragments, delivered between sniffles and long pauses. She’d told him she wasn’t sure she could keep building a life with him. That something felt wrong, unfinished, unsustainable. The conversation had spiraled from there—voices raised, words sharpened by fear and exhaustion—until the pregnancy came out. Not as a weapon. Not as leverage. Just the truth, finally spoken out loud.

Heather didn’t linger on how he reacted at first. Only that she’d reached a point where she couldn’t keep fighting for something that already felt like it was slipping through her hands. She told him she was done. That she wanted to end it.

When she finally spoke about Robby’s response, her voice went flat in a way that scared you more than her crying had. He hadn’t yelled. He hadn’t begged. He hadn’t tried to change her mind. He’d just gone quiet. Thought for a moment. Then told her he understood—that he’d been unsure too. That it was probably for the best.

Short. Measured. Final.

That was what broke her.

Because she could’ve handled anger. She could’ve survived grief shared out loud. What she couldn’t recover from was how easily he let her go—how neatly he folded their years together into a single, careful sentence. Heather pressed the heel of her palm into her eye, breathing unevenly. You stayed where you were, close but not crowding her, your chest aching with the kind of helplessness that came from loving someone and being unable to fix what had already shattered.

She was heartbroken.

And somewhere deep down, you knew this wasn’t going to be the end of it—not really.

The silence crept back in—but this time it wasn’t the kind you could sit with. It pressed in, sharp around the edges, filling the space with everything you didn’t know how to say or do. You hated it. Hated how helpless it made you feel.

“I’m sorry for dragging you into this,” Heather said finally, voice rough. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey.” You cut in gently. “Don’t. You don’t need to apologize for leaning on me. That’s literally the job description of being friends.” You tried for a smile. “I’ve got you. Always.”

Heather finally looked at you. Her eyes were red, glassy, exhausted—but still very much her.

“If I were you,” she said, letting out a weak breath that almost passed for a laugh, “I would’ve kicked myself out by now.”

“Oh, please.” You snorted. “You’ve seen me at my absolute worst. Remember when I cried over that guy who didn’t give a single shit about me—and stole my air fryer?”

Heather blinked. “I’m sorry. He stole your air fryer?”

“Yes. Who does that? That’s not a breakup—that’s a crime.”

That did it. Heather let out a real laugh this time, short but loud, the sound cutting clean through the heaviness in the room.

“He was a piece of shit,” she said firmly. “Guess we can bond over our garbage exes.”

“Absolutely. Long overdue, honestly. We haven’t had a proper hangout in forever—with you being busy and all.”

Heather sighed, rubbing her face. “Yeah. That’s on me. I was spending way too much time with Robby. Clearly… not my best call.”

“Okay,” you said, pushing yourself up from the couch. “We’re not doing this tonight. Tonight is a Robby-free zone. We’re starting this hangout fresh.”

“I’m in,” Heather said immediately, already reaching for the TV remote like it was muscle memory.

You headed for the fridge—and stopped short when you opened it. Inside sat a half-full gallon of milk, a lonely pack of sausages, and a half-empty bottle of ketchup. That was it.

You stared for a long moment. Then sighed.

“Heather,” you said slowly, “unless you’re in the mood for a gourmet meal consisting of milk, cold sausages, and ketchup… we have a problem.”

She leaned over to look. “Wow,” she said. “And I thought my fridge was depressing.”

“After years of getting destroyed by you at Uno and everything else, I finally win at something.”

You closed the fridge and grabbed your jacket. “I’m gonna run to the store. I’ll get wine. And actual food.”

“I can come with you,” Heather said, already shifting like she was about to stand.

“Nope.” You shook your head. “You’re staying put. You’ve been through enough. Sitting still for once is non-negotiable.”

She opened her mouth to argue—then didn’t. Instead, she nodded, small and tired, like she knew you were right.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”

She needed more than a break—she needed time—but tonight, this was what you could give her. You grabbed your keys and wallet and stepped outside, deciding the ten-minute walk would do you good. You needed the cold air. The movement. The space to let everything you’d just heard settle—because pretending you were fine wasn’t going to work much longer.

By the time you finally made it to the grocery store, the cold had worked its way into your bones and your patience was thinning fast. You headed straight for the alcohol aisle, purpose simple and unambiguous. Mission: two bottles of cheap red wine and a couple frozen pizzas. Nothing fancy. Just enough to get through the night. You stood in front of the modest wine selection, scanning labels that all blurred together after a while. Reds, mostly. Cheap. Reliable. You reached for one bottle, then hesitated—turning it slightly in your hand.

That’s when you noticed him.

A few steps down the same aisle, closer to the refrigerated cases, Robby stood with his hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants, staring at the wall of beer like he was trying to make a decision he didn’t have the energy for. Same aisle. Same space. Just far enough away that you could’ve missed him if you hadn’t looked up at the wrong moment.

He looked… different. Baggy sweatpants, an old Nirvana T-shirt that had seen better days. His shoulders slumped forward, hair messier than usual, like he hadn’t bothered fixing it—or caring if anyone noticed. Disheveled in a quiet, unintentional way.

Shit.

You immediately hoped he wouldn’t see you.

Too late.

He turned his head, just slightly, and your eyes met. The kind of accidental eye contact that sticks, that makes it impossible to pretend the other person isn’t there.

For a second, neither of you moved.

You assumed he’d look away. That he’d spare you both the discomfort. After all, you’d never really been anything to each other—not friends, not even acquaintances. Just two people connected through Heather, now frayed at the edges. You shifted your weight, already planning your escape, when his voice cut through the quiet aisle.

He said your name.

You stopped.

You could’ve walked away. You probably should have. But something tight and unresolved twisted in your chest—loyalty, frustration, words you’d swallowed for weeks. 

Robby crossed the aisle quickly and stopped a careful distance away from you, close enough to make your pulse hitch. You hated yourself for noticing it—hated that, even after everything Heather had poured into you, he still looked… good. Exhausted, yes. Worn down. But good in a way that made your stomach tighten. God, you were so easy. You hadn’t been this close to him since the night you first met. After that, you’d kept space like a rule—conversations measured, always at least three feet apart, always safe. Now he stood right in front of you, close enough that you could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the dark shadows beneath them, exhaustion etched into every glance.

No. Absolutely not.

You shut the thought down the moment it formed. You were not doing this again—not in your head, not here, not with him.

“What do you want?” you asked, the words coming out sharper than you meant them to. The edge surprised even you. Robby didn’t bristle. He rarely did. Instead, he exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes dropping for half a second before lifting back to yours—measured, careful.

“I just wanted to know if Heather’s okay,” he said. His voice stayed even, low, like he was choosing every word on purpose. “She hasn’t been answering my calls. Or my messages.”

Your mouth tightened.

“You can’t seriously expect her to want to hear from the guy she just broke up with,” you said. “Especially when that guy treated her like shit.”

That did it. Not an outburst—just a subtle shift. His jaw set, brows drawing together slightly, like he was biting back something instinctive.

“I don’t know what she’s been telling you,” he replied, calm but firmer now. “But what happened between Heather and me was ours. It wasn’t meant to involve a third person.”

You slid the wine bottle back onto the shelf with more force than necessary and crossed your arms, squaring yourself toward him.

“She didn’t go looking for a third person,” you shot back. “She went to her friend. The one she had long before you. She needed someone, and you weren’t there.”

“That’s not fair,” he said quietly.

“Neither was her being shut out every time she asked how you were doing,” you said. “So, forgive me if I don’t feel bad that she leaned on someone else.”

Robby’s gaze dropped again, lingering this time. When he looked back up, the defensiveness was gone—replaced with something worn down, almost tired.

“I’m not asking you to take sides,” he said. “I’m just asking you to pass something along.”

You turned away, already done, already reaching for the end of the aisle.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

You took one step before he moved—not grabbing, not yanking. His hand closed briefly around your upper arm, gentle but firm, stopping you.

You spun back instantly, knocking his hand away.

“Don’t touch me,” you snapped.

He lifted his hands immediately, palms open, retreating a step like he knew he’d miscalculated.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. And he sounded like he meant it. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

There was a pause. The hum of the refrigerators filled the space between you.

“Just—” He swallowed. His voice dropped, rougher now, stripped of its control. “Please. Tell her to at least read my messages. I can’t… I can’t keep being ignored at work. I don’t need a response. I just need to know she’s okay.”

His eyes met yours—pleading, restrained, the kind of desperation that came from someone who hated asking for anything at all.

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t promise anything.

You turned back toward the aisle, grabbed the wine you came for, and walked away.

On the way home, the question followed you like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing: whether telling Heather would reopen a wound or finally let some air into it. Whether his messages would hurt her more—or somehow bring her closure.

You didn’t know.

But you told her anyway. 

[outcaststarfruit]

"Not My Scene"

Michael Robinavitch (The Pitt) x female!reader pt. 1

Summary: When you take a new job at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, you expect long shifts, thin walls, and the kind of exhaustion that settles into your bones. You don’t expect to keep crossing paths with the man you once tried very hard not to want. Between shared hallways, early mornings, and the controlled chaos of the ER, distance becomes harder to maintain.

Story Status: Incomplete

Word Count: 4.6K

Author's Note: Hey everyone! I’m still pretty new to Tumblr, so I’m figuring things out as I go. I wanted to see how this fanfic I’m working on would look formatted here and also check if anyone’s interested lol. It’s a female!EMT!reader x Dr. Robby (from The Pitt) story. I’m still working on it, but the gist is: slow burn, “questionable reader” (reader "likes" Robby from the start, even while he’s still dating Heather), lots of tension and angst, a mention of abortion (nothing graphic or explicit) in the next chapter, and smut coming later. I’ll properly add tags once I’ve got everything sorted. Again, just a trial run to see if people are into it! Here’s the story—enjoy!

Day 1

You tugged at the high neck of your red, itchy turtleneck sweater, fidgeting as you texted Heather that you had finally arrived at her Christmas holiday party. The festive sweater, carefully chosen to match the cheerful vibe of the gathering, did little to shield you from the sharp winter air that nipped at your cheeks and seeped into your back.

“Come on, Heather. Answer,” you muttered under your breath, impatience mingling with nerves.

You had known Heather for nearly five years. You met at a bustling coffee shop—she was deep in medical school applications, and you were hunting for new job opportunities. Both of you were bright-eyed, a little naive, and eager to take on the world. You smiled at the memory of coaxing her away from marathon study sessions for late-night coffee runs—runs that somehow always stretched into all-night moral support sessions, and, without fail, ended with you making her breakfast.

Now, you stood in front of her house, the charming home she had inherited from her grandmother. Heather had always joked that with a roof over her head, she could finally start chipping away at her medical school loans. Your stomach twisted nervously as you reminded yourself you weren’t the only guest tonight; the room would be filled with her colleagues, people whose faces you barely knew. You were about to type another message when the door swung open, cutting off your anxious thoughts.

It was a man. Definitely not Heather. Had you come to the wrong house? Of course not—you had been here plenty of times before. Still, a flicker of panic shot through your chest.

“Here for Heather’s holiday party?” he asked, his voice calm but carrying an easy, confident edge.

“Yeah… I texted her, but I guess she hasn’t seen my messages,” you said, letting out a nervous laugh. You stole a quick glance at him and froze. He was… attractive. And now you desperately wanted to disappear into a hole because what even was that interaction? Heather had always teased you about your “unique” taste in older guys, and apparently, she hadn’t been wrong.

The man who opened the door had a slightly rough-around-the-edges charm—messy hair that looked like it had been styled by habit rather than effort, a sweater almost identical to yours, and the kind of eyes that made you weak in the knees: big, warm brown, framed by an aquiline nose, and clearly a good decade (maybe two) older than you. God, he was attractive, you thought, your brain betraying you as you lingered on his features, and suddenly you realized you were staring. A sharp little cough escaped you as you cleared your throat.

“Yeah, she’s busy hosting. Come on in,” he said, stepping aside and gesturing for you to enter, that same quiet confidence making it impossible not to notice. You stepped inside and froze for a moment, taking in the crowd. Too many people, you thought, already feeling your chest tighten. You were used to one-on-one hangouts with Heather—this was completely out of your comfort zone. Crowds, especially in enclosed spaces, always made you uneasy. It was ironic, given your job as an EMT, where you thrived in chaos and life-or-death situations. But this? A living room full of strangers? Far less forgiving.

“Excuse me,” the man who had opened the door said.

“Oh! Sorry,” you blurted, shuffling aside as your brain filled with self-recriminating thoughts. Now you’ve blown it—too awkward to recover, your inner voice scolded. Before he could walk away, you hastily spoke up, and he turned back, raising an eyebrow, an almost mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Do you know where Heather is?” you asked, trying to steady your voice.

“She’s in the kitchen, putting the final touches on dessert,” he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, likely picturing Heather running around in her usual whirlwind style. You couldn’t help but smile too; her controlled chaos was part of what made her so endearing.

Suddenly, you realized you hadn’t properly introduced yourself. “Oh—right,” you said, extending your hand more confidently this time. Finally introducing yourself. 

“I’m Michael. Michael Robinavitch. Colleague of Heather’s,” he replied, shaking your hand firmly, his gaze steady and curious. The name clicked. Ah, that Michael. Heather had mentioned him often—sometimes complaining, but more often, beaming after he had complimented her work.

“Ah, Michael! Heather has mentioned you in our conversations,” you said, immediately kicking yourself internally. Great. You just exposed your friend talking about her senior attending physician—she was going to give you a hard time later.

“So she talks about me after work, huh?” Michael said, a teasing smile tugging at his lips as he crossed his arms casually over his chest, the kind of playful expression that made it hard not to grin. You felt heat crawl up your neck, embarrassment flooding your face.

 “Not like that. She doesn’t complain about you or anything,” you said—way too fast. He blinked slowly, eyes narrowing just a touch, like he was trying not to smirk.

 “So… what does she say?” he asked.

You let out a breath. “I already messed up by admitting she talks about you at all. She’ll bury me alive if I say anything else. If you’re curious, you should ask her yourself,” you said with a weak smile.

“I will,” he replied, giving a small, amused nod. “Anyway, I’ll let you go find her.”

“Yeah… nice meeting you,” you said.

“Nice meeting you,” he echoed, offering one last small smile before stepping away.

You made your way through the crowded living room, muttering “excuse me” more times than you could count as you squeezed past elbows and half-drunk conversations. Just find Heather, say hi, eat something, and get out, you told yourself. When you finally reached the kitchen doorway, you spotted her—back turned to you, hunched over the counter, fussing with trays of desserts like they were fragile surgical instruments. You opened your mouth to call out her name, but she turned at the exact moment she felt someone behind her. The second she saw you, her entire face lit up like someone switched her on.

“Oh my GOD—YOU’RE HERE!” she screamed, practically launching herself at you with enough force to rock you backward. You hugged her tightly. “Of course I’m here,” you said. Heather pulled back, gripping your arms like she needed proof you were real. 

“I thought you weren’t coming! I thought you bailed the second you saw how many people were here,” she said, voice loud, excited, and completely on-brand.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” you said with a grin. Total lie. You would’ve absolutely stayed home if guilt hadn’t dragged you out—but she was halfway through her first year of residency at PTMC. She deserved more than a text.

Heather snorted. “Please. I know you. These crowds make you want to walk straight into traffic. But still—thank you for coming.”

You laughed, reaching for a jello shot sitting on the counter. “So! How’s residency going? How are we feeling?”

Heather groaned happily. “It’s going SO good. Like ridiculously good. Everyone’s been super supportive—especially the senior attending.”

You almost choked right then, your throat tightening around the jello shot. But by sheer willpower, you forced it down.

Heather’s hand immediately landed on your back. “Whoa—breathe! Are you okay?”

You coughed into the back of your hand before managing, “I’m good. Sorry… it was an accident.”

“Obviously,” Heather said, pulling her hand away. “Nobody chokes on a jello shot on purpose.”

You sucked in a breath. Time to rip the bandage off.

“So… before I say this—how much do you care about the senior attending’s opinion of you?”

“A little? Why?” she asked, instantly suspicious.

You grimaced. “I… accidentally mentioned you talk about him with me. When he opened the door for me. It just—came out.”

Heather blinked at you once, then immediately burst into loud, chaotic laughter.

“This is not the reaction I was expecting,” you muttered. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Heather said, still trying to get her laughter under control. “Look, he knows people talk about him after work. I mean, I’m at a teaching hospital—I’m basically swarmed by med students, residents, interns… and he’s a senior attending. Gossip is like, the hospital’s second language. I seriously thought you said something terrible about me to my attending.”

“I’m sorry. I just thought I said something I wasn’t supposed to.” 

“Relax. You’re fine. And besides—Robby makes an exception for me.” A knowing little smile tugged at her mouth.

You arched a brow. “Oh? What’s that supposed to mean? Are you keeping secrets from me?”

“It’s nothing. Don’t start,” she huffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Come on—help me with these desserts before someone wanders in here and messes everything up.”

You jumped in beside her, arranging dishes on the living room table.

“Okay,” Heather murmured once everything looked perfect. “I’ll grab you a plate, and then you can dip if you want. I know these kinds of parties aren’t your thing.”

“I’ll try to stay for a bit,” you answered with a tight smile.

₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

You’d been trapped here for over two hours, and your brain felt like it was slowly melting. After eating your food in a quiet corner—well away from the chaos—you’d barely had a moment to breathe before Heather hauled you into a shot-drinking contest. How many shots can you take in 30 seconds without making a face? Apparently, that was now your party trick.

She’d bragged to her coworkers about your “legendary tolerance,” which only made you cringe; out of context, it made you sound like an alcoholic.And after downing five shots of bottom-shelf tequila just to prove her right, you were certain tomorrow’s hangover would be biblical. The moment you finished swallowing the burn, Heather pushed you into a whirlwind of introductions—names you instantly forgot—and a string of noisy games you wanted no part of. Now you were wedged beside her on the couch, pretending to care about a round of White Elephant while the room buzzed around you.

You needed to leave. Immediately.

“Heather, I’m heading out. I can already feel the hangover creeping up…” you murmured.

“Okay. And… sorry for hauling you into all this. I just wanted you to have fun,” she whispered back.

You couldn’t be annoyed with her. She meant well, and you did need to push yourself out of your little bubble—but wow, this was a rough first attempt. You gave her a small, grateful smile before standing up. You slipped away from the circle, weaving through the crowd as people called your name and begged you to stay for one more round. Strangers insisting you keep playing White Elephant—ridiculous, but a little funny. When you finally reached the front door, you stepped out, letting it click shut behind you. You inhaled a deep, bracing breath of cold air and nearly jumped out of your skin when a voice came from the dark.

“Leaving already?”

You hiccuped—part fear, part tequila—before you even turned. When you looked over, you found Michael leaning against the porch railing, half in shadow, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. 

“Jesus, warn a person. Do you always lurk in the dark like that?” The words slipped out before your brain could snatch them back. He let out a low chuckle, smoke trailing upward in the cold air. Silence settled between you, comfortable for him and painfully awkward for you, until you muttered “screw it” under your breath and stepped over to lean against the railing too—leaving a solid, cautious gap between you. If you were going to make a fool of yourself, at least you’d be able to blame it on the alcohol later.

“Did you have fun?” you asked, staring straight ahead rather than at him.

“Not really.”

“Really? Looked like you were having a great time downing jello shots with that tiny blonde woman.”

He huffed a laugh. “I had a moment. But… this isn’t my scene. I only showed up for Heather.” He took a slow drag, exhaling toward the yard.

“Look at that—something we actually have in common. I only came for Heather too. Not a party person.”

“Funny,” he said, turning just enough to glance at you. “Didn’t look that way when you knocked back five shots in thirty seconds.”

“Yeah, yeah—I walked right into that one,” you groaned. Another quiet stretch followed. You stared at the walkway, teeth worrying your bottom lip. Screw it again, you thought.

“I’m probably gonna regret this, but whatever—I can blame it on the alcohol.” You inhaled. “Can I have your number?”

“Why?” His focus stayed on the yard, voice unreadable.

“Seriously? Has no one ever hit on you before? I’m hitting on you. You’re… very attractive.” Too honest. Thanks, tequila.

A soft laugh rumbled out of him. “I can’t. Not with those intentions.”

The rejection tugged an involuntary pout onto your face before you could stop it. “Sorry… I wasn’t trying to make things weird.”

The quiet that followed stretched just long enough to make your skin prickle.

“So… what do you think of Heather?” you finally asked, reaching for safer ground. The second the words were out, you caught it—the faintest pink creeping up the tips of his ears.

Oh. Ohhhh. That’s why he wasn’t giving you his number.

“She’s great. One of the best residents I’ve worked with in a while.” There was a little smile in his voice—one you didn’t miss.

“You rejected me because you like Heather. Right?”

“When did I say that?”

“Your ears turned pink and you’re smiling like an idiot thinking about her.”

“It’s cold,” he muttered.

“Uh-huh. And you came here for her, mister ‘this isn’t my scene.’”

“We’re… seeing each other.”

You froze. Then the realization hit like a punch to the gut. You had just tried to flirt with Heather’s maybe-boyfriend. Phenomenal job. Friend of the year.

“Oh my god. Please don’t tell Heather I hit on you. I swear I didn’t know. I sound like the worst friend alive.”

“You’re fine,” he said, finally glancing your way. “You didn’t know. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

Slack was the last thing you were giving yourself. Heat crawled up your neck.

“It was—uh—nice talking to you. Sorry for… everything. Bye.” You spun around and practically bolted, not waiting for any reply. You speed-walked so fast you didn’t hear if he said anything back. Thank God Heather had those big leafy bushes along the front of the house—you could hide behind them while you waited twenty miserable minutes for your Uber without being seen, because if he spotted you loitering there like a drunk raccoon, you’d simply cease to exist.

Those twenty minutes were torture. Every dumb thing you’d said replayed on a loop. Your attempted flirting. Your inability to ask if he was single. Your mortification over Heather not telling you she was seeing someone. By the time your Uber rolled up, you were half frozen, half humiliated, and fully ready to bury yourself in a snowbank. You slid into the back seat with a huff, bracing yourself for the hangover—and the regret—that tomorrow would absolutely deliver.

₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Day 36 

You ended up explaining everything that had happened with Michael to Heather the next day, apologizing in person with a wince and a half-laugh that made it clear how mortifying the whole situation still felt. You even asked her if she’d be willing to pass along an apology for you, just to clear the air. Heather, naturally, burst out laughing. She waved it off, completely unbothered, but did make one thing very clear: she’d appreciate it if you didn’t try to flirt with her… whatever-he-was. Situationship? Boyfriend? She didn’t even seem sure herself. All she’d said was that they were still figuring things out—and that neither of them was entirely convinced a romantic relationship between a first-year resident and an attending wouldn’t turn into an HR nightmare.

Of course, you couldn’t resist teasing her about her apparent fondness for older men, giving her a taste of the same merciless ribbing she’d subjected you to for years. Heather, unsurprisingly, fired right back. She roasted you relentlessly, insisting that now that you’d “gotten a taste” with Michael, you’d never look at men your own age the same way again. She practically taunted you for not getting what you wanted—lovingly, of course.

Except… somewhere along the way, the joke stopped being a joke.

You found yourself going out of your way to date older men more often—not to prove a point, but to scratch the itch your half-assed attempt at flirting with Michael had left behind. Unfortunately, the dating scene proved deeply unimpressive. You started noticing a pattern: dates that ended early because they wanted something from you—your body, your youth, or the bragging rights of being seen with a “young, beautiful girlfriend.” None of it felt romantic. None of it felt safe. And none of it was what you wanted.

What you wanted was simple, really. You wanted someone who treated you well. Someone who saw you as a person, not a prize. Someone who respected you—maybe even worshipped the ground you walked on, just a little.

Which is how you ended up where you were now.

Leaving another date early and practically fleeing toward Heather’s house like it was a sanctuary. You’d told the greasy older man across the table that your friend needed help—that she was sick and alone—which was a lie, but one you didn’t feel remotely guilty about. What you hadn’t expected was for him to try to physically stop you from leaving, his hand lingering far too long as he insisted you stay. You escaped by claiming you needed the restroom—and promptly disappeared, leaving him with the bill. He more than deserved it, especially after his unprompted rant about how women belonged in the kitchen and existed to have children. You didn’t owe him a second more of your time.

Shaken and irritated, you texted Heather to see if she was home and available, desperate to tell her what had happened and vent about the absolute disaster that was dating. She wasn’t home—but she told you to crash at her place anyway, promising you could talk it all out in the morning. You thanked her more times than was probably necessary. Her place was closer than yours, and at that moment, it felt like the safest place you could possibly be.

When you finally reached Heather’s place, you ended up stranded on her porch for a solid ten minutes, shivering in the freezing cold while you frantically searched for her second, very well-hidden spare key. Of course, when you finally found it, it was in the very first bush you’d checked—just shoved farther back than you’d bothered to reach the first time.

By then, you were absolutely frozen. Wearing a short dress had seemed like a good idea at the time, even though it didn’t really match the vibe you’d been going for. Another minute outside and you were convinced some guy would pull up and ask how much an hour cost. You shuddered as you slid the key into the lock, mentally cataloging every questionable decision that had led you here. The moment the door opened, warmth wrapped around you like a blessing. You hurried inside, shutting the door behind you, kicking off your shoes without a second thought. New mission: steal one of Heather’s old gray sweatpants and one of those ragged band T-shirts she’d kept since her teenage years.

As you made your way down the hallway toward her bedroom, an uneasy feeling crept up your spine. Something felt… off. Like you weren’t alone. For a brief, ridiculous moment, you wondered if your date had gotten angry enough to follow you here. You forced the thought away, focusing instead on how good it was going to feel to peel this stupid dress off and thaw out.

You pushed open Heather’s bedroom door—and practically shrieked.

Standing in the middle of her room was Michael. Half-naked. A towel hung low on his hips, wrapped just enough to be decent. His chest was bare, warm skin dusted with salt-and-pepper hair, a faint happy trail disappearing beneath the towel—

“I am so sorry!” you yelled, slamming the door shut so hard the walls practically shook.

Heat flooded your veins, devouring the chill that had clung to you only moments before. Your fingers were still locked around the doorknob, knuckles pale as you tried to anchor yourself, as if the metal could keep you from spiraling. And there he was—the man who had stirred that restless, maddening itch beneath your skin, the one that had made you feel reckless, desperate for a spark that matched the electric jolt you’d felt the first time you ever saw Michael. The realization curdled in your stomach, sharp and ugly.

Shame came fast and heavy. First, you’d crossed an invisible line by flirting—accidentally, thoughtlessly—with a man who was utterly devoted to Heather, who loved him just as fiercely in return. And now this. Now you’d seen him half-naked, an image you never asked for and couldn’t unsee. What were you supposed to say to her? Oh, by the way, I walked in on your half-naked boyfriend—my bad? The thought made your face burn.

You cut yourself off mid-spiral, forcing the truth to settle in. It had been an accident. Nothing more. You weren’t that kind of friend—the kind who chased attention from her best friend’s partner the second a relationship became real. Never. The tension slowly leaked out of your chest as you exhaled, mortification replacing the self-loathing when you realized how loud you must have screamed, loud enough to startle him just as badly as you’d been startled yourself. Letting go of the doorknob at last, you turned away and headed for Heather’s cramped laundry room, already picturing the neat stacks of clean blankets she kept there. 

You grabbed a blanket from the hall closet and wrapped it around yourself before settling onto the couch, knees tucked in. You turned on the TV out of pure instinct, letting some random show play in the background while you waited—half-expecting him to appear, half-hoping he wouldn’t. You should’ve gone home. You knew that. But the cold still clung to your bones, and the thought of sitting alone in your apartment with nothing but your spiraling thoughts made you hesitate.

So you stayed.

About ten minutes later, soft footsteps sounded down the hall. Michael emerged, fully dressed this time. White T-shirt. Gray sweatpants. Comfortable. Domestic. Like he belonged there.

You should’ve gone home.

You were the one who broke the silence.

“Again, I’m really sorry about earlier,” you said, eyes fixed on the TV even though you had no idea what was happening on-screen. “Heather didn’t mention you were here.”

He leaned against the doorway between the kitchen and living room, arms folding loosely across his chest. “Nothing to apologize for,” he said evenly. “She didn’t mention you were coming either.”

“Well… still.” You let out a quiet laugh. “I probably screamed loud enough to wake the neighbors.”

He huffed, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Sounded normal to me. Must be my old man ears.”

That finally made you look at him—and immediately regret it.You shouldn’t have been looking as closely as you were. He looked unfairly good like this, casual and unguarded, and it made your chest tighten before you could stop it. 

“I’m surprised Heather went for someone who’s practically knocking on the door of a retirement home,” you said, a smile tugging at your lips.

He snorted. “Wow. Straight for the jugular. I’m old, not prehistoric.”

“Okay, Grandpa,” you muttered, smiling to yourself.

A quiet beat passed. Too quiet. You realized you were still looking at him, and you shifted, preparing to stand and make a graceful escape—when he spoke.

“So,” he said, voice casual but curious, “what brought you over tonight?”

“What?” you scoffed lightly. “I can’t visit my friend? You're just jealous I’ve known Heather longer.”

He shrugged. “Not jealous. She probably likes me more.” A pause. “And I was just asking.”

You sighed, shoulders dropping. “Fine. I had a bad date. I was planning to complain to Heather about it, but instead I’m… stuck with you.”

“Lucky me,” he deadpanned. Then, after a beat, “All right. Go on.”

You huffed a laugh. “It’s just—dating has been awful. The guys I’ve been seeing are… not it. Misogynistic. Annoying. Greasy.” You grimaced. “I’m having a truly horrible time.”

The room went quiet again—but this time it didn’t feel awkward. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t rush to fill the space. He just listened, eyes steady, expression thoughtful.

And for some reason, that made your chest feel a little lighter.

You needed to shut this down. Immediately.

“I just realized I’m sitting here talking to my best friend’s attending—who may or may not be her boyfriend,” you said, pushing yourself upright. “I think I’ll let HR sort that one out.”

Robby snorted softly, the sound warm and unguarded, and then he smiled. Not the polite, professional curve he wore at work, but a real one—easy, a little crooked, like he forgot to filter himself. “Not really HR’s problem anymore,” he said. “We’re… official now.”

You blinked, then nodded. “Congratulations. Seriously. I’m sure Heather will be filling me in on all the arguments you two end up having.”

“Oh, she absolutely will,” he said, shaking his head fondly. “Especially since I already know she talks about me after work.”

You groaned. “She does not shut up about you. ‘Robby complimented me in front of everyone.’ ‘Robby made me dinner.’ ‘Robby bought me flowers.’ I have never—never—seen her like this.”

His eyebrows lifted, amused. “So who’s jealous now?”

“Please.” You waved him off. “She’s bought me flowers before, so technically I’m still winning. And if this crashes and burns?” You pointed to yourself. “I’ll still be here. Me.”

He laughed then—full, unrestrained—and it filled the room in a way that annoyed you more than it should have.

“Alright,” you said, standing and peeling the blanket off both of you. “I’m leaving before my brain has to process whatever freaky sex stuff you two definitely get up to.”

The tips of his ears flushed red.

Robby.

The name clicked a beat too late. Around you, Heather always called him Robby—never Michael. Michael sounded formal, distant, and it would feel awkward to keep calling him that when Heather never did. 

“Oh, trust me,” he said lightly. “There’s a lot.”

“Absolutely not,” you begged. “Do not continue that sentence.”

“I won’t,” he said. “But Heather probably will.”

“Ew. Nope. I need to go. Immediately.”

You folded the blanket and set it back on the couch, moving quickly now. Shoes on. Keys in hand. At the door, though, you hesitated.

“I don’t know you that well,” you said, not turning around, “but it’s obvious she really likes you. So… don’t screw this up for her.”

“I won’t,” Robby said. No joke this time. Just steady.

“Good.”

You said your goodbyes and made it to your car before the tension in your chest finally loosened—only to snap right back into place the second you sat down.

“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid,” you muttered, staring at the steering wheel.

You should have left earlier. You couldn’t believe how hopelessly tangled your feelings were over your best friend’s boyfriend. You barely knew him. Two conversations. A handful of moments. And still, there it was—that sharp, disappointing twist when he’d confirmed he was with Heather. You should have been nothing but happy for her.

Instead, you felt awful. Petty. Like the worst kind of friend.

You were fawning over her man.

You needed to avoid him entirely and figure out what insecurity had crawled out of whatever dark corner of your brain it lived in. Why did you want more of his attention? Was it really just because he treated you with basic respect? God. The bar was in hell. You sighed, started the car, and pulled out, already promising yourself distance—whether you liked it or not.

[outcaststarfruit]

Introduction Post ⋆｡°✩

Hello everyone!

I’m starting this blog as a new space to share my content. I do have an Ao3 account under the same name, but there’s nothing new there—just a Sevika fanfic I wrote a year ago. It’s pretty cringy, but if you’re curious, feel free to check it out lol. Honestly, I think my writing has improved a lot since then.

I’ll mainly be posting fanfics about movies, TV shows, video games—basically whatever I’m currently hyperfixated on. Right now, it’s The Pitt—such an amazing show!

A little about me: I go by outcaststarfruit online, or JJ. I’m non-binary (shoutout to my fellow non-binary peeps). I’m AFAB, so for longer fics I usually write female!reader, and for shorter ones I stick to gender-neutral. I’m 20, in college studying nutrition and microbiology, so fanfic updates might take a while. I love writing, but school comes first. That said, I’ll do my best to stay consistent.

Honestly, I don’t know what else to say lol. I’ll update this post if I remember anything else.