unfortunately very true. Doing Better does not always mean never being upset or never being triggered or never having trouble. often Doing Better means experiencing those things and being able to keep going/cope healthily/move on. if you’re in a bubble with no sensation, if you’re numbing yourself out, that’s not what recovering really is. it won’t help you have a happier life it’ll just make your world smaller and smaller until you can’t fit anywhere anymore. gotta learn to make peace with the hard stuff too, that’s the only way to keep going
Summary: A newly transferred trauma resident finds herself irresistibly drawn to her sharp-tongued, charismatic night-shift chief, Dr. Jack Abbot — a widower with a reputation for emotional unavailability. After months of flirtation, they finally give in to their chemistry, only for the night to end in heartbreak when he whispers another woman’s name in his sleep. Determined to stay professional, she’s blindsided when she’s promoted to work directly under him — just as the woman from his past arrives at the hospital. Now she must navigate ambition, jealousy, and lingering feelings while deciding if Jack is worth the risk.
Word Count: 3.9k
Author's Note: Medical innaccuracies will abound in this fic, I'm sure of it. If you want to be added or removed from the taglist please just let me know!
Likes, comments and reblogs give me life. <3
Link to Part 1
A03 Link: thegingerjameson
Three days. That’s how long you have to prepare.
You’d met with HR the following morning, signed the requisite paperwork, and as soon as you’d hit the Pitt Robby had pulled you aside again to tell you that Dr. Carter was set to start the next day.
Livvie.
You hated the way that hearing her name made your teeth and your fists clench, like your body was physically trying to stave off an onslaught of emotion.
“Take tomorrow off. Try to adjust your sleep schedule,” he’d said, placing a firm hand on your shoulder with a squeeze. “You’re gonna kill it, kid. I know you will.”
“Kid?”
“Sorry, sorry,” he half-smiled, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Force of habit. Most of the residents are babies.”
He paused for a moment, realized the implication of what he’d said,
“Not that you’re old,” he finished lamely, rubbing the back of his neck. “Shit.”
“Now who’s a walking HR violation?” you’d chuckled, and then Dana was calling for both of you, and your day was off and running.
There had always been a friendly rivalry between day and night shift and your upcoming transfer rocked that boat hard, so Jack had immediately seized the opportunity to give the team shit about the fact that he’d lured you to the dark side.
“Listen up, everyone,” Jack had called when he arrived that night, and staff from both shifts slowly moved to congregate near the central desk where he was standing, yourself included.
“I have an important announcement to make.”
He cleared his throat dramatically and everyone fell silent.
“Night shift has once again proven superior to its counterpart. We have a new staff member joining us tomorrow, and I’d like to take this opportunity to both welcome her, and to say to everyone on the day shift, from the bottom of my heart..” Jack trailed off and then stage-whispered, “…suck it.”
“This was literally my idea,” Robby grumbled.
“I am so sorry you guys,” you’d groaned, throwing a death glare at Jack. He just grinned like the Cheshire Cat in response.
“The only thing I miss about days is… nothing,” Dr. Shen, who’d transferred from day shift years ago, shrugged with a slurp of his iced coffee.
“At least we don’t have to mainline overpriced coffee to survive,” Whitaker said, rolling his eyes.
Dr. Parker Ellis, another resident on the night shift, grinned at you. “Welcome to the party. It might take some time to get used to making a decision without a resident, a fellow, and an attending in the room, but don’t sweat it. We’ll help you through it.”
“Aw, Ellis, is the sun too bright for you to do a thorough exam?” Dr. Cassie McKay from day shift simpered with a pout.
“I hope it’s quiet tonight,” Trinity smirked.
Silence hit, quick and still.
“How dare you,” Jack whispered.
“Too far,” Jesse, one of the day shift nurses, added with a shake of his head.
“Okay, okay, I take it back,” Trinity had tried to backpedal.
“Too late,” Lena, the night shift charge nurse, sighed as she set down the receiver of her desk phone. “Three ambos incoming. Building fire.”
Robby turned to the group. “Whitaker, Santos, McKay, let’s hang back and see if they need any help. The rest of day shift, get out of here, I’ll see you in the morning.”
The staff lounge was quiet, so when you gathered your things and turned, hefting your bag over your shoulder, Jack’s sudden appearance scared the hell out of you.
“Jesus,” you jumped, clutching a hand to your chest.
“Sorry, sorry,” he apologized with a placating smile. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I just thought it might help if I gave you some ideas on how to transition to night shift.”
“Please. I’m normally in bed by 10pm, so I need all the help I can get.”
“Stay up later tonight, as late as you can, and then two hours later than that tomorrow night. Then take a nap before your first shift. Pick up some blackout curtains for your bedroom, I swear by them. And when all else fails - caffeine.”
“That won’t be a problem. I might as well own stock in Alani Nu.”
“I’m more of a Celsius guy myself.” He turned to pull a set of disposable gloves from the dispenser on the wall and tucked them into the pocket of his scrubs, hesitating for a moment with one hand on the door.
“I’m really looking forward to working with you,” he added.
Quietly. Softly. A little unsure.
The complete opposite of everything you knew about Jack Abbot.
“Me too, Thunder,” you smiled in an effort to put him at ease.
Jack’s brow furrowed. “Thunder?”
“Thunder,” you pointed at him, then at yourself, “and Lightning. Just trying it out.”
He shook his head, but he was smiling. “We’ll workshop it. See you in a few days, hotshot.”
After a quick Target run to procure blackout curtains and some other essentials, you headed home and spent the next day alternating between sleeping as much as you could and bingeing old episodes of The Office, but unfortunately your favorite comfort show did little to distract you from the fact that it wouldn’t be long until you’d have to meet Jack’s girlfriend.
Love you, Livvie.
At least the Pitt was filled with skilled - and mostly discreet - gossip kings and queens, so you’d been able to confirm semi-reliably that Jack had been single when you’d slept together.
You were grateful you’d only have to face her, face them together, for short periods of time, but your heart was already aching at the reality of the situation, because once you met her, you wouldn’t be able to hope anymore. The loss of that hope felt daunting, a chasm you weren’t sure how to climb across after so many months of hoping that Jack might be the bridge.
A strange mix of anticipation and trepidation settles in your stomach, cold and heavy, as you make your way through Chairs the night of your first shift. Ahmad, the night shift security guard, is already there, and he greets you with a smile.
“Hey, doc. Good to see you on the right side of the law.”
“Hi, Ahmad. Remind me of that at 4am, okay?”
“You’ll be alright. We won’t let you crash.”
You scan your badge and smile at him gratefully as he holds the door open for you so you can make your way in.
“Hey, sunshine,” Dana calls from behind the central desk, waving you over. You cross the department, setting your travel mug and water bottle behind the counter of the desk.
“Hey, Dana, how was your shift?”
“She’s nice,” Dana says quietly, apologetically, answering the real question you were asking without you having to ask it.
“I’m glad,” you tell her, and you are, because Jack deserves someone nice, even if that someone isn’t you.
Dana raises an eyebrow at you, a silent inquiry.
“I’m fine,” you sigh. “I’ll be back.”
You quickly deposit your things in your locker and make your way back to the central desk. Lena and Dr. Ellis are there now, too, glancing up at the patient board.
“Looks like you saved the good patients for us,” Ellis sighs.
“Always do,” Dana grins and lifts her glasses, settling them on top of her head.
“Lena, can you grab Jack and Dr. Carter so we can round?” Dr. Robby appears, Santos and Whitaker trailing closely behind, and they both smile at you in greeting. “I need to get out of here on time tonight.”
“He joined a kickball league,” Dana whispers conspiratorially.
“Yes, Dana, I joined a kickball league. I am allowed to have a life outside of this hospital,” Robby sighs, peeling off his gloves and tossing them in a nearby trash can.
“But you don’t,” Dana persists.
“Remind me not to tell you things,” Robby responds dryly. Dana just chuckles in response.
“I’d know anyway,” she replies before disappearing around the corner, presumably to find Jack.
You hear a loud slurp from behind you and you don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.
“Jesus, Shen, how do you not have diabetes?” Dr. McKay calls from across the room.
“Good genes,” he calls back, then nudges you with his elbow. “I brought one for you. Welcome to the team.”
“Thanks, Shen,” you smile gratefully and take a sip of the proffered coffee. It’s laced with caramel and syrupy sweet, much sweeter than you normally take it, but you’re grateful for the gesture.
“Nice of you to join us, Abbot,” you hear Robby say, and then you see her.
Livvie.
She’s beautiful, of course she is, her dark brown hair swept up into a perfect messy bun, gentle features, and soft smile, looking fresher and far less disheveled than you’d ever looked at the end of one of your shifts.
“Night shift,” Jack calls. “Meet Dr. Olivia Carter.”
“I’m so happy to be here. Jack raves about all of you,” she smiles warmly.
You hang back, watching as everyone greets and welcomes her; watching the way Jack’s eyes follow her, the way he hovers, the way he places his hand on her lower back possessively as they make their way across the Pitt. He spots you and smiles, and you force yourself to plaster a smile on your face in response.
“Livvie, meet our newest senior resident-to-be,” he says by way of introduction.
She shoots him a look that you can’t quite read and reaches out a hand to shake yours.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” she tells you kindly. “You’re in good hands with Jack, and from what I’ve heard, he’s lucky to have you on his team.”
Jack smiles broadly at you. “Damn right I am. Top of her class at UPenn and John’s Hopkins, and 15 years of nursing under her belt. She’s practically a unicorn.”
Your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest.
“Nice to meet you too, Dr. Carter. Welcome to the team,” you offer, trying not to notice the admiration in Jack’s eyes when he looks at her. “Thanks for covering my shift.”
“Oh, Livvie, please. And I’ve been hoping to cover here for a while, see Jack at work as a civilian,” she grins up at him. “I’m the one who should be thanking you.”
“Don’t get too excited,” he shrugs casually. “Once a soldier, always a soldier.”
Is Jack Abbot blushing?
“Hooah,” Livvie laughs, light and melodic and infectious, and pokes him playfully in the side. Jack catches her finger and pulls her into a half-hug.
“Alright kids, let’s round,” Dr. Robby calls, and in that moment you are insanely grateful for his new social calendar.
“Go easy on her tonight, Jack,” Livvie whispers to him, then reaches over to squeeze your hand gently and says, “Jack’s told me so much about you. I hope we can get to know each other better.”
Before you can respond, Livvie ducks out from under Jack’s arm with a wink and grabs a tablet from the central desk, following behind Robby as he heads towards one of the exam rooms. Jack watches her go, smiling softly to himself, and you see the way his shoulders loosen when he looks at her, the sharp edges and constant state of alert replaced by something softer, something kinder, and how can you begrudge him that kind of comfort?
After rounds, Dana pulls you aside. “I have some good news.”
“Great. I could use some,” you tell her.
“The doctor in Peds? Hunter Lawson? He’s definitely interested. I gave him your number.”
“Fuck, I forgot about that,” you groan, rubbing a hand across your face. “Dana, I-“
“Just give it a chance,” Dana cuts you off. “You deserve happiness, too, and I love you, kid, but you’re not going to find it pining after Abbot.”
Her words cut deep, loosing something ugly and angry and hot inside of your chest.
“You think I don’t know that?” you hiss. “You think I want to feel like this? I’m so tired, Dana. I’m so fucking tired of thinking and hoping and wondering and honestly? Livvie is a fucking blessing because she’s kind and beautiful and Jack is clearly happy so I don’t have to do that anymore, but goddamnit, it hurts.”
And then you’re crying the tears you’ve been holding back for months, and Dana tugs you into one of the trauma bays before anyone can see you.
“It fucking hurts,” you repeat softly, and she reaches out to pull you into a gentle hug.
“I know it does, kid. But I also know you’re strong, and you’re beautiful, and you’re going to get through this. You’re going to be okay.”
“I know. I just wish it would happen faster,” you whisper.
The door opens suddenly and Jack steps into the room.
“Hey, I’ve been looking for you…” he trails off when he sees your face and his demeanor shifts instantly from relaxed to anxious. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. She’s fine,” Dana pats your shoulder comfortingly as you frantically wipe at the tears on your face and clear your throat.
“I’m good, Jack,” you tell him.
“You’re very clearly not good. Who do I have to kill?” The sharp edge to his voice leads you to believe he actually might mean it.
“No one.” You offer him a small smile. “Just a rough day, that’s all.”
Jack squints at you, debating his next move, and, thankfully, decides to let it go. “Okay, but the offer stands.”
“You good?” Dana raises an eyebrow at you questioningly, and you nod.
“Yep. Get out of here. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She nods at Jack, gives you a quick squeeze, and steps out of the room, leaving you and Jack alone. He watches you for a moment, the look in his eyes imperceptible, before he finally says, “Joke or work? Dealer’s choice.”
“Work,” you exhale, relieved that he’s not going to press.
“Okay,” he nods decisively. “Dr. Collins is out unexpectedly tonight. I’d planned to have you observe, adjust to the cadence of the night shift, but we’re going to need you to step in.”
You take a deep breath and wipe again at your face. “I can do that.”
He turns to rummage in one of the drawers of the nearby cart, procuring a disposable ice pack that he cracks, massaging it briefly.
“Here.” He moves toward you and slowly, delicately lowers it to one of your cheeks, holding it there for a moment before moving it to the other. “This will help with some of the swelling.”
“Thanks,” you murmur, taking it from his hand.
“Take a minute. New interns started tonight and I want to introduce you to them when you’re ready.”
“I’m ready,” you insist, lowering the ice pack from your face, but his hand gently catches your wrist and moves it back into place.
“I said, take a minute.” His voice is gruff and low and insistent and his face is too close to yours and he smells clean, like soap and cedarwood, and you hate the way your body responds to all of it, the way it starts to coil tightly again around his invisible hold.
When his eyes meet yours, he drops his hand quickly and steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“The offer stands,” he repeats quietly.
A beat passes, then another. Jack’s staring at the floor like it’s the most interesting thing he’s seen all day.
“Batman and Robin?” you finally say to break the silence.
“Only if you’re Robin,” he rolls his eyes, his face finally shifting into a smile you recognize.
You don’t know what to make of any of it.
You meet the interns - Joy and Ogilve - and lead them around the department, showing them the ropes. They’re both whip smart, but they know it, a dangerous combination in emergency medicine. Luckily, the rhythm of night shift is slower, smoother, giving you ample time to teach and correct, though that night it’s mostly the latter.
You realize quickly that Dr. Robby was right - teaching instead of doing is a muscle you have to exercise, one that’s lain dormant for too long in the demand of the day shift. It proves more difficult not to step in throughout the night than you thought it would be.
Around 2:30am you’re walking them through the possible causes of your most recent patient’s symptoms, and their bickering is causing a headache to bloom at the base of your skull.
“Polyuria, polydipsia, tachycardic at 120bpm. It’s obviously DKA,” Ogilve rolls his eyes at Joy, and her eyes narrow in response.
“HHS, AKA, Lactic Acidosis, kidney failure,” she lists off. “We haven’t even checked her glucose or ketones.”
“If it looks like a dog and barks like a dog…” Ogilve argues.
“Enough,” your voice comes out sharper than you intend. You turn to the patient.
“Mrs. Hernandez, please give us a few minutes,” you smile at her and gesture for the interns to follow you out of the room. After shutting the door behind you, you take a deep breath before turning to face them.
“First of all, ‘if it looks like a dog and barks like a dog’? Really? That’s your philosophy for practicing medicine?” You cross your arms across your chest, glaring pointedly at Ogilve, and though you’re not sure he’s capable of contrition, he at least has the intelligence to keep his mouth shut.
“Second, the hubris from both of you is exhausting. Don’t forget why we’re here. You may have worked your asses off to get here, but this is not about you anymore. This is about them,” you hiss, pointing at the patient board over the central desk.
A beat passes as you allow your words to sink in.
“Got it,” Joy nods. “I apologize.”
“Don’t apologize,” you sigh tiredly. “Do better. Now go order labs for the patient and call me when they’re back. Oh and also? Primum Non Nocere? That applies to your senior resident, too.”
Both interns head back into the room; you make your way towards the central desk, collapsing into one of the chairs with a groan.
“I’m not cut out for this shit, Lena.”
“What, night life, or the wonder twins?” she asks, peering over her glasses at you with a smirk.
You snort-laugh at that and bring your hands up to massage your temples. “Neither. Both? I don’t even know anymore.”
“This might help.” You hear Jack’s voice from behind you, turning just as he sets an Alani Nu energy drink on the desk in front of you.
“Is this real or am I so tired I’m hallucinating?” You eagerly grab for the can and pop it open to take a long sip. Jack and Lena watch you with amusement, and it isn’t until you’ve set it back down on the desk that the thought jumps into your mind:
He remembered.
That’s Jack, though, you countered yourself. Always taking care of everyone else.
It was one of the things you admired most about him. Other than his biceps.
“I wasn’t sure what flavor you liked. Hope that one’s okay,” he says, low and quiet.
“Juicy Peach is my favorite, actually." You smile gratefully. “All I need is some ibuprofen and I’ll be a new woman. Thanks, Jack.”
“Here,” he holds out his hand, dropping two tablets into your palm, and your head cocks to the side in confusion.
“How did you…”
“Rule number one on the night shift: never underestimate the sheer number of helpful things that Jack carries around in his pockets,” Lena informs you before picking up the incoming phone call. Jack joins the two of you behind the desk, taking a seat at the computer next to you before badging in to scroll through some of the patient charts.
“Admonishing and quoting Latin at the interns in the same breath? I’m impressed,” he says casually.
“Yeah, well,” you grumble and take another sip of your drink. “I’m tired and they’re cocky.”
“Oh, they fully deserved it. I’ve been waiting for you to lose it on them all night.” He turns his head to the side to glance over at you, then brings a hand up to his mouth and whispers behind it, “They’re the worst.”
“Thank you. Is that like, a night shift intern thing?”
“It’s just an intern thing.” He shrugs. “We’ve all been them at once point in our careers. Luckily most of us grow out of it.”
“Most of us?”
Jack nods, locks his computer, and stands up, grabbing a tablet from the charger. “I wouldn’t bet on Ogilve.”
You snort-laugh again, and Jack cocks his head at you.
“That’s kind of adorable, you know that?”
“What is?” you ask, confused.
“Your laugh,” he says simply, then glances up at the patient board. “Can you check if the CT is back on the abdominal pain in four? I’ll take the hand lac in seven.”
He walks away without waiting for a response, leaving you flustered.
Around 6am, you’re catching up on charts when your phone dings, alerting you to an incoming text message from a unknown number. Curious, you tap it open.
Hey, this is Hunter Lawson from up in Peds. Dana gave me your number, I hope it’s okay that I’m reaching out. How was your first night shift?
Hey Hunter - it was good, but long. Really looking forward to seeing my bed again.
You cringe as you read it back and pray he doesn’t interpret that as an invitation.
I’d offer to bring you coffee this morning but it probably won’t help you sleep. I can offer dinner though, on your next night off, if you’re interested?
You chew on your lip for a moment, pondering your response, when you hear a familiar musical laugh coming from the door that leads to Chairs.
“Good morning,” Livvie calls melodically.
“Hey Livvie,” Shen says as he exits triage, closing the door behind him. “You’re early. God bless you.”
“I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to come help. It’s so much quieter here than it is in New York City.”
“Please tell me those are for us,” Ellis appears, eyeing the boxes of bagels in Livvie’s hands.
“Thought you guys could use some carbs,” she grins.
“Is that Livvie?” Jack calls, poking his head out of the trauma bay where he’s been restocking one of the crash carts. His face lights up when he sees her.
“Yep, and don’t worry, I brought your favorite.” She waves a smaller bag towards him.
“Have I told you lately that I love you?”
She chuckles indulgently. “Only all the time. I’ll put these in the staff lounge.”
As she passes you, you offer her a small smile, and she nudges you gently with her elbow. “Did he behave himself last night?”
You glance over at Jack briefly to find that he’s very obviously watching the two of you while trying, and failing, to pretend that he isn’t.
“Of course. Other than making me deal with the interns all night.”
“They’re the worst,” she whispers, and you can’t help but laugh.
“Jack and I had that same discussion last night.”
She hums in response. “Come get some breakfast.”
“Yeah, thanks, that’s really sweet of you. Give me a minute to finish up this chart and I’ll meet you in there.”
You watch her head into the staff lounge with Jack following quickly behind, then turn your attention back to your phone. Taking a deep breath, you type:
I’d love to. How does Friday night sound?
It doesn’t even take him a full minute to respond.
In the Shadows of the Red Keep (Baelor Targaryen x Reader)
Chapter 1
Masterlist
Summary: When you come to serve Kiera of Tyrosh as a lady-in-waiting at the Red Keep, you know what awaits you: strict etiquette, political pressure and endless expectations. Instead you find a kind, watchful prince who sees you in a way no one else does.
Word count: 2.4K
Tags: 18+/MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, (reader is in her early 20s, Baelor is in his mid 30s), eldest daughter pressure, court politics, emotional intimacy before physical intimacy, gentle prince x anxious girl, anxiety induced rambling, quiet intimacy, courtly tension, English is my second language, proof read maybe twice.
Will add more tags as the story progresses. Please let me know if I’ve missed anything!
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, setting, or story of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. This work is a fanfiction created for enjoyment and non-commercial purposes only.
A/N: Thank you all for the likes, reblogs, comments and follows! I am really happy that you’ve been enjoying “The Lady of Sumerhall”, and that’s just given me more motivation to write :) I really wanted to post it before the next episode, and I am happy that I managed to do so. Leave a like, reblog or comment if you enjoy :)
You had learned the corridors that led to the library in your first week.
Not for the love of books, though you loved them well enough, but because it was the only place in the Red Keep where something was not expected of you. The court expected brightness. Wit quick as a blade and twice as polished. It expected laughter at the proper moments, and silence at others. It expected you to shine.
The library asked for nothing.
Scarcely two weeks had past since you had been placed within the retinue of Kiera of Tyrosh, the beloved wife of Prince Valarr Targaryen, presented with moderate ceremony in one of the many halls of the castle, before half a dozen watching and scrutinising ladies. Your grandmother had overseen every single stitch of the gown you wore that day, hawk-eyed and unsparing.
“Not too ostentatious,” She had hissed, bony fingers tugging at the sleeve. “But not forgettable.”
The sigil of your House had been embroidered subtly along the cuffs of the sleeve, visible to any who looked closely. It was meant to whisper lineage without begging for notice.
Lady Kiera had received you with grace that day. The Tyroshi princess possessed a soft voice and careful manners. She had spoken kindly to you, warmly even. But you could not say the same for the rest of the household.
The other women of her retinue had measured you with polite smiles and narrowed eyes, from the dainty pieces of jewelry you wore in your hair, down to what you had worn on your feet. They knew why girls like you were sent to court. You were not there to merely pour wine, or carry messages. You were there to be seen, to be chosen, to be advantageous.
You were meant to glide through this world as though perfectly born to it. Instead, you felt as though you were forever a step behind the music.
You now stood between two towering shelves, heavy with the histories of Old Valyria, your fingers curled into the skirts of your dressto keep them from shaking. The silk had been imported from Qarth, her father and grandmother had insisted on it, and dyed a rich colour that marked your House. It caught the candlelight beautifully.
You had been proud to wear it at first, but now it felt like armor too heavy for your shoulders.
You pressed your mouth close against the sound that was threatening to escape your throat. You would not sob. You would not!
Eldest daughters do not sob.
Eldest daughters secure futures.
Eldest daughters win over alliances.
If your grandmother could see you now, she would be livid. A woman from your House did not weep in shadowed corridors. A woman of your House did not skulk between shelves like a frightened little girl.
The words rang sharp and restless in your mind.
At the same time, the hidden pocket sewn into your skirt was heavy with your father’s letter. It had been opened and folded so many times that the creases had begun to gray.
“You will shine, daughter.” He had written. “Remember why you’re there.”
As if you could forget.
A fortnight at the Royal Court had taught you more than home ever had. You had learned how laughter could slice without drawing blood. How admiration and how words could be measured like coin, offered only when it profited the giver. How even the kindness from the great ladies often carried calculation beneath its courtesy.
Lady Kiera was gracious, you had to admit. You could not accuse her of mistreatment or cruelty. But she was surrounded by women born into influence, women who had navigated courts since girlhood. And they watched. And they weighed. And they judged.
Every night, you replayed every conversation you had had, counting any missteps. Had you spoken too quickly or too softly? Had you smiled enough or too much? You could not help but feel that you were failing at every step.
A tear escaped despite your best efforts, despite your resolve, sliding hot and humiliating down your cheek. Your throat burned, as if you had swallowed smoke. You drew in a trembling breath, then another, and then another, fighting for control.
Turning further into the shadows between the shelves, you pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes, biting your lower lip, willing the sound that threatened to come back to retreat.
You would not sob like a child. You would not, you could not… The tremor in your breath refused to obey. It slipped free from you anyway, soft, humiliating.
“I would not recommend The Doom of Valyria for comfort reading.”
A voice came from the end of the aisle. It was not sharp or mocking. It carried a low, measured warmth that did not belong to the draft-prone corridors of the Red Keep. You froze, your breath catching violently enough that you feared you might choke. Slowly, you turned, blinking through your wet lashes.
Prince Baelor Targaryen stood at the end of the narrow passage between shelves, one hand resting lightly against a spine of a book, as though he had paused mid-selection.
You had seen him before. Not closely though, never closely.
You had seen him across courtyards, from the far end of long tables, in council chambers you were not meant to linger. He was not loud in the way princes were in the stories her Septa had told to her and her sisters. He did not laugh loudly, nor allow his temper to show. He listened as though words were coins, and he meant to spend none carelessly. You had seen how he spoke to courtiers, to council-members and servants. There was never rebuke or scorn found in his words. Admiration had taken root in you before you realised it had been planted at all. But you had not been sent to court to admire princes who were beyond your reach.
He was the Crown Prince, the Hand of the King, a man seasoned by war and council both. You were a fortnight at court and already nearly in tears in a library. You had no right to such fantasies.
Yet you had found yourself marking his presence in rooms without truly meaning to. The steadiness of him, the quiet charm and grace. The gravity that seemed to gather around him like a cloak.
And now he was here, in front of you.
The candlelight traced the lines of his face. The strong, thoughtful set of his brow, the beard threaded faintly with grey, kept neat and close. His dark doublet was newly changed, charcoal and black, the silver Hand of the King with the dragon scales pinned at his breast catching the light with a restrained gleam.
He had changed his clothes before supper. That was the first absurd thought that crossed your mind. The second was that he was far more handsome at arm’s length than he had ever been from across the hall, in the quiet, commanding way of a man accustomed to being obeyed and yet not too eager to command.
His mismatched eyes, one dark brown and the other light blue, same as his sons’, were fixed on you.
You dropped into a curtsy too quickly, vision blurring, nearly tangling yourself in the silk of your dress. “Your grace! Forgive me, I did not mean to-”
“There’s nothing to forgive.” His voice was low and gentle, the sort that did not need to be raised to be heard.
“I fear I startled you.” He added, not stepping closer. “That was not my intent.”
Your cheeks burned hotter than the candles lining the table beyond. You were painfully aware of your reddened eyes, of the tears you had not managed to hide. Could the floor swallow you whole?
“I shall leave at once.” You said quickly. “I would not intrude upon-”
“You are not intruding.” The words were firm. His gaze flickered to your face, to the tears you had failed to wipe away, and then, deliberately, he looked aside to spare you the humiliation of being examined when in distress.
He moved then, coming a step closer, but remaining a respectful distance. A small linen square appeared in his hand. He extended it, not pressing it upon you, merely offering it.
“In case the dust proves troublesome.” He said, a faint smile on his mouth.
A lifeline offered, as though it were nothing at all.
You stared at the handkerchief for a long moment. Then you crossed the distance between you and took it, your fingers gently brushing against his.
The contact was fleeting, but it felt like striking flint.
“Thank you, your Grace.” You said timidly, dabbing at your eyes. The linen was clean, scented with mint and fresh flowers. “You are very kind.”
“The Red Keep is not always so.” He replied. He tilted his head slightly to the side, considering you. “One must balance it, when one can.”
You managed a small smile of your own.
Silence settled between you, but it did not last long, as words tumbled out of you in your need to disrupt it.
“I did not think princes had time to visit libraries.”
“I do not, I’m afraid.” He admitted, glancing at the shelves. “Though I wish I did. It is the only place in the Red Keep where no one demands something of me.”
The confession was quiet, almost wry. It felt like you were let in on a little secret.
“I feel the same way.” You said before caution could catch up.
Something passed over his eyes. Something akin to recognition.
He moved towards the long table nearby and drew out a chair. He did not sit, he waited.
You frowned faintly, confused at his actions.
“For you to decide,” he explained gently, “whether you prefer solitude… or company.”
Baelor said that so simply, but they struck you harder than any barbed remark from the ladies in Kiera’s retinue. No one had asked your preference in anything since you arrived. Not even in your father’s hall had such questions been posed without some sort of expectation behind them.
You still hesitated. You could almost hear the shrill voice of your grandmother, admonishing you. You do not deny a prince of the realm.
But this did not feel like a command, it felt like a choice that was yours alone to make.
You swallowed the lump in your throat, before softly saying: “Company.”
Something in his expression softened at that. He inclined his head and only took his seat once you had taken yours opposite him, after having reached for a nearby volume.
Minutes passed. Your breathing steadied, and the tightness of your throat loosened. You clutched his handkerchief loosely in your lap.
You stole glances at him when you thought he would not notice. He did not truly read, his fingers tracing absently along the edge of the pages. His shoulders, broad beneath dark wool, seemed heavier now in stillness than they ever had across a hall. Up close, you saw the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, earned by laughter and strain. Responsibility clung to him as tangibly as the silver Hand at his breast.In the candlelight, he seemed less of a prince at that moment, and more a man worn thin by the stress and expectations of his station. Yet unbowed by it.
You had heard whispers of his fairness in council, how he listened even to those beneath him. How he did not mock weakness, nor tolerate cruelty. It had been that steadiness that had first drawn your foolish admiration. Now, sitting across from him in the hush of the library, the feeling deepened into something warmer.
“I am afraid I will fail…” You said suddenly, the confession slipping free before your pride could catch it.
He lifted his gaze to you at once. “Fail at what?”
“At… at what I was sent to do.” Heat rushed to your face, your eyes dropping to the handkerchief. “My father… he…” It felt disloyal to speak of pressure, especially in front of him. “He believes I may be of use.”
“Use?” Baelor repeated unkindly.
You nodded. “To my house.”
When he answered, his voice lowered. “Serving your house, wanting to do so, that is no failing.”
“But…” Your voice cracked. “I do not think I am suited to this place.”
A faint sigh left him.
“No one is.” He said softly. “We endure it. Some may learn to shape it, if they are fortunate.”
You looked up then. He was watching you fully now, not as a prince assessing a courtier or petitioner, not as a man weighing advantage, but as one person listening to another. There was no calculation in his expression, like you found in so many others. Only attention.
“How long have you been here? A fortnight?” He asked, pulling you ways from your tangled thoughts.
“Yes…”
“The Red Keep requires longer than that to defeat a person.”
A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. You clapped your hand over your mouth, mortified.
But his mismatched eyes warmed, faint amusement lighting them.
“There.” He said “You see? It has not defeated you yet.”
“Your grace… my prince,” You asked before sense could intervene. “Why are you so kind to me?”
For a heartbeat you feared you had overstepped, as the question hung in the air. But he did not bristle.
“Because you were crying.” He answered simply. “And because this castle… this court is seldom gentle.”
Something shifted in you then, a warmth spreading low through your chest and stomach, unfamiliar in its tenderness. Fresh tears threatened to fall, so you stood quickly instead, smoothing your skirts.
“I have taken too much of your time.”
”You have taken none.”
You curtsied properly this time.
“Thank you, my prince.”
You extended your hand, offering his handkerchief back.
“Keep it.” He said, that smile from before returning.
As you stepped between the shelves, his voice reached you once more.
“You need not shine all at once. Stars that burn too brightly attract hunters.”
You paused, turning slightly towards him. “And what of those who burn quietly?”
He held her gaze. “They endure.”
You left a steadier step than the one that brought you to the library. You would replay every word Baelor said to you before sleep claimed you. You knew you would scold yourself for the warmth spreading in your chest, when you remembered his eyes and the brief brush of fingers against yours.
But for the first time since arriving at court, you did not feel alone within its walls.
tipping point — michael robinavitch x reader | part 2
Since the incident, things are different between you and Robby. Something has to give.
(Something finally does.)
Pairing: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader
Word count: 15k+
Tags: Reader is multilingual; Yearning; Injuries; Stalking; Justice systems; Inaccurate legal proceedings; Jealous Robby; AFAB reader; NSFW content (Oral receiving; P in V sex); Gun violence; Shooting.
Notes: I fear I lost reader’s personality part way through writing this. Hopefully it’s not noticeable idk. This isn’t my best work and I’ve been trying to rework this so long that I’m lowkey hating it now. TP2 is now my least favourite child lmao
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 TBD | Series tag.
Cross posted to AO3.
Three days into your mandated time off from work, Robby shows up outside your apartment.
You look through the peephole before opening the door for him.
You both blink at each other—you hadn’t been expecting him, and somehow, he looks surprised to see you on the other side of the door.
“Dr Robby,” you exhale. You feel incredibly dressed down, even though you’ve never once been dressed up while in the Pitt. Varying levels of barefaced, tired, and hair up. It’s different when you’re lounging in your ratty loungewear than your scrubs, you think.
“Hi. And it’s just Robby,” he says, a little breathless. You live on the third floor to an at least 70 year old apartment building—there are no elevators. But it was cheap, and the landlord treated the apartment like dead weight; happy to unload it onto some unsuspecting tenant.
“Uh—come in.” You shuffle back, inviting him into your place. “Oh, um, shoes off, please.”
“Sure.” He toes off his shoes while you nudge some spare guest house slippers towards him.
It feels awkward, the strange song and dance of work colleagues outside of work. He’s known you for a little longer than six months now. Through work, he feels somewhat he’s well acquainted with you, yet somehow, knows very little about you.
“How are you?” Robby asks.
You head over to the kitchen, filling up the kettle to boil. “Bored, mostly. Feels like I’ve been given all the time off in the world, and I’m just… bored.”
Robby grins, following you. “Sometimes I think our brains aren’t wired for not working. Too much adrenaline.”
You chuckle. “You want tea?”
“Sure. Whatever you’re having.”
“Probably chamomile.” You take out the box of tea bags you’ve stashed in your cupboard. “It’s supposed to help you sleep.”
Robby pauses, studying your face. “Is it working?”
You duck your head. “Not really.” Brain too preoccupied with resurgent fears to sleep. And when you do manage to welcome the unconsciousness, it’s fitful. You’re never able to remember the nightmare that’s startled you awake. Only the dreadful feeling that you can’t outrun anything.
The only sound is the kettle boiling.
“You change your bandage yet?” he asks, after a moment.
“I am also a doctor, Dr Robby.” You’re more than capable of the aftercare of stitches and bandages. Have sent patients home with the list of care instructions multiple times in a day, across the week.
“It’s just Robby,” he says again. It feels weird to upkeep the titles when he’s not in the hospital, even though he’s worked relentlessly for it. “Can I see?”
“Just—give me a second.” When the kettle’s done, you pour out two mugs, dunking the tea bags in. You let them steep. Shuffling towards your first aid kit, then to the stool that he’s parked in, sitting in the one next to him.
“Have at it,” you say.
“Thank you,” Robby says, maybe a little too earnestly. Not seeing you at work after waking up from a hazy dream that reminded him that your heart had stopped—despite the knowledge that he saved you—brought upon a sense of impending doom. He needed to see you, needed to make sure that you’re still alive under his hands. He hasn’t told you that you died. It’s not something that he wants to relive.
It’s quiet as he works, like he’s back in the ED. This time, without all the bright lights and the machines and the bustle of nurses and doctors.
His thumb is a gentle thing, digit gliding over smooth skin under the wound.
You shiver.
“Does it hurt?” Robby asks.
“No,” you manage to utter out, barely breathing. Head angled up so he can work. Examining every inch of his face while his attention is on your neck.
“You sure?” There’s a furrow between his brows, moulded by worry from the tremble to your frame. He looks down to meet your gaze.
You feel frozen. Staring, drawn into those expressive brown eyes that carry the world within them.
You rise and he falls.
Lips almost touching.
Robby’s thumb absentmindedly strokes back and forth over your pulse.
Your mind is filled with buzzing static; white noise. Hovering closer to him. Your breath hitches.
The sound disrupts the moment.
He remembers himself. Clearing his throat as he rights his posture. Avoiding eye contact as he busies himself, rifling through the first aid kit. “You’ll have to come in to get the stitches out.” He takes a bandage, sticking it over the sutures.
“I know,” you say, impossibly small and quiet. You’re not sure he even hears it.
Harried motions, a whirlwind that takes him towards the front door. Guest slippers off, his own shoes on. “I’ll—I’ll see you. Around. At work.”
You don’t move from the kitchen, watching him flee like this is—like you are—something terrifying. “Yes, sir.”
Robby opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but closes it. Nods. “Okay. See you.” Door opens, stepping out. Then, softly, “I’m glad you’re okay.” Attention drifting back onto you. Lingering.
The door closes.
You sigh, turning back to the kitchen counter to pack away the first aid kit.
You empty out one of the mugs of chamomile tea, keeping the other for yourself.
Your first day back is accompanied by a message from Dr Ellis. You send off an hours late response and pocket your phone, coming in from the stairwell to head into the ED. You’re at least 30 minutes early.
“Nuh uh, I get first hug.” Ellis bodily shoves Shen as soon as she sees you, wrapping you into a hug.
“What the fuck?” Shen demands, mouth parting in a betrayed expression.
“She messaged me as soon as midnight hit,” you explain, arms awkwardly wrapped around Ellis. Your bags swing—your usual tote bag, and your care packages of extra food to make up for the fact that you weren’t in. They’re filled with an increased amount of tupperware and thermos.
“Some of us were busy working at midnight,” Shen scoffs.
“You snooze, you lose, loser,” Ellis says.
Shen, at least, has the decency to wait until Ellis detaches herself before he also latches on.
“I missed my boba buddy,” Shen says.
“You couldn’t get it yourself?” you ask.
He stretches back, lifting you.
You don’t want to admit it, but you’re sure you’ve let out some kind of undignified sound. Your feet don’t touch the ground for a solid three seconds.
“It’s not the same, pookie.” He lets you back on your feet, taking your tote bag from you.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?” He’s rifling through your belongings like a raccoon.
“You’re a grown ass man.”
Shen makes a victorious sound, grabbing the boba. “I knew it.”
“Uh uh, and who said that was yours?” Ellis asks.
He turns to you, smug. “Is it?”
You sigh loudly. “I hate proving you right.”
Shen cackles, poking the straw into his drink. Who else would want matcha flavoured boba half an hour before their shift ends, despite the fact that they have yet to sleep all night?
“Still distracting my doctors, I see.” Dr Abbot, again. He looks a little more amused, entertained by the antics of his doctors. And it’s good to see you back—everyday that you weren’t in was a reminder that the PTMC almost lost one of their own.
He saw you briefly when you came in during his night shift, needing your stitches out. He can’t remember exactly, but he’s sure that Dr King had been the one that had taken them out. If he found it weird that you hadn’t come in during the day shift, he didn’t say anything.
“Yeah, well. You know me,” you say.
Abbot’s hand lands on your shoulder, squeezing. “It’s good to have you back, kiddo. Tweedledee and Tweedledum over here wouldn’t shut up about missing you.”
“Is that so?”
“Dibs on being Tweedledee,” Ellis says.
“I can’t be dumb,” Shen gapes, crestfallen.
You grin, shaking your head. Part of you wishes you could transfer into night shift just to keep up with their tomfoolery. Alas, replacing Dr Langdon means sticking to his day shift schedule. “Dr Abbot, before you go—” you pipe up, just as the older attending turns to leave, “I have dumpling soup for you.”
“What the fuck?” Shen asks. He stares at you.
“For me?” Abbot asks at the same time.
With Shen still holding onto your bag, you grab one of the insulated food jars to pass over to Abbot.
“Seriously?” He gingerly takes it from you, disbelieving.
“This one’s for you, specifically. And the lovely Dr Ellis gets—” You take out another food jar.
Ellis opens up the container, mouth dropping open in delight. “Stir fry noodles. Hell fucking yes, dude.”
“This is a hate crime,” Shen sighs dramatically, shaking his head.
“I’m two seconds away from showing you a real hate crime,” you tell him, staving off a large grin.
He makes a face at you, because he’s five years old.
“Go stick to your boba, kid,” Abbot laughs. He holds the food jar to his chest, like it’s something precious.
You spy Dr Robby over Abbot’s shoulder, watching from a distance. You think he seems tickled by whatever the hell is happening, but he’s better at hiding it. He starts towards the direction of the break room.
“Um—give me a second to put everything away,” you say. You’re early, but you have food that would fare better in the fridge. You quicken your pace to fall next to Robby. “Dr Robby.”
He greets you as you do him. “It’s good to have you back,” he says. Even he has to admit that the atmosphere in the Pitt has been different when you’re not here. In six short months, you had made everyone value your presence.
When you enter the break room, he beelines towards the coffee machine, and you to the fridge.
You take out the large tupperware container. “I made fried rice for everyone on day shift. If you don’t have any dietary requirements.” You briefly hold it up when he looks your way before tucking it into the fridge.
“I’ll be sure to let everyone know.”
“It’s for you too, Dr Robby.” You stick in your other containers. With your bag mostly empty, you close the fridge door.
Robby’s watching you, leaning against the counter.
You idle by the fridge, unexpectedly feeling insecure under his analytical gaze. Especially when it flickers to the side of your neck. You shift, tugging the collar of your shirt up like it can hide it. If you could have gotten away with a turtleneck underneath your scrubs, you would have. Alas, the weather’s too warm for that.
“I should—um, go. Lockers,” you manage out.
“Okay,” Robby murmurs. You can’t parse out the expression that he has on his face. Pinched, maybe.
You pass by, and he straightens from the counter. His hand on your shoulder, burning. His proximity reminds you of the two of you in your kitchen, some nights ago.
Your mouth dries at the memory.
“Just—” Robby starts. Licks his lips; your eyes inexplicably drawn to the movement. His thumb strokes against the bone of your shoulder. Even though it’s over the layers of your clothes, you’re certain you feel it scorching against your skin. “Ask if you need help, okay? A second opinion, diagnoses, extra pair of hands, more eyes. Anything. Please.”
You blink, nodding. “Yeah. Yes, sir.”
His fingers flex against your shoulder, before he lets go. “See you out there. Thank you for the food.”
“Yeah. Yes, I’ll… see you.” You’re not sure if you exit the break room before or after the end of that sentence. Fuck, you’re so awkward.
Lockers—your belongings stashed away, stethoscope around your neck. Then into the ED, where Robby is now conferring with Abbot.
You hear your name called.
Then Javadi is propelling towards you. “Hi!”
“Hi—oof.” You manage to catch her before she bowls you over. You rub her back. “It’s good to see you, Dr Javadi.”
“I’m so glad you’re back.”
“It’s good to be back.”
Dr Santos and Dr Whitaker get in at the same time. When they see you, they head towards you. They hover—close, but not going in for a hug. “Thank fuck you’re back,” Santos says, her arms crossed over her chest.
“That bad?” you ask.
“Yes,” Javadi agonises, where she’s still attached to your side.
“It’s only been ten days,” you say.
“Ten days too long,” Whitaker says.
“They didn’t get an acting senior resident in,” Santos says, pitching her voice lower. Eyes skate towards Robby and Abbot.
“Dr Ellis pulled a few doubles. Same with Dr Yeo.”
“Good thing you like Dr Ellis,” you note, grinning as you fix your gaze on Santos.
Santos rolls her eyes as Whitaker chuckles into his fist. “She’s a good doctor.” Santos elbows her roommate.
“She is.”
“I’m missing something, here,” Javadi mutters, low enough that only you can hear.
You rub her back again.
“No love for the old gal, huh?” Dana’s voice from somewhere to the side.
“Dana! Come join the hug,” you say.
Dana squeezes into your other side.
“Is Dr Collins in today?” you ask.
“Yeah. You’re still at least 20 minutes early. She’ll probably be another five.”
Santos and Whitaker take that as their cue to head towards the lockers.
You’ve give yourself time to settle in.
Robby hears you first, before he sees you.
“What?” You blink, a furrow between your brows as you mingle with Dr Santos at the desk near south.
Robby has the belated thought of wanting to smooth it away, thumb against the grooves on your skin.
“Dude, your heart fucking stopped,” Santos explains. “It was so weird seeing you like that—”
Robby interrupts both of you, calling both your names. “If you have time to chat, you have time to check on your patients.” He looks at Santos—an easier target to face.
Santos salutes him, making herself scarce. She knows the disapproving dismissal when she hears it.
You, on the other hand, feel like you’re reeling. You were dead. Sure, you knew you had been injured. You knew you lost consciousness. But they never mentioned anything about losing your pulse. Robby never mentioned anything about it.
Your gaze gravitates towards him, to find that he’s already looking at you. “Robby, I—”
“Don’t,” he says. Pleads, really. “I can’t have this conversation.” As much as he is expounds upon fated timing on the mortal coil when he reassures his students that they’ve done all they can after losing a patient, he can’t broach this with you.
With God given hands, he would have pillaged the afterlife to bring you back.
And he did.
And for some reason, he doesn’t want you to know.
Your lips part like you want to say something, disagree, maybe. Demand your right to know what happened to you.
“Please,” he whispers.
Your mouth shuts, teeth sinking into the plush of your lower lip. Face creasing. “Okay.” With a nod, you make your rounds down to the rooms in south.
In the down time after a few more traumas, you head back up to the nurses’ station in north, using their computers to look at your chart. Robby is less likely to hang out up here—more inclined to busy himself in near central.
“You sure you want to do that?” Kim’s voice. Her hand over yours, stopping you from moving the mouse any further.
“Kim,” you sigh. You tilt your head, turning to her instead of the computer monitor in front of you.
There’s a frown on her face. “What are you trying to find out? You survived. That’s all you need to know.”
“I died.”
“Yeah. And it sucked. For everyone. Like—really, really sucked.”
You turn away, staring at the keyboard instead. Kim’s hand is still over yours. “I don’t—I just wanted to know.” And you’re not even sure why.
“Talk to Dr Robby,” Kim suggests.
You snort. “I’ve tried. He shut me down.”
“Because it sucked for him too.”
You dip your head into a nod. If Kim isn’t willing to let you take a peek into your file of what happened that day, you’re sure the other nurses have already been tasked to keep an eye on you. “Sure,” you agree, even though you have no intention of talking to Robby about this, specifically. He’s made it clear he doesn’t want to, and you don’t want to push him into it.
Kim pats your back, taking your hand to lead you away from the desk. “Back out there, Doctor.”
In another attempt, you find Dr Collins by the central desk. She’s typing notes on the computer.
You inch over.
“Yes, Doctor?” Collins asks, when you’re close enough to her. She’s been watching you not so surreptitiously try to vie for her attention.
“You were there,” you say. Not quite posed as a question. “When I… when I got hurt.”
Her face softens, less guarded. Eyes flicker down to the side of your neck, where you know she observes the raised scarring. It’s been a point of focus—subjected to unspoken looks by other staff, questioned by patients that think there’s a cool story involved. “Yeah, I was,” Collins says, despite the non-query.
“I died. Right?”
Collins draws in a breath. “I shouldn’t really—”
“Because of Robby?”
Lips press into a line. She sighs, a slow nod in response.
“Tell me. Please. Kim wouldn’t let me check my file. And Robby’s probably scared all the other students from telling me.” You know Collins would be exempt from that. “I want to know.” You don’t quite know why. Some kind of morbid curiosity, a sick fascination with the knowledge that you escaped death. Maybe something deeper, needing the secure knowledge of your survival.
“You were gone three minutes,” she says, eventually. “Robby did compressions.”
You swallow.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” A quick response.
“Does it hurt?” She gestures her chin towards your neck.
Your fingers are running over the healing scar. You didn’t even notice; your hand drops. “No. No, nothing hurts. I’m okay. Alive.”
Collins looks sceptical, but doesn’t probe any further. “You know,” she starts, “you’ve got the whole hospital to talk to if you need anything.”
“Thank you,” you say. Earnest.
By the end of the work day, Robby finds you before he leaves. You know he has a tendency to disappear after a shift. You don’t quite know where he runs off to, and you haven’t yet explored the hospital of all of its hiding spaces.
“Can we talk?” Robby asks, leaning against the locker next to yours as you shove your things into your bag. His own backpack is already strung across his back.
“Depends. What about?” You click the locker shut, making your way to the break room.
He falls in place next to you, matching your strides. “You wanted to talk. Before. About… when you were—hurt.” His words are almost gritted out, like it pains him to acknowledge what happened to you.
You take the empty containers from the fridge, leaving behind the larger tupperware of fried rice. Surprisingly, day shift hadn’t finished it. “You didn’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to force you.”
“Kim told me you tried to look at your file.”
You close the fridge door, harder than necessary. You let out a sigh. “And?” You’re already suspecting that Collins told him as well.
“And Collins told me you talked to her, too.”
Great. It’s not a fair judgement to make, but you feel a little miffed at her loyalty to Robby. It makes sense—you’ve only known these people for a little over six months now. They’ve been working with each other for years without you.
“Why do you want to know so badly?” Robby asks. His arms are crossed, peering down at you. Scrutinising.
“I… I don’t know.” You suck in a breath, casting your gaze elsewhere. “Would you believe me if I said I want to know how much time he took from me?”
Robby’s attention still remains on you, despite the fact that you refuse to look at him. “Is that the truth?”
You shrug, shouldering your other bag. “Maybe.”
The door opens—Mateo comes in, failing to fight a yawn. “Oh—hey.”
Robby waves, hand rubbing the back of his neck.
“Hey,” you say. “There’s still food in the fridge if you still want some.”
“If I want some? Of course I do.” Considerably more energetic, he heads for the fridge.
You and Robby step away from it, heading for the door.
“You’re literally an angel,” Mateo says.
“Please make sure it gets finished,” you add.
“That would be my absolute pleasure.”
You grin, calling out a farewell before you exit the break room. Again, Robby follows as you make the parade of goodbyes with your coworkers. It’s silent between you two as you head to the underground staff parking lot.
“I moved because of him,” you finally say. You’re idling at your car, next to the driver’s door, car keys in hand. It chirps as you unlock it. You hadn’t realise he’s been walking you to your car.
“You said,” Robby says, voice low. There’s that pinched look on his face again.
“I uprooted my whole life—left everything I knew. Everyone. Because I was… scared,” you admit. “And I don’t know—maybe knowing that he took three more minutes of my life means nothing—”
“17 seconds,” Robby interrupts.
“What?”
“It was three minutes and 17 seconds,” Robby says.
You swallow past a viscous thing in your throat. “You counted,” you realise. Down to the last second.
Robby gives an exhausted twitch of his lips. “Of course I did.” He would have counted to the last millisecond, if he could. Noted it down, internalised those moments.
“Robby,” you breathe.
“I…” He doesn’t know if it’s a conscious decision to move closer, but he does so, fingers pressed against your pulse point. “I can’t stand the thought of losing you,” he murmurs.
You wonder if he knows the racing of your carotid is because of him. “I’m still here.” Your voice comes out equally soft.
“Yeah.” Stepping further into your space, fingers shifting. Palm splayed against your cheek, thumb brushing against warmed skin.
You let out a shuddering breath, leaning into his hand.
His eyes flicker between yours, gaze diving down to your lips.
Oh, you want him to kiss you. So, so badly.
Impossibly close.
You hear the click of the car door opening behind you.
Lips brush against your forehead before Robby steps back. “Get home safe,” he says, quiet.
You look at him, more than an arms length away. You can’t help feel the disappointment clog your throat. You’re sure it reflects on your countenance—you’ve never been much for poker faces. Instead, you nod, lips pursing. “Yes, sir.” You get into your car.
He doesn’t move until you drive away.
You’re about a third into your fourth shift back when Gloria arrives in the ED.
At first, everyone assumes she’s there for Robby. Her presence in the ED always means some kind of discussion or review with an attending. Shen talked to her once in his newly established role as an attending, and she now actively avoids him. Robby kind of wants to know what Shen did.
“Dr Robby,” she says, finding her stride beside him.
Robby tries not to sigh too loudly. “What can I do for you, Gloria?” He’s eyeing the rooms, the trauma bays, trying to find someone that needs an extra pair of hands. Anything to get him away from the impending conversation, really.
“I need to borrow one of your doctors.”
Robby frowns. “Who?”
When she says your name, Robby pauses, pivoting to look at her. “What for?”
She stops, raising an eyebrow. “You know I can’t tell you that, Dr Robby.”
Robby sighs, looking up at the board. “Central 14,” he says after seeing your name attached to the patient. He leads the way, where you’re talking to a young child on the bed, her mother sitting to the side.
Robby knocks on the opened door, drawing your attention.
“Dr Robby,” you say. Your expectant gaze wavers when you see the chief medical officer accompanying him. “Gloria.”
“Gloria wants to talk to you,” Robby says.
You feel like a student being called up to the principal’s office, with no knowledge of what you’ve done wrong.
Robby looks just as confused about the request.
“Sure. Let me…” You turn back to your patient. “Lily, I have to go, but I’m going to leave you with Dr Robby, okay?” You stand from the stool, but Lily snags your hand, something fearful crossing her face.
“Don’t…” she whispers, horrified.
“It’s okay,” you promise, voice soft, sinking back into your stool. You smile at her. “Listen, I’ll come back, but I have to go. Dr Robby looks grumpy but I promise, he’s just a soft little teddy bear inside. He’ll take really good care of you, okay?”
Lily looks over your shoulder, no doubt scrutinising him. Her dark brown eyes turn back to you. “You’ll come back?” she asks.
“Yes,” you say.
“Promise?”
You hold out your pinky to her. “Pinky promise.”
She wraps her respective digit around yours. “Okay,” she says, still sullen, but willing to let you go.
You stand from the stool, and Lily’s mother, Mrs Tran, stands with you.
“Thank you,” she says in Vietnamese. She shakes your hand. “Really, thank you.”
“It’s not a problem,” you assure, responding in the same language. “It was really nice to meet you, Mrs Tran. Please, take a seat.” You usher her back into her chair.
At the door, you press the chart into Robby’s hands. “Lily Tran, six years old. Came in for severe abdomen pain.” You go through your differential diagnoses. Then you nod towards her mother. “And Huong Tran, Lily’s mom. I’ve been calling her Mrs Tran. She can understand you more than she can speak. Slow down, use less complex words.”
“Got it. Thank you, Doctor.” There’s something soft in his eyes as he regards you.
You feel yourself falter at it. The whole—whatever it is—has been confusing. Moments where you’re close, moments where you think he might finally make the first move, and yet. Nothing. Professional camaraderie maintained at work, whilst he gets close and personal in between. Walking you to your car; brief moments in the break room when you stock up the fridge, ensuring no one else is in there.
You walk with Gloria. “Am I in the doghouse?” you ask.
“No. You haven’t done anything wrong.” She leads you to the elevator. Presses the button that takes you up to admin and records, where her office resides.
You see Princess eyeing you as she passes by. You make a face at her. Send help.
Princess’ look says, You’re on your own.
The door slides closed.
You feel blank, weighed down by nothing and everything all at once. Staring at Gloria from where you’re perched on the opposite side of her desk. The office chair creaks as you shift.
“We’re doing what we can to increase the security team around here. More staff. More roaming,” Gloria says.
“But you can’t do anything about him.”
“Unfortunately, we can’t. We’ve looked at our avenues while you were away. Your best option is pressing charges against him. Under Pennsylvanian law, it’s a felony to assault a healthcare worker. We’d be with you, every step of the way.”
It’s a step, you know. Reports, court, lawyers—a long process. And then what? The maximum he’d get is 10 years, or a fine, depending on how his lawyer argued the case. Based on how shit transpired in LA, there’s no evidence to prove this was targeted. Texts, notes, phone calls—none of it meant anything to the police when there was no way of proving his identity behind it all.
This would be tried as a random attack.
“I’ll think about it,” you finally say.
Gloria slides over a card. “This is our legal’s team contact information. Whatever you decide, we’ll support you.”
You pocket it without looking. “Thank you, Gloria.”
“I wish there was more we could do,” she adds, apologetic.
You smile, wry. “We both know men like him don’t face legal consequences. Not really.”
Something aged and pained settles in Gloria’s eyes. She’s seen it all—vulnerable people slipping through the cracks while men like Matthew remain untouched by a system that protects their own. “I’m sorry,” she offers.
You haven’t interacted with her much outside of the hiring process, and you’ve heard everyone bemoan her presence in the ED. An easy target to aim ill will towards. But right now, seeing her commiserate with you, you think she seems just as human as you. Worn down, tired of a society that protects only those that look like them. Everyone else cast aside. You and her, regardless of your contribution or hierarchy.
“It’s not… it’s not on you, Gloria.” You know it’s the truth, even though you both wish more could be done. The hospital could ban Matthew Williams from accessing their other services and flag his name, but if he came through the doors of the PTMC as an emergency patient, everyone would have no choice but to attend to him. The most they could do is ensure you and him never crossed paths while he was present.
“Let me know what else we can do for you. Whatever your choice is.”
“Even if…” You pause. “I left?” It’s not something you’re heavily considering, but you know it’s a choice. A backup plan. Running, again. Another state. Another country. Across the sea.
“Even then,” Gloria promises. “Recommendation letters, references—you name it. You have our support.”
“Thank you.”
“Let’s head back down.”
Robby notices that you’re gone for almost the whole hour.
He finds Princess and Perlah by the desk near the elevator that you had taken up with Gloria. “You heard anything?”
Princess looks up at Robby, sharing a look with Perlah. “Nothing yet,” she says.
“Probably talking about important stuff,” Perlah adds.
And that’s concerning to him. He’s worried, yes, but he also needs you back on the floor. They didn’t expect to suddenly be down a senior resident in the middle of their shift.
He doesn’t know when you come down with the elevator, but you and Gloria round the corner. You head to the bathroom. Gloria hovers by the door.
Perlah narrows her eyes, studying.
Princess nudges Robby towards Gloria, intentions clear. “Go,” she hisses.
“What’s going on?” Robby asks as he shuffles forward.
“Just give it a minute,” Gloria says.
“I can’t have you going around upsetting my doctors, Gloria.”
“I am not—” Gloria pauses to take in a breath. Like she’s centreing herself. “I cannot tell you anything.” But if you want to tell Robby yourself, then that’s your prerogative, she ends up relaying.
You come out of the bathroom, a little surprised to see Robby outside as well.
He frowns. “Are you—”
“Robby!” Dana calls, across the north nurse station. “Two traumas incoming!” She’s got a phone in hand.
“Alright! Get set up! Let’s go, people.” The ED comes alive. He looks back at you, still with that furrow between his brows.
“Put me in, coach,” you say. There’s no way in Hell you’re sitting this one out.
Robby hesitates. Then, “Trauma 2. Take Dr Santos with you.”
“Yes, sir.” You take a second to meet Gloria’s questioning gaze, nodding. Then you’re off, snagging Santos from central.
You’re okay. You’re going to press charges against Matthew Williams. Even if it takes a year from now, you’re going to push.
“You know,” you say, grabbing your containers from the fridge. Every end of shift, a routine. You taking your tupperware home, Robby accompanying you to the walk to your car. “Gloria told me you volunteered to walk with me.”
What you don’t say, is that you felt stupid after she told you. The pieces clicked into place. Robby wasn’t walking with you every night because he realised his feelings after almost losing you, or whatever dumb fantasy you were entertaining. It was because this was a safety plan that the hospital enacted after realising you had an active stalker.
“You don’t have to do that,” you say. “She said they’re upping the security guards. They can walk me.”
Robby shoots you a look, like he’s offended by the mere suggestion. “I can walk you.”
“That’s not your job.”
“It’s not,” Robby agrees. “But I want to.”
And—seriously. What the Hell are you meant to say to that? “Oh. Yeah, sure.” The conversation ends awkwardly, and again, you make your rounds to say goodbye to everyone before taking the elevator down to the parking garage. Sub-basement level—swipe card access only.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Robby starts, “but you can talk to me. About anything.”
You nod. “I’m… pressing charges,” you say, once you reach your car. “Against Matthew Williams.” You might need Robby on the stand, you realise. A doctor’s opinion on what happened during the attack. On the severity of the injury that was inflicted onto you.
“Yeah?” Robby keeps his face impassive. “That’s good, right?”
“It’s—” you chuckle, humourless. “It’s for violence against an on-duty healthcare worker.”
Almost imperceptible, a frown on his face. Corners of his lips tugging down. “And nothing else?”
“Nothing else,” you confirm. “Nothing else will stick in court. Not against men like him.”
“What do you mean?”
You roll your eyes. “Don’t act like that. You’re a smart man, Dr Robby.”
Robby relents. Quiet settles. Outside the parking garage, cars beep and roar among traffic. “What now?”
“It takes however long it takes,” you say. “Months. A year. Maybe longer. They might bury it. They might not. I—I don’t know.”
Disillusionment at its finest. He wishes he could provide more hope in his wizened years. But no. “I’m sorry,” he says instead.
You shake your head, a tired movement. “There’s nothing you can do.”
“Let me know if there is?” Robby asks, and it sounds like you’d be doing him a favour instead of the other way around.
“Okay,” you say. It’s not sure thing, though. Even you don’t know what you need to commence the case.
“Thank you,” he says. His hands shoved into his pockets, standing aside.
You’re left staring at each other for the still moments that pass between. You feel embolden, maybe. You’re not sure what possesses you to take the two steps to get into his space.
You hear him inhale sharply.
You rise up, lips against his cheek. His beard scrapes against your skin. “Good night, Robby.” Back down, taking a step back.
“Uh,” he says, aptly. “Good—good night.”
You get into your car. Holy shit. You did that. You kissed him on the cheek. It’s a juvenile thing to be freaking out over, but you are.
He watches you get into the car, watches you wave through the window and drive off before his brain even rewires.
Weeks pass. You meet up with the PTMC’s team of lawyers and settle on a hearing in the meantime.
“Mr Williams made a generous donation to the PTMC last night,” Gloria says.
A few times a week, before the start of your shift, you’re up in her office with the lawyers assigned to your case. Annalise Keating and Wes Gibbins of K & G Law Firm—an adoptive mother-son duo that you have a feeling owe Gloria a few favours.
You think the proverb about the fury of a scorned woman describes Annalise. She’s extremely competent, and Annalise is as tenacious as Wes is empathetic. As long as you tell them everything they need to know, they can protect you, she had said. Of course, you folded, telling her about your experience with Matthew Williams.
“He’s trying to bury this,” you realise.
“We’re not saying that,” Annalise is quick to correct.
“Officially,” Wes adds. “But unofficially…”
Your lips purse. Even if they won’t verbally admit it, you know you’re right.
“Based on records we have access to, he’s also made several donations to LA General,” Annalise continues.
“How long ago?” you ask.
Wes rifles through a document folder. “They stopped six months ago. But he had regular payments spanning June to September this year.”
You feel your heart stutter. “That’s how long he was…” Texting and calling your phone with private numbers. Leaving unmarked notes at the hospital. Escalating to letters dropped off in your mailbox. Not to mention your parents—you ran as soon as your mother had called, asking about a strange man that showed up to their front door, asking about you.
Four years into your emergency residency, and it felt like the stars aligned when the PTMC were willing to take you in after losing their R4.
Four years worth of connections you made in the hospital, gone; your whole life upturned. You sold your car, trekked to Pittsburgh on your savings and spare cash your dad stashed into your suitcase after he accepted he couldn’t change your mind. When your mother concluded that the police really weren’t going to do anything to protect you.
You’re too scared to even text your parents, despite changing your number. The constant what if ringing in your mind. What if he somehow knew how to track their phones? What if he was still tracking them?
But he’s in Pittsburgh now. With you. Even though the thought terrifies you, you’re comforted by the fact that he isn’t in the same city as your parents anymore.
“We’ll do what we can,” Annalise says, as they shuffle their papers, getting ready to leave. Whatever favour they owe Gloria must be mountainous, since they get here earlier than your 7 AM start.
“Thank you,” you tell them, following them both. It’s nearing the start of your shift. “Really. I know you’re doing a lot for me. This isn’t an easy case.”
“There are no easy cases,” Wes remarks, grinning at you. The elevator dings. You all enter.
“That’s the fun of it.” Annalise adds. Her smile turns kind when she faces you. “You’re a tough one, Doctor. You’ll get through this too.”
You wish you could believe her words. You smile in response, anyway. “I appreciate it,” you say.
No one bats an eye when you walk out with them. Gloria had made her rounds on their first appearance, letting everyone know exactly who they were, and if any staff saw them wandering the hospital floors, they should be redirected to her office, no appointments necessary.
This is what Robby tries to keep in mind when he sees you. Annalise walks ahead towards the ambulance entrance, Wes lingers where you are, halfway between central desks and the doors that lead outside.
“Maybe when this is all over, we can get a drink,” Wes says.
Robby looks up from the computer he’s standing in front of.
You blink. Oh. Wes is cute, you have to admit. But you never considered him as anything other than your lawyer. “Isn’t this case supposed to take a while?”
“Lucky me, then,” he say, the corners to his lips tilted upwards. “Either way, I get to see you.”
You can’t help the responding grin that stretches across your face. He’s got a boyish charm to him. And sue you—you haven’t felt this kind of attention in a while. Open. Someone that’s directly asking you out. Not trying to woo you in the darkness, and treat you like a coworker in front of everyone else. “You’re still my lawyer,” you remind.
“My mom is your lawyer. Officially.”
“Pretty sure the G in K & G is for you, Counsellor.”
He smirks. Leans in close, lips next to your ear. “Maybe it has something to do with that old guy that’s staring at me like he wants to bury me six feet under?”
Do not look. Do not even entertain turning around to see if he means Robby. You’re pretty sure it is. “Um,” you say, head ducking a little, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. “Maybe. Sorry. It’s—complicated.”
Wes shrugs, easy. “Well, if you ever get sick of complicated, you do have my number.” He steps back, winking. “See you, Doctor.” Then he walks away.
You watch him leave. Shit.
Out of nowhere, Perlah sidles up to you. “So,” she says.
“Do not,” you say. You make the mistake of looking at her face—she looks exactly like a cat that has the cream. Like you’ve made her entire day.
“I’m not saying anything.” Perlah has her hands up. “But that smile on your face is definitely telling me something.”
“Nope. Goodbye, Perlah.” A quick turn of your heels, fleeing to the break room. From the corner of your eye, you definitely spy Robby at central. He had to have been listening. If Perlah knew what was going on, Robby would have too.
You don’t think you can survive his crabby mood on top of everything you’re dealing with.
The end of your shift, like routine, brings Robby walking alongside you. Lingering outside your car.
Robby reaches out like he’s going to cup your face again. Like so many instances before, of soft moments between you, stolen when no one else can bear witness to it. Days of this, weeks of this. Quiet and unknown.
You move away before he can make contact.
His lips thin out, fingers twitching.
“What is this?” you ask, soft and unsure and—tired, you think. Tired of the confusion. You’re running yourself ragged between work and meeting up with Annalise and Wes. Not sleeping well, forgoing attempts at sleep by pretending that you can live vicariously through the food you’re making to feed everyone else in the ED.
Convinced something has to give, floating in limbo. A forever lurch in your stomach in the downward trajectory of the rollercoaster. People treating you like you’re not able to take care of yourself—not able to walk to your Goddamn car on your own. You don’t want more uncertainty piled on. You’re exhausted. You feel it heavy within the hollow matrix of your bones. Weighted.
And this time, you’re the one that’s reached the tipping point.
“We don’t have to do this—” Robby starts.
“What is this, Robby? There is no this. What are we even doing here? What are you hoping for?”
He furrows his brows, like this is inconveniencing him. “I’m not trying to push anything—”
“Then figure it out!” Your raised voice echoes in the parking lot. You take a steadying breath. You’re usually not prone to outbursts; confrontation makes you cry—you tend to avoid authority figures. Somehow, Robby is incredibly adept at bringing it out in you.
You rub at your eyes, stemming the tears. “I’m tired, Robby. I’m not sleeping; I’ve got shit to deal with. I got asked out by someone that made it clear that he actually liked me, but somehow, I’m hung up on you, and I can’t even tell if you want—”
He doesn’t let you finish.
His lips are on yours.
Robby.
In your space, pressing you against the side of your car.
Finally. Fucking finally.
His weight and warmth enveloping you. One hand on your waist, the other slotted to the side of your face, like it belongs there. Like it always belonged there, and you were only denying him his right.
The rough scrape of his beard, his teeth tugging your bottom lip.
Your breath hitches.
He shifts his leg between yours.
You sigh out a moan, thighs bracketing his knee.
“I,” Robby says, and his voice is hoarse. “Want. You.” Kissing, stealing your air. He had envisioned waiting for the right moment, whenever that was. Some kind of softness in your shared first kiss. Asking you out first, maybe.
Instead, you have a way of pushing his buttons, nudging him to the edge of his patience. Even now. Even here, like this. He really shouldn’t have expected anything less from you. Reminding him that that punk lawyer of yours asked you out? Yeah, of course he’s seething.
“Robby,” you utter out.
His hand drifting under your shirt. Across the skin of your belly. Hand roughened and warm. “You drive me insane, you know that?” Fingers dipping under the elastic waist.
You gasp, hand wrapping around the wrist of his straying attention. “Robby,” you say. Chasing air. Breathing heavily.
“What?” And by the darkening of his eyes, you have a feeling that he would have no qualms about having you right here and now, up against your car. In an echoing parking lot that any staff member could enter. Anyone could come in and out for shift change.
Lips attached to your neck, tongue wet and heated against your skin.
“Not here,” you pant. “Not—fuck, mmm, Robby—take me home.”
“Mine or yours?”
“Fuck. I don’t—I don’t care.”
He laughs, soft and proud of himself for reducing you, usually so smart and capable, into a mess that stutters through your thoughts. “Mine, then.”
You can’t get into your car fast enough.
You end up in his bed. Legs apart, his face buried between your thighs. “Robby,” you moan, fingers curling into his hair.
He groans, a noise that vibrates through you. Tone low and deliciously spent. Even though he’s the one enacting pleasure on you, he’s the one that feels on the edge.
“Fuck.”
His tongue doesn’t stop, alternating between rings around your clit, up and down, side to side. And his fingers, bigger and longer than yours, buried inside. Digits angled, massaging against that spot inside you that makes you see stars.
“You’re going to make me come—” Thighs squeezing, grinding up into his face. The sudden release of that feeling in your stomach that he’s been making you chase for the past 20 or so minutes. Moaning aloud, nothing bashful in the sounds you emit. You’ve seen his house—gated. Standing alone. You could be as loud as you wanted and his neighbours would be none the wiser.
“God, Robby, fuck, fuck fuck, you’re—” Bitten off moans.
He’s still going. Fingers sliding out. Mouth lapping at your entrance, tongue pushing into the sticky mess. Tasting you. He groans aloud. His thumb nestles against your clit, rubbing circles.
He’s going to kill you.
“Robby,” you huff. Bending your leg, foot against his shoulder. Pushing. “Robby, get up here and—mm, fuck—fuck me.”
Robby relents. Getting up from the bed, taking off his shirt. Cock straining under fabric. “Who knew the Pitt’s sweetheart had such a dirty mouth?” By the smug lilt to his question, you have a feeling he knew. Hoped, at least.
You can’t help but roll your eyes at the nickname. You’ve definitely heard it floated around, and yes, you’re very aware that it arose from you bringing food in for everyone. But what else were you meant to do when all everyone cared about was comparing you to their precious Dr Langdon?
You crawl towards where Robby’s kneeling on the bed. Help him with his pants. You look up at him, pushing your tongue to the inside of your cheek. “You want to see what else I can do with it?”
Robby’s hand bunching in your hair, groaning. “Fuck, you drive me insane.” Tugging you up to kiss you again. Nudges you back onto the bed, his body laid atop yours. “As much as I would like to, not tonight.”
“Not going to last, old man?” you ask.
He laughs, something rough in his throat. “Definitely not.” Lips grazing, soft and almost reverent against the line at your throat, above your carotid. Gentle kisses against the scar on your neck.
You gasp, fingers digging into his hair. Flexing.
He hovers. “That okay?”
“Yes,” you whisper. “Definitely.”
Kisses it again, once. Twice. Then detaches himself from you, reaching for the bedside drawers where he keeps his condoms. Rolls it on, returning himself to you. With one hand, he guides himself to your entrance. Rubs the tip of him against you.
“Robby,” you say. Voice bordering on a whine. Becoming desperate for it—for him.
“Yeah, I know.” He sounds so fucking smug. Pushes the fat head of his cock into you. His other palm flat next to your head, against the bed, leaning above you.
Your breath stutters. “Oh, God.” You grip his forearm, something keening in your throat. “Oh my God, Robby.” He’s fucking big. You feel him stretching your entrance.
“You’re—fucking Hell, you’re so tight.” He moves the arm you don’t have in a death grip, thumb circling your clit. “Relax, honey. I got you.”
Your hips buck up, taking another half inch of him inside you. You’re both moaning around it.
“Fuck me,” he breathes. He pulls back a centimetre, then pushes himself in, slowly. Torturously.
You’re groaning. “Robby,” you huff. “Fuck, you’re—you’re too—”
“You can take it,” he hushes, confident. Lands a kiss to the side of your neck, under the scar. Rolls his hips in again, then out.
“It’s been a while,” you confess, feeling your face flood with heat. It’s embarrassing to admit it, but you certainly hadn’t been too keen on trying your hand with dating since those messages started appearing on your phone. When you got to Pittsburgh, you did nothing but work.
Lips finding yours. Reassuring. His thumb still pressed to your clit. Unhurried, despite the desire that permeates, that heaves his chest with short bursts of air. “Been so long you forgot how to take good dick, huh?” he asks. Fucks his cock in further.
You moan—at his words, at the feeling of him stretching you out. “Robby.”
“You’ll learn. One of my best fucking residents for a reason.”
Fuck.
Robby grunts, his hips jerking forward on its own accord. You cry out; he stills, huffing. “Fuck, you liked that one, didn’t you?” Panting. Lips on yours again.
You feel like you’re going to combust, fire pooling under your skin. Exposed for Robby to see, to know everything about you like this.
“Need you,” you say in between kisses.
“I know,” he says. Slow thrusts, and then—finally. Cock fully sheathed inside. He groans lowly.
Squeezing his arm, hand on his chest. “Wait—just, hah, wait. Wait—mmh.”
He tries to pull out, but you’re grabbing hold of his waist.
“Wait. Stay,” you murmur. “Just give me a second.”
Robby lets out a ragged breath, forehead against your chest. The hand previously on your clit trails to the side of your thigh, rubbing up and down the length of your flesh. Patient. Waiting, just as you asked.
Your walls fluttering around him, accommodating the feeling of him inside you. “Jesus Christ, you’re big, Robby. I can feel you.”
He grips your thigh, nails indented into skin. “You gotta stop talking like that if you want me to wait.”
“But you are—”
Silencing you by claiming your lips. Pushing his tongue into your mouth. Exchanging air and spit. Robby trembles with the effort it takes to not fuck into you like this. Underneath him, sounding so pretty while you struggle with the size of him.
You grind your hips up into him, stuttering through a breath.
Robby makes an audible sound, half groan, half growl. “Jesus.” Control dwindling by the second.
“Okay okay, move, Robby, fuck me.”
You barely finish the sentence before he’s thrusting into your tight heat. One of your legs hooked around his back. It’s sloppy, not at all graceful or coordinated. His thumb circling your clit again. Your walls convulsing around him.
“Wanna feel,” he huffs, “how tight you get when you come around me.”
And that rising wave in your stomach again. Crashing tides, falling, lapping. “Coming, coming coming.” Breathy and drawn out. Robby keeps fucking into you until he grunts, low and strung out. You feel his dick twitch inside you, and then he groans something fierce, falling over the edge of his own release.
Bowed over you, forehead against your collarbone. “Fuck,” he murmurs.
“Robby.”
“Mhm?”
“Kiss me. Please—”
His lips are on yours again. Head lifted, pressing into you. Your hand against his cheek, fingers rubbing against his beard. “Stay,” he whispers, when you part for air. “Please.”
So you do.
The next morning, you’re up earlier than your usual time.
“You don’t want to head in together?” Robby asks, voice rough with sleep.
“I have food in my fridge for everyone,” you say. You’re putting your scrubs on, from where they’ve been discarded haphazardly around the room last night. You’ll need to shower as well.
Robby chuckles, sitting up to watch you drift around his space. “Always taking care of everyone.”
“Someone’s got to.” You draw closer to the bed, intending on giving him a parting kiss.
He pulls you on top of him, into his lap. Fingers pushing inside your still wet warmth. Thumb against your clit. And makes you come again. Shaking apart on top of him, grinding into his hand.
“There we go,” Robby murmurs into your ear. Fingers still pumping in and out of you. “Told you you’d learn how to take it. Gotta teach you how to be used like this.”
You’re shuddering, gasping, your hips rolling down. “Robby,” you moan.
“My best fucking resident.” Robby mouths a line down your neck, focusing on the scar again. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
Side of your head pressed to a broad shoulder. Catching your breath.
“You should head out,” he says, after you’ve ridden through the aftershocks. “Don’t want to be late.”
“Fuck you,” you wheeze out, barely coherent enough to gather your thoughts.
“Tomorrow.” You don’t even have to see his face to see that smug grin across his lips.
You snort. Grab his wrist to stop the movement of his fingers, lifting yourself off of him. Kiss him again. “See you in there.”
You don’t do anything that strays from your usual routine—you come in at a different time than Robby, after ensuring you showered and brought along food. Disperse among the night shift to hand them their goods.
And yet. Abbot narrows his eyes at Robby during handoffs. Looks at where you’re talking to Shen and Ellis at central. Then back to Robby. “Good for you, brother.”
“What?” Robby asks, blinking guilelessly.
Abbot just snorts, shaking his head. Continues with the handoff. If Robby won’t say anything, he won’t either.
The rest of the PTMC clock it within two days.
On the third day, during shift change, Ellis takes your elbow as soon as your arrive and drags you into the break room.
“Dr Ellis,” you say, surprised. You use the abrupt opportunity to place your containers of food in the fridge.
“You know I like you, right?” she asks, phrased as a question, but not.
“We’re friends,” you hedge. Outside of the food that you leave for her, you like to think that you’re actually friends. Have finally built a rapport outside of coworkers and co-residents.
“Exactly,” she says. “So, as your friend, I want to say this as a means of looking out for you.”
You frown. “Say what?”
“Dr Robby,” she says. Eyes moving between yours to ensure she has your attention. It feels like something she’s picked up from Abbot. “How much do you—?”
The door opens.
“There you are,” Shen says. He’s boba-less—Ellis had grabbed you before you could give him the drink.
“Get in. Close the door,” Ellis hisses.
“Oh, is it intervention time?” He does as asked, door shutting. He pulls out one of the chairs around the table.
“What intervention?” you ask.
“Dr Robby,” Shen says, somehow wisely and cryptically at the same time.
You’re so sure you look bewildered. Clasping your hands together, looking between them. “One of you guys need to start making sense. Right now, please.” You settle on Ellis, usually the rational, logical one to Shen’s antics.
She sighs. “We,” she says, giving Shen a pointed look, “just want you to be careful with him.”
You blink, mouth falling open. Turn to look at Shen. Then back towards Ellis. “Are you giving me the shovel talk right now?”
“No!” Ellis says. “Fuck, no. Look, he’s just… got a bit of a reputation. And we want you to be careful.”
Your mouth closes, lips pressed into a line. Trying not to laugh.
“What’s with that face?” Shen asks.
“You know,” you start, trying so so hard not to laugh in their faces. You don’t want to besmirch their good intentions, and whatnot. They’re so sweet. “Dana had this talk with me after my first three weeks here.”
“Oh, thank God,” Ellis breathes out, relieved. The burden lifted from her shoulders. This is not a talk she wants to be having about her colleagues.
“Thank fuck for Dana,” Shen says.
You end up laughing, shaking your head. “Aww, I knew you guys liked me.”
“I just want my boba.” Shen stands from the chair. His low effort intervention deed now done.
You take it from your tote bag, tossing it at him. He catches it before it hits him in the head. Then you pull them both into a hug. “I’m never letting you guys live this down.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Ellis huffs. Her arm wrapped around you.
“Fuck off,” Shen says, but he accepts the hug.
You don’t bother trying to hide the grin that overtakes your face. Planting grandma-level of obnoxious kisses on their cheeks, despite their half-hearted complaints.
The door opens.
Robby pokes his head in to call out, “We’re doing rounds,” then stops. Taking in the scene with a questioning raised brow. “Everything okay?”
“Yep,” Shen is quick to answer.
“Totally.” Ellis, a beat later. Not suspiciously at all.
You cackle as you leave the break room. Robby shoots you a bemused look. You shake your head, grinning. “I’ll tell you later.”
Later ends up being at your apartment, where he insists on doing your dishes after the low effort dinner of leftovers.
“Are we casual?” you ask.
Robby looks over his shoulder from the sink. “No?”
“Wow. Are you asking or telling me?”
“I don’t know why you’re asking me.”
“I don’t do casual,” you say. It’s something you’ve learned about yourself, when you were in your college years, attempting casual hookups for the first time. You always got woefully attached, no matter how hard you tried to distance yourself. Your ego always telling you you were the exception, not the rule. “I realised I never really… clarified before—you know.”
“We’re not.” Clean dishes on the rack, drying his hands with the designated hand towel hanging on the cupboard below the sink. Robby folds his arms, leaning against the sink, hands cupping his elbows. “Where is this coming from?”
You shake your head, biting back a smile at the memory of Ellis and Shen from the morning. Idiots, you think, fond.
Head tilted, eyes narrowed, corners of his lips twitching. “This have anything to do with what happened in the break room?” Amusedly curious, not accusing.
You laugh out loud. “No,” you lie, poorly.
“Uh huh.” Stepping towards you, standing right in front of you. Looking down while you look up. His hand against your jaw. “Are my doctors feeding you bad intel about mean, old Dr Robby?”
You grin, kissing his palm. “Well. Depends what you consider bad.”
Robby snorts. “Yeah. I’m sure there’s a bunch of rumours and bets floating around.”
“They’ve been floating around for a while, Robby.”
He frowns. “Really?”
“Dana wouldn’t have talked to me about your seven weeks thing, otherwise.”
Robby blinks. “She—what?”
You’re not sure what prompted her to, but three weeks after starting at the PTMC, she told you to be mindful of Dr Robby. That he was a great doctor, and a good man, but he had a thing with relationships only lasting seven weeks, after Dr Adamson passed away. And you knew about Adamson, heard other nurses talk about him, saw his portrait in the hallway.
“You have a habit of seven weeks,” you relay.
“Is that why you were so weird with me? Before—all of this?” he asks. Tipping your face up, pad of his thumb grazing the scar again. Proof of life. Again and again and again. As long as he needs the reminder.
“No,” you say, but all of a sudden, the room feels too hot. Too thick with something other than the banter. All you can think of is him in front of you, the rough skin as he thumbs the raised line.
“Robby,” you manage.
“Yeah?” Distracted. Eyes roaming around your face, taking in the sight of you south of him while he stands. He can’t really be blamed for his thoughts straying.
“I mean it,” you whisper, clearing your throat. “I can’t do casual with you.”
“We’re not,” he promises, soft. His hand moves to the back of your nape, fingers curling around the width of it. “Come here.” Gentle urge as he tugs you up.
And you go. Willing and soft, pressed against him.
His lips on yours. His kisses feel heavy. “Nothing about how I feel is casual,” he says.
You nod, eyes darting between his. Look at him like you’re begging him—the universe—for it to be true. Creases between your brows.
“You.” Lips to your forehead, on the grooves of furrowed skin. “Drive me insane.”
“They’re going to talk about us.”
“They already are. I don’t care. Even if Gloria made up some bullshit about how we shouldn’t be together—I’d choose you.”
You feel prickling behind your eyes, sweet words you want to believe. “Robby,” you sniffle.
“It’s true,” he murmurs. Delicate, like he wants for nothing else than for you to trust him, to find yourself worthy of this.
“Take me to bed.”
You’re leaving Trauma 1, Javadi on your heels.
“And I thought it was a date,” her voice settles somewhere in the breathless and high range. “I got there and he had all these people there, and I had no idea who any of them were, and I think I freaked out and tried to run away and—”
“Baby girl,” you say, resting your hands on both her shoulders. Wait for her eyes to meet yours. “You gotta stop.”
“Stop?” She blinks, wide-eyed and endearing.
“Everything that you’re telling me right now, is telling me that he’s not interested.”
“But—”
“Girl. Victoria,” you deadpan. “That man wanted someone to come cook while he hosted his friends. And you did that. For two whole hours.”
“Whoa, what’s this?” Santos asks, sidling up to the two of you. She’s leaning against the desk, interest piqued by drama.
“A date,” Javadi manages.
“A failed one,” you add.
“Ugh,” Santos says. “Men.”
“You,” you say, attention back on Javadi, “are not allowed to do any more swiping or meeting up without my say so.”
“Seriously?” Javadi asks.
“Yes, seriously. You just played mommy to some fuck ass who didn’t know how to use his grill. Ask more questions. Get more answers. Don’t be afraid to say no if his idea of a first date is to come over so you can just ‘chill’.”
“But what if I don’t get another date?”
“There will be plenty,” you say.
“Start dating girls,” Santos says.
“Not helpful, Dr Santos,” you add.
“Oh, come on. Wouldn’t it be easier if we only dated women and left the men to fend for themselves?”
“Right. Was it easier for you when you moved in together after a month of dating, and then was left with a two bedroom apartment that you could barely pay the rent for?”
Santos’ mouth drops open. “I’m going to kill him. That’s not his business to spread.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault your roomie loves talking to me,” you say.
“Fuck you. You have a Pitt-wide bet about your current relationship, so the only actual long-term man in your life followed you from LA. The same one you’re pressing charges against because he almost fucking killed you!”
“Whoa!” Javadi exclaims, gobsmacked by the audacity. Her eyes are rounded, darting between the two of you.
You maintain the stunned silence for all of two seconds before you break. “Holy shit,” you wheeze out in between laughter.
“Whatever,” Santos says, turning her attention up to the board.
“Fuck, you really got my ass, huh?” You hold out a fist towards her.
She’s bites her lip, refraining from grinning as she fist bumps you. “Don’t ever come for me again.”
“Yeah, you got it, Dr Santos.”
“I’m still killing Huckleberry,” she says.
“Yep, totally. Have at it. We will not be missing him.” You would, but honourable sacrifices need to be made. You are not crossing Santos again.
“Doctors,” Dana says, slipping into the small huddle you’ve created under the board. By the grin on her face, she’s definitely heard what you guys were discussing.
“Hi, Dana,” you say.
“You guys parked in underground today?”
“Yeah,” you and Santos say.
“I—got a ride,” Javadi says. “My mom,” she adds at the look you shoot her. At least it wasn’t from her shitty date.
Dana peers down her glasses to read the registration scribbled on a sticky note, alongside the manufacturer and colour.
“That’s mine,” you say, frowning.
“Shit,” Dana huffs. “Someone busted your windows in, kiddo.”
“You’re kidding me.”
Dana nods towards Ahmad, who has been following Dana at a distance. “Ahmad was patrolling.”
“Fuck,” you say.
“I’ll come with you,” Ahmad says. He relays something into his radio.
“Thank you,” you tell him. Then, to Santos, “I’ve got a patient in Trauma 1. Get Dr Robby if it gets worse, okay?”
“Got it.”
“Dr Santos.”
“I got it. Get Dr Robby. Don’t do shit on my own.” She salutes you mockingly.
“Thank you,” you call out, following Ahmad down to the sub-basement parking lot.
“Any other cars get smashed up?” you ask as he leads the way.
“No. Yours is closest to the outside, though. Alarm could’ve scared them off. You have anything important in your car?” Ahmad ask.
“Just registration,” you say. Spare shoes, spare clothes. Nothing vitally important, outside of your car registration details.
Glass crunches under your shoes. Your car, just as you left it this morning, sans windows. Broken, shattered pieces scattered on concrete ground.
“Can I take a look?” you ask.
“Depends. If you want to press charges, it’d probably be better to leave it alone.” He gestures towards the roof. “We’ve got cameras. I’m sure police can run it back and see who did this.”
A random burglary in the PTMC staff parking lot registers as unusual to you. It doesn’t click until it’s too late. You’d think after being on edge for so long in LA, after fleeing to Pittsburgh and living in paranoia, you’d be a little faster, a little more conclusive, even if it’s not always correct.
But.
“Wait—” you say, pivoting on your feet to turn to Ahmad.
You hear the unmistakable click of a gun safety being pulled.
“Step away.”
“Get back.” Ahmad’s voice. Tight.
And Matthew Williams, with a gun pointed straight at Ahmad. “Don’t move,” he says, when he sees Ahmad going for the weapon on the side of his belt.
Fuck. The windows were a diversion tactic and you fell for it. It had been so peaceful, even with the meetings with Annalise and Wes. They were so sure, so confident that they’d be able to get something to stick on him.
“Hi, again,” Matthew says, grinning. His gun still aimed at Ahmad, but his attention on you.
You’re frozen, eyes flickering between him and the gun. Unsure where to look. You feel helpless with a weapon brandished in your proximity. You lick your lips, shuddering out a breath. “Matthew,” you say.
“I wanted to see you.”
“I’m right here,” you say. Your neck throbs, you feel sweat seeping through your pores. You remember Javadi calling for security, forcing his hand to act early. You can’t let that happen. Not when Matthew’s finger remains on the trigger. Reactive. “You want to talk, right? With me?”
Matthew’s face flexes, like he hadn’t been expected you to understand him. “Yeah. I do.”
“So let’s talk.”
“Don’t—” Ahmad starts.
“Shut up!” Matthew’s slowly flagging arm, straightened, pointed at Ahmad again.
“No!” Instinctual, reckless steps bringing you closer to them.
The gun aimed at you, now. Matthew’s nostrils flaring. Chest rising and falling faster. He’s getting agitated.
“Listen to me, if you want to talk to me, just put down the gun and we can talk,” you say. Hands up and out. “Please. I promise I’ll listen to you. You just need to put down the gun and let him go.”
“Don’t bullshit me,” Matthew says.
“I’m not,” you say, shaking your head. You can feel your heart thudding away in your chest. The tears that burn your eyes.
You can tell Matthew’s wavering. Your gaze remains resolute on him. You don’t dare look anywhere else. “Please.”
The gun falters. His hand lowering.
You see a blur of the blue security uniform.
Ahmad.
A loud bang.
Echoing in the parking lot.
“Shit.”
“Ahmad!”
You’re on him, hands pressed against his upper right chest. Pressure. Ahmad groans under you. Blood, warm and viscous seeping beneath your palms. Blooming.
“Let me see your back. Ahmad, let me see.”
Ahmad lets out a concerted grunt as he rolls to his side with your guidance.
“No exit wound. Bullet’s still inside. Okay, back down.” And your hands are pressed against the wound again.
“Get off of him,” Matthew says, somewhere behind you. His voice is beginning to sound frantic.
“No.”
Footsteps stepping around. Matthew in front of you, gun pointed at you, now. “Stop that.”
“Come on, Ahmad, I’m going to get us some help.” One hand still on the bullet wound, the other unfastening his radio.
“Stop!”
Ignoring him. Maybe it’s a stupid gamble to take, but you don’t think Matthew would shoot you. Scare you, definitely, just as he is now. But not shoot you. He’d have done so already.
Blood coated fingers slipping against the black surface. You press the button. You know it goes to the small hospital dispatch room and to the radios the other security guards have. True to Gloria’s words, there were more guards in the hospital now.
“Mayday, mayday, hospital staff in distress. Gunman in sub-basement parking level 2, east side.”
“Stop that!”
“Shots fired. Security down. I repeat, Ahmad is down—”
“Stop touching him!” The gun shoved in your face.
You flinch. But you don’t budge. You can’t. If you do, Ahmad dies. He bleeds out. You cannot let that happen.
The radio crackles. “We’re coming to you.”
Radio discarded, both hands on top of Ahmad again. “Just hang in there. We’re getting you help.”
“Get off of him!”
“No!” Face upturned, glaring. Chest heaving. Tears, angry and bright. Tracking from your eyes. “You’ll have to shoot me too,” you say, staring down the barrel of the gun. He won’t do it, you think. As twisted as it is, you don’t think he ever intended to hurt you. Your neck feels raw.
Ahmad makes a protesting noise.
Matthew’s jaw tightens. He aims behind him.
Another loud bang.
You flinch at the noise, hunching over Ahmad.
The muzzle of the gun, fiery hot.
Jammed against your cheek.
You cry out.
Heated metal pushed into flesh. Twisting.
Dermal layer burning.
Yelling.
Do not move. Hands on the wound.
Ahmad reaching, swatting weakly at Matthew’s ankle. It does nothing.
Matthew moves away, pacing. “Look what you’re making me do,” he says, frenetic. “I just wanted to talk.”
You’re sobbing. Tears clouding your vision, stinging your cheek. Second degree burn, maybe. Hard to tell the severity. It stings. Your whole cheek feels like it’s on fire. Heaving breaths. Trapped.
“Drop the case,” Matthew begs. “I just wanted you to drop the court case.”
You shake your head. You can’t see if Ahmad eyes are opened or closed. “Ahmad, come on, stay with me. They’ll be here soon.”
“Look at me!”
“You need to go!” Gaze turned up again. Glaring. “If you’re not planning on getting caught right now, you need to leave.”
If security comes up with more guns, you know Matthew will start shooting. You can’t let that happen. No one else needs to get hurt.
The elevator dings. Doors sliding open.
A gunshot, again.
Shouting.
You flinch once more, body lowering over Ahmad’s. Protecting. Ears ringing. Hands on the wound. You cannot move.
“Hey, hey hey, let me see. Let me see.”
Hands on you.
“No!” Recoiling away.
“Hey, it’s just me. It’s me. Look at me.”
Unfocused eyes. Landing. Then, “Robby.”
“We’ve got him.” Mohan across from you. Replacing your hands on top of Ahmad. Gauze packed onto the entry wound.
Falling back on your haunches, heaving out breaths.
“Jesus, honey, what happened?” Robby’s hands inspecting your cheek. Crouching before you.
McKay, Mohan, Jesse, Donnie, and Olsen hauling Ahmad onto the gurney.
“No,” you say, shaking your head. Dislodging Robby’s hand.
“It’s okay, I just need to look—”
“Robby. Ahmad. You need—I need you on Ahmad. Please. He can’t—he can’t die.” Robby had saved you. Before. When it was you that had gotten hurt. He has to save Ahmad, too. You can’t be responsible for Ahmad dying here.
“I—”
“Robby. Please. I need you to. Please.”
Robby’s jaw clenches. Nodding. “McKay, swap out.”
“Got it.” McKay’s by your side.
All of you into the elevator.
In the ED, Ahmad gets rushed into Trauma 2. McKay ushers you into an empty room. You don’t register which one.
You sit on the bed, numb. Empty. Staring at your hands, slick with Ahmad’s blood.
Robby knocks on the opened door but you don’t pay him any attention. Lost in your thoughts, probably. You had been conscious but mostly unresponsive when McKay fixed you up. Treated your third degree burn, used wipes to clean Ahmad’s blood off of you.
Dana’s already taken your name off the board and today’s roster. Disseminated your patients throughout the other staff. Scheduled days off with Gloria.
He’s in front of you. “Hey,” he says, softly.
You blink. See him. Then register what it means. “Ahmad—” Your voice is hoarse with disuse.
“He’s alive,” Robby says. “We got the bullet out. No organs were hit. He’s fine.”
Relief floods you with tears. You crumple forward, into yourself.
“Can I…”
You nod, and Robby’s in your space, arms wrapped around you. Your arms just as tight around him.
“Fuck,” he huffs. “You scared me. I heard your voice on the radio and I… Jesus. I was so scared.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”
You have plenty to be sorry for, you think. “Is… is Ahmad awake?”
“Yeah. You want to go see him?”
You’re nodding before he can finish the sentence. “Please?”
“Yeah, honey.” Robby shuffles back, helping you up from the bed, even though you don’t need it. Only your cheek is hurt. “We moved him into South 17.” He guides you to the room.
Ahmad looks worse for wear, but alive. Alive. “There you are,” he says.
You try not to cry as you smile at him. Busy yourself with checking his vitals. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I just got shot,” he says.
You snort, shaking your head. Feel tears loosen from the movement. “I’m sorry.” Sinking into the stool that one of the doctors probably used. Take his hand.
He squeezes back. “Not your fault, Doc.”
You give him a look that expresses how much you disagree with his opinion.
“You’re doing the right thing. Don’t drop the case.”
“What?” Robby asks.
You look over to where he’s by the door, frowning.
Oh. Outside of you and Ahmad, they don’t know. You had said a gunman on the radio. Never specified who it was. The last shot he fired probably gave himself the chance to run before they could see his face. “Matthew Williams,” you say.
Robby stills.
Then pushes himself off where he’d been leaning against the doorjamb. Face stony. Jaw clenching. “This was him?” Eyes flicker down to the bandage on your cheek. “He did this to you? Both of you?” Gaze slicing towards Ahmad on the bed.
You nod. “My windows.”
Robby furrows his brows, confused.
“Dana said there was a car that had its windows smashed in. It was mine. Ahmad took me down to see. And then we—he—um, he had a gun.”
“Jesus Christ.” The gut sinking knowledge that this wasn’t some random attack. It never had been. Everything had been premeditated. You were targeted specifically. “Fucking Hell.” Robby hovers behind you, close. A hand on your shoulder like he’s reminding himself. Alive. Here. Wants to never let you out of his sight. To keep you safe from whatever the fuck is going on out there.
There’s a knock on the door.
Gloria says both yours and Robby’s names. “If you have a moment,” she says to you, after Robby steps to the side. “The police would like to take a statement.”
You look at Ahmad.
“You need to,” he says. “Hell, I’ll make one too.”
You nod before you can second guess yourself. Proof. At least there are cameras in the parking lot. “Okay.” You get off the stool, bumping your fist against Ahmad’s offered one.
Robby remains a steady presence beside you.
“They need you down here,” you tell him.
Robby shakes his head. “Jack’s already here.”
You blink. You check the time on the clock on the wall. It’s still an hour until night shift starts.
“Police scanner,” Robby says, in lieu of explanation.
“Oh.”
“He doesn’t know how to rest.”
“Probably why he’s so grumpy.”
“I’m telling him you said that.”
You shake your head, exhausted grin on your face.
Robby smiles back, soft and worried.
You take his hand, giving it a squeeze, and head out with Gloria. There are two police officers stationed outside the room, waiting for you. The ED bustles like usual. You spot Abbot breezing past.
“Is this something we need to fill paperwork on?” Gloria asks, gesturing between the two of you.
“I have a feeling you’re going to make us sign something anyway,” Robby says.
“At least you’re smart enough to know that.”
He’s your attending. Chain of command dictates that you report to him. There’s bound to be some kind of power imbalance that HR needs to get ahead of. It’s worth it, he thinks. Promises made in your kitchen—he’d choose you.
“I can’t go home,” you say. Your fingers digging into your thigh, breathing through your nose. Agitation in your movements. Shifting. Leg bouncing where you’re sitting.
All the symptoms of a panic attack, but you’re not slowing down. Not giving yourself a moment to breath.
“He could be there,” you continue.
It shatters something inside of Robby. Noticing. Wanting to reach out. But you’ve already sunken into the furthest corner of your chair, refusing any contact. It’s clear—do not touch.
“We don’t know that,” one of the officers say.
You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter. I have no idea where he is. And I know he can find out this kind of information. He knew about my car. If he took my registration from there… he’ll have my address.”
“We’ve taken your car into evidence. We’ll see if anything’s been taken.”
You nod. “Can you—if I give you the name of a detective in LA, can you organise a check-in on my parents? I just—I need to know he hasn’t been near them again.”
Again. He wonders how long you’ve suffered this alone. It’s not happening to him, but it’s terrifying, feeling helpless. He can’t do anything to keep you safe.
“You can’t call them?” the officer asks.
“I can’t risk it.”
Robby’s fingers curl into fists to stop himself from reaching out.
“We’ll see what we can do.”
Your hand reaches for the scar on your neck. Scratching. Pinching the skin. “Whatever evidence you get, can we inform my lawyers too?”
“Of course,” Gloria says.
“Okay. Thank you.” It’s a quick goodbye, stumbling out. Opening a random door into a dark room.
“Hey, it’s okay. You’re having a panic attack—”
“I know. I just—I just need a minute.” Heaving breaths, collapsing into the corner of the room. Facing the wall. Making yourself as small as possible.
He inches close. A hand on your back.
You shrug him off. “Don’t. Please—don’t touch—”
“Okay. Okay. I’ll be back here.” Robby’s chest aches for you. He wonders how many times you’ve been alone like this, in your apartment. Too scared to call your friends and family back home. Too new to make connections with everyone here.
He lowers himself to the ground, back against the wall. Waiting. He’s been here before, in the Pedes room during PittFest. Wonders what went through Whitaker’s mind when the student saw him like this.
Eventually your breathing slows to your regular pace. You shift from the corner. “Sorry,” you whisper, ragged.
Robby only shakes his head. Lifts an arm. And you slot yourself next to him. Head on his shoulder. “Don’t be.” He knows exactly what it feels like; the lack of ability for control when that composure finally fractures. It’s been a long day, for you especially.
“Ready to go home?” he asks, instead.
“I can’t go back to mine,” you remind him. Tired.
“Come home with me.”
You give him a sidelong glance. It feels different, somehow. This isn’t born from cavernous exhaustion but still wanting to see each other after a shift. From staying the night because you had dinner together, and it’s already getting late, so there would be no point of going back home after.
Creases between Robby’s brows. A silent plea etched between lines.
“Okay,” you whisper.
Robby nods. Groans as he stands, then holds a hand out for you.
Taking it, you let him haul you up. His thumbs brushing across your cheeks, careful of the bandage. Swiping through the tear tracks. Lips to your forehead, like he’s trying to impart all the care and gentleness he can.
“Home, first,” he says.
Home. Somehow, that included Robby, too.
You refused to take more than a week off of work. Even though some part of you froze at the idea of seeing the PTMC again, you hated the idea of not being there even more. You couldn’t let Matthew Williams take anything else from you.
Your first day back is met with less fanfare. A quick “Good to see you” from Ellis just as a trauma bursts through the ambulance bay.
It’s a change of pace you welcome.
Ahmad comes back to work a week after you. Gloria meets you in the break room with Annalise and Wes. Usually it’d be up in her office, but they didn’t want to pull Ahmad too far from the ED.
Wes eyes the scar on your face, something saddened in his eyes. “You okay?” he asks.
“Depends what kind of news you’re here to give us,” you tell him. Half joking, half not.
The expression Wes makes lets you know it’s nothing good.
Annalise looks between you and Ahmad. Sighs. “They’re going to argue for a misdemeanour.”
You freeze.
Ahmad had gotten shot. Had to take two weeks off of work. You almost died—Hell, you did die in that trauma room. And they’re trying to write it off as a misdemeanour. Jail time for less than a year, a fine, or community service. One or the other, not all.
“That’s bullshit,” Ahmad seethes.
“I’m sorry, Mr Zidan,” Annalise says, sincere.
“That’s not good enough,” Gloria says, cold.
“We’re doing our best, Dr Underwood.” Annalise’s tone clipped. It’s the first time you’ve heard her professionalism slip. You can’t tell if it’s anger at the situation, or at Gloria for questioning their competency as lawyers.
“We’re going to do whatever we can,” Wes addresses you, figuring the best way around the iciness is to talk to you instead.
But you’ve heard these platitudes before—said them yourself. To patients and their families when you can’t predict the outcome of a procedure. We’re going to do everything we can. One of the first things you learned as a doctor was not to make any promises.
It feels like you’ve dedicated your life to being here, to being a doctor, and this is how they churn you out. You died, and this is how they deem the value of your life.
You’re shaking your head. This case… what the Hell were you thinking, pursuing this? That you could set a precedent? That you could pave a way for other medical professionals by pushing this? That you could finally get some peace?
Instead you feel sick, exhausted, and small. So fucking small, in this break room, with Gloria and Annalise and Wes and Ahmad.
“Hey,” Wes starts. An attempt at a comforting hand on your shoulder.
You need to leave. You can’t be here. You’re out of the break room before you even realise it. Into the rest room right next door.
Not five seconds later, the door opens. Dana inside with you.
“Hey,” she says, gentle.
“There’s a new rule that says I can’t be alone, now?” you ask. You’re by the sink, running cold water over your hands, your wrists.
“We’re just trying to look out for you, hon.”
Water on your face, over your eyes. On the still healing, itchy skin of your cheek. Down your neck, where the scar is. Proof of life. Proof of fucking bullshit. “I’m so tired,” you manage. “I can’t do this anymore, Dana. I can’t. I can’t—”
“Okay, hon, it’s okay. Just breathe.” She draws closer to you.
You back away, shuddering. Breath hitching. “No, don’t touch—it’s not—”
“It’s okay, sweetie. You’ll be okay.” And somehow, Dana has her arms around you.
You don’t fight her. Can’t. You face against her shoulder. Her hand cupping the back of your head as she shushes you. You’re reminded, inextricably, of your mother. It makes you cry harder; you feel like a child, again.
“I want to go home,” you sob. “I miss my mom.”
“I know, honey. I know. I’m so sorry.” And Dana’s voice is a little wet, too. Arms tightening around you. Just you and her in this bathroom.
By the time you get out of the bathroom, most of the hospital staff have already heard what the unofficial verdict is going to be. Reactions oscillate between pissed off and resigned. This is the reality of the system they’ve grown up in.
“Hey,” Robby says, frowning. Folding you into a hug. Any notion of showing favouritism in the workplace can be damned. Kisses the top of your head. “I heard.”
“Yeah,” you sniffle. You hate this side of you. The one that seeks out comfort like you haven’t had to deal with this on your own. “They’ll keep—working on it.” You know Annalise won’t take this lying down.
“You okay?”
“I’m not leaving early,” you say.
“Wasn’t asking that.”
“I’m okay.”
You both know it’s a lie. That he’d probably do the same if he were in your shoes.
“Okay,” he says instead. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“A vacation,” you say, not missing a beat.
Robby snorts. “You’ve been hanging out with John too much.”
You rise up to kiss his cheek. Then back to work. Even though you’re falling apart, this is what you’ve signed up to do.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should take a should take a vacation,” Robby yawns from where he’s lounging on the couch.
It’s been two weeks since then. You’ve essentially been living together. Your car is still in evidence, and you’re still concerned about the safety of your apartment.
You’re on the floor, papers and files spread out on the carpet. A smattering of snacks on the coffee table—most of which he only started purchasing for you since he was never really the type of entertain them at home. In the hospital, yes, but not quite at home.
“When are you thinking?”
Robby hums in thought. “July.”
“I’ve got this case, Robby,” you say, albeit regretfully. Nothing sounds more appealing than disappearing from the world with just the two of you.
“When you’re done, then.”
You look over at him. He’s been watching the TV on its lowest volume, following along with the subtitles. “I don’t know how much longer this is going to take.”
“I can wait for you,” Robby says. He’s chewing on one of the gummy bears you put into the list for him to buy. He never made a habit of snacking, but you’re rubbing off on him.
“Don’t do that,” you say, underlining something on the document. “You should go.”
“On my own?”
“You deserve a break. Aren’t you due for a sabbatical? You get one every five years for long service, right?”
He blinks, something passing over his face—too quick for you to properly interpret. “Yeah. Last one I did… fuck. I cut it short because of the start of the pandemic. If I hadn’t gotten home early, I never would have been able to come back.”
Sympathy filling your features. “That sucks, baby.” Your papers set down. Knees across the carpet, shuffling towards the couch where he’s lying. “You could do something nice for yourself this time.”
“What? Like travel the world for three months?”
“Yeah, around the world in 80 days.”
Robby snorts.
“Yeah, of course you’d like that, you old man.”
“Hey, you made the reference. Not me.”
Chin on the cushion, his thumb brushing against the burn on your cheek. Healing. He’s been diligently taking care of it everyday until you didn’t need to keep it covered anymore. Every night, rubbing ointment on your wounds. Like traces of this mess can fade with time and healing.
“Or,” you grin, cheeky, “you could tell everyone you’re travelling. Then lock yourself in here for three months. And it’d just be me and you and my wily ways.”
Robby blinks, then laughs. Leaning down to kiss you. “You’re insatiable.”
“It’s good stress relief.”
“For you or for me?”
“For both of us.”
Lips to your forehead. “You’re ridiculous.”
“So that’s a no, then?” Faux disappointment. Pursed lips.
“I’ll think about it.”
Eyebrows raised.
“The sabbatical. The proper one,” he adds after seeing your expression. “Not your degenerate one.” He pulls you up onto the couch.
You sprawl on top of him, head pillowed against his chest. Breathing in each other’s company. “You’d deserve it. Taking a break.”
“Yeah?”
“Hm.” You close your eyes, feeling the rumble in his chest. “I’d miss you, but yeah. You deserve the break. You’re always working at 100%. You need to slow down or you’ll burn yourself out.”
“You deserve a break too.”
“I’ll rest when the case is over.”
Robby tuts disapprovingly, hands rubbing up and down your back. “How am I going to leave if I can’t trust you to take care of yourself?”
“I’ll be okay,” you say, even though you want to tell him that you wouldn’t want him to go for three months. The last thing you want to do is guilt him into feeling like he needs to take care of you. You’re not a lost cause. You wriggle up slightly to kiss his jaw.
“You would?”
“Mm. I’d miss you. But you can send me pictures of things you see that remind you of me.”
“I thought the point of a sabbatical was to take a break.”
“Not from me, asshole,” you say, without any heat behind it. Pinching where you think his nipple is.
“Oh—ow. You’re incorrigible.” Grabbing your wrist. Kissing your palm. “I’ll think about it,” he says again.
Things have been good.
It should’ve been your warning.
All of a sudden, it’s the 3rd of July, the night before Robby goes off on sabbatical.
You thought that once you had passed that seven weeks mark, you’d been in the safe zone. You remember promises of this not being casual. Of choosing you.
Earth movies, as it turns out, are weird in the best way. The one Clark picked something named Toy Story and it has you doubled over on the couch, cackling like you’ve been here your whole life.
He watches you more than the screen.
You try, you really do, to win the sleeping arrangement argument again. You throw in dramatic sighs, guilt, threats of violence. He only smiles and says, “Nice try.” So you trudge off toward the bedroom muttering curses in half a dozen alien dialects while he fluffs a pillow for himself.
“Goodnight, bed thief,” he calls.
“Goodnight, couch martyr,” you shoot back, grinning.
You blink awake to light bleeding through the blinds, the soft weight of Clark’s hoodie still draped over your shoulders. His bed has officially been added to your shortlist of Earth wonders, right next to warm water and popcorn. It’s too early for your body to keep sleeping. But not too early to cause a little chaos.
You pad out of the room quietly. Clark’s still snoring softly on the couch, one arm over his eyes, hair a mess.
You grin. You can work with this.
There’s a device in the kitchen that makes coffee you know this now. Clark used it yesterday morning and handed you a mug with such gentle pride that your chest actually ached.
Today, you’ll return the favor.
You stare at the shiney black top you saw him cook on first. Four circles. No switches. It might as well be alien tech.
You poke a knob. It clicks and hisses and you jump back.
You find something metal to pour water in, it’s heavier than expected, but you manage to fill it with water from the sink. It sits patiently on the circle, completely still.
You wait. And wait. Then you frown. “Stupid Earth stuff.”
You glance toward the couch. Clark’s still out cold.
You square your stance, aim your eyes, and channel just enough heat to warm the container.
The metal whistles in seconds a piercing, unholy shriek that sends Clark flying off the couch with a thud.
“What in the—” He’s halfway to a fight stance before he sees you, standing sheepishly at the stove, eyes wide, laser vision still faintly glowing.
“I made you coffee,” you offer brightly, holding up the container like a trophy. “Sort of. I made hot water, looking for the beans was my next step.”
He stares. Then groans. Then laughs. “You used your laser vision?”
“The black table betrayed me. It wouldn’t turn on.”
“You’re gonna set my apartment on fire.”
“I was careful! Ish.”
He walks over, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and takes the container gently from your hands. “You’re unbelievable.”
You grin. “You’re welcome.”
He grabs two mugs. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“Kal-El !” You pretend to gasp.
“What?”
“Was that flirtation?”
He clears his throat. “Maybe.” He says with a shy shrug. “You’re not supposed to boil it in a kettle,” Clark says, amused and a little alarmed, as he gently sets the kettle down on the counter. “I have a coffee maker, I'm not an animal.”
“I wasn’t trying to boil it,” you reply, hands on your hips. “I was trying to warm it.”
He huffs a laugh and rubs a hand through his already-messy hair. He’s still in sweats, barefoot, eyes soft from sleep. And somehow, seeing him like this hair rumpled, voice hoarse, makes your stomach do something deeply inconvenient.
You follow him as he moves toward the black contraption with buttons and a glass pot. “So what’s the trick? Do I punch it? Speak to it gently?”
He smirks. “Not quite, watch.”
He grabs the coffee tin and scoops dark grounds into something made of paper with practiced ease. “This is the filter. Water goes in the back,” he says, pointing. “You just flip this switch once everything’s in place.”
The machine starts to gurgle and hiss.
You lean closer, fascinated. “It’s alive.”
He snorts. “Some people treat it that way.” Steam rises. The rich scent of coffee fills the kitchen, and your eyes flutter shut for just a second, savoring the warmth curling through the air.
“This smell,” you murmur, “its exactly the same from yesterday.”
Clark nods. “It’s one of my favorite smells, honestly.”
You turn to look at him. He’s already looking at you.
Something passes between you, small, quiet, blooming like warmth in your chest. You break the silence with a playful nudge. “You’re very domestic, Kent.”
“I try.” He shrugs. “Ma always said a man who can’t brew coffee shouldn’t be trusted.”
“Ahhh, so you’re safe… for now.” He hands you the first mug once it’s done, fingers brushing yours.
“The first sip is not as good as the second.” You comment as you take your first sip and scrunch your face.
He chuckles. “It’s an acquired taste.”
You take another sip anyway. “I’ll acquire it.”
Clark watches you, something flickering in his expression fondness maybe, or curiosity. He takes his own mug and leans against the counter, sipping quietly beside you.
The apartment is still for a couple minutes, two mugs in hand, the early light spilling in through the windows. It feels like a morning that means something. You just don’t know what yet.
You’re still sipping the coffee like it’s a potion you’re trying to decode when Clark asks, “Want a bagel?”
You perk up immediately. “I don’t know what that is, but yes.”
He chuckles, grabbing a sleeve of them from the breadbox and holding one up. “It’s round bread. Kind of chewy. Tastes better toasted”
You squint at the plain circle of carbs. “It looks like a wheel.”
He grins. “A delicious wheel especially with cream cheese.”
He shows you how to slice it and place it into a machine. You watch intently, eyes narrowed like the little machine might try something. Clark adjusts the dial. “This just controls how toasted it gets. It’ll pop up when it’s done.”
You crouch slightly, eyes level with the slots you feel the heat begin to radiate from the metal watching the panels go red. “It pops?”
“Yeah, just—” The bagel slices launch upward with a mechanical spring. You yelp, startled, and in one fluid motion, your fist flies forward.
The toaster sparks and collapses under the force of your punch, a sad, crumpled thing.
You blink down at your hand, then back at the wreckage. “It attacked first.”
Clark is doubled over laughing, hands braced on the counter. “Maybe no more cooking for now.”
“I can’t be blamed for your fragile Earth machinery.”
He exhales a laugh, still grinning as he walks over and plucks the slightly burnt bagel halves from the wreckage. “Well… good news is, it still worked long enough to toast these.”
You take one and examine it like a victory prize. “I like this planet.”
“God help us all,” he mutters fondly, handing you a small dull knife while he pulls a plastic tub from the cold box. You watch as he takes the top off revealing a white thick material.
You curiously watch. “This looks like a compressed cloud,”
“It’s cream cheese and it’s delicious.”
You watch as he uses the knife to spread some of the cream cheese onto his slice of the bagel. He hands the knife over and you copy every move he made. “We should probably get dressed, don’t wanna be late.” He says between bites. You nod in agreement before going back to the room bagel in hand.
You emerge from the bedroom, triumphant in your target find: a cropped powder-pink cardigan layered over a ribbed tank, a plaid skirt barely brushing mid-thigh, and fuzzy white socks pulled up over your calves. You’re still figuring out the human aesthetic, but you’ve decided cute equals powerful.
Clark is dressed in a new suite and he nearly drops the mug he’s holding when he looks at you.
You spin once, arms out. “How do I look?”
His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again, like a rebooting robot. “Uh…”
You tilt your head. “Bad?”
“No. No, no—uh—you just…” He gestures vaguely, as if that will help his brain catch up to his mouth. “You look nice. Just… you left the tags on.”
You frown, twisting to try and look over your own shoulder. “Tags?”
He steps forward, tentative, and reaches for the dangling plastic tab on your cardigan. His knuckles graze your spine, and his fingers brush your shoulder as he yanks the tag free.
You glance up at him. “Do all Earth clothes come with paper attached?”
“Just new ones,” he says.
You gesture at yourself. “But this is new. Shouldn’t I keep the paper to show it?”
Clark blinks. “I mean… that’s a fair question, but no it’s not how it works.” He tosses the tag in a small bin, then looks you over again, this time slower, softer. “You, uh… really liked the juniors section, huh?”
You grin. “Everything there was bright. And fun. And sparkly. I don’t want to look like I’m about to fight a war anymore.”
“You definitely don’t,” he mutters under his breath.
You cross your arms, playfully skeptical. “Is that judgment, Kent?”
He’s already heading for the kitchen, ears glowing red. “Not at all. Just… you might cause a workplace incident.”
You’re tugging the cardigan straight and trying to make peace with the skirt when there’s a knock.
“Is that Lois again?” you ask, already striding for the door. “Does Earth do everything in duplicate?”
Clark opens his mouth, but you’ve already pulled it wide. To find not Lois, but a man in a dark coat stands in the hall, rain still clinging to the shoulders. Hair neat, expression neater. He does not blink like a normal person. His eyes take you in, then the room, then you again.
Your body answers before your brain does, weight shifting over the balls of your feet, shoulders loose, chin slightly tucked. Subtle guard. Breath even.
“Well,” he speaks, voice smooth like expensive alcohol. “You Kryptonians,” he says lightly. “Always with the stances.”
Your palms go warm. “Careful,” you threaten. “We come in different settings.” Behind you, Clark practically teleports forward.
“Bruce. Bruce. Stop. That’s..she’s…this is not—just, come inside.”
Bruce steps in like he owns the place. Clark looks like he’s reconsidering every good deed he’s ever done. He hands Clark something thick and yellow.
“Birth records, identification, financial setup, the works. All done,” Bruce says.
Clark exhales, relieved. “Thank you. Really.”
You watch the exchange quietly, curiosity blooming.
Clark gestures you over. “These are for you.”
He opens the packet and hands you the first item: a small navy blue booklet. “This,” he says, “is called a passport. It lets you travel between… countries.”
You turn it over in your hands, opening to the first page brow knitting. “It has my face.” How did he get this picture of me?
Bruce’s mouth lifts, small, but genuine. “You’ll get used to that.”
“I asked Jimmy to snap a couple pictures yesterday,” Clark says like he can read your mind.
You pull out the next card. “This one is thin and also has my face.”
“That’s an ID,” Clark explains gently. “It tells people who you are.”
You blink at him. “It talks?” You ask, holding it gently.
“No,” he smiles, “it shows people who you are.”
“I can tell people who I am.”
Bruce huffs a soft breath “just keep the ID on you at all times.”
You nod slowly tucking the card in your bra making Clark blush. Next is a strange card with a long number. “This is… a ration card?”
“Social security card,” Clark laughs. “It’s for something called taxes.”
“It lets the government take part of your money.” Bruce adds.
“Don’t tell her that,” Clark scoffs, shaking his head at Bruce.
You pull out another item, a sleek black card. “This doesn’t look like identification.”
“That’s your credit card linked to a Gotham National Bank account,” Bruce says. “I opened it myself.”
Clark stiffens. “Which you didn’t need to do.”
“She deserved good interest rates.” Bruce shrugs.
You look between them. “You arranged… all of this? For me?”
Clark rubs the back of his neck, shy. “I just wanted you to have options. To make things easier.”
“Earth can be difficult to navigate without the right doors opened. Clark didn’t want you to struggle through them alone.” Bruce adds, voice low and even,
You run your thumb over the edge of the credit card.
“Thank you,” you say quietly. “Both of you. I… I don’t know what any of these do exactly, but I will. And I appreciate that you thought ahead.” Clark smiles at you like you’ve just given him the galaxy, when, in reality he just gave it to you.
Bruce studies you, not predatory, not quite flirtatious, just observant in a way that feels almost… a bit weary.
Then, in a tone that is unmistakably teasing he adds “For the record, Clark undersold you.”
Clark immediately perks up. “Bruce.”
Bruce gestures lightly at you. “You read situations fast. Most people recoil when I show up unannounced.”
Clark mutters, “Because you show up unannounced wearing body armor.”
“C’mon Boy Scout, It’s a nice coat,” Bruce replies, dusting his coat.
“Is it reinforced?”
“It’s cold outside.” He answers with a smirk.
You watch them bicker softly, two opposites bound by long familiarity and something inside you relaxes. This is trust. This is friendship. Krypton had versions of it. You recognize the shape. You lean back against the arm of the couch, arms crossed.
“You two fight like old spouses.”
“No. No, we absolutely—what—no” Clark sputters.
“He wishes.” Bruce, deadpans.
You reach into the envelope again and pull out the final paper large, pale blue, stamped.
“This one feels… important.”
Clark clears his throat. “That’s a birth certificate. It helps tie all the other documents together. It gives you an Earth starting point.”
“Oh.”
You look down at it for a long moment a date, a place, a name that is yours in a way this planet understands.
“This makes me real here,” you say softly.
Clark’s voice gentles. “You were real already.”
Bruce nods once, quieter. “But now no one can question it. And if they ask for references, call me.”
You hold the paper carefully, almost reverently.
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
Clark smiles small, warm, and honest. “Just follow my lead, you’ll be ok.”
“And don’t break anything .” Bruce adds dryly. “You kryptonians always manage to be expensive.”
You turn to him with a faint smile. “You sound very confident that I will.”
He meets your gaze, a faint spark of something amused in his eyes. “Let’s call it… intuition.”
And Clark definitely, definitely notices. You glance at him and see it. A tiny shift of a soft clench of his jaw. A flicker of protectiveness he didn’t mean to reveal. You store the observation quietly. Deciding not to tease him for it. Instead, you tuck the packet under your arm.
“Well,” you say with a small breath. “I suppose I’m ready to meet the Planet properly.”
Bruce steps back toward the door. “If you need anything, anything at all, you call me.”
“Call you how?” You question and he hands you one of the black boxes everyone at the Planet had.
“With this.” He winks.
“She’ll call me.” Clark glares.
Bruce shrugs without looking away from you. “We’ll see.”
You smile at both of them, grateful, overwhelmed, steadier than you were an hour ago.
The Daily Planet is louder today. The elevator doors open and the noise hits like a wave, phones ringing, keys clacking, printers humming, people arguing passionately about things you don’t understand yet.
Clark glances over at you. “You okay?”
You nod, though your shoulders tighten in that old way you haven’t unlearned yet. “It’s just… stimulating.”
He smiles soft. “That’s one word for it.”
You reach the hallway, passing reporters who look like they haven’t slept in years, and stop at a glass door with PERRY WHITE, Editor-in-Chief etched across it.
Clark raises his hand to knock.
“Ready?” he whispers.
“No,” you admit, but he knocks anyway.
“Kent, get in here!” Perry’s voice booms.
Clark opens the door, motioning for you to enter first. You step inside. Perry is pacing behind a desk piled with so many papers it looks like it should collapse. He glances up and immediately locks onto you.
“So you’re the mysterious candidate Kent tried to sneak past me.”
Clark makes a strangled noise. “I wasn’t sneaking. Perry, she—”
Perry lifts a hand. “I’m speaking.”
Clark shuts his mouth instantly.
Perry circles you once, not in a predatory way, but in the same way a battlefield commander inspects a recruit: quick, sharp, thorough.
“You’ve got good posture,” he says. “That’s rare in this building. Most people walk in here slouched like they lost a fight with their alarm clock.”
Your spine stiffens slightly, your brain scrambling to say something. “I was trained to stand properly.”
Perry snorts. “What, a couple years of ballet? Ex-military?”
You glance at Clark. He gives you the tiniest nod, tell partial truth, not whole truth. “I… grew up in what you’d call… a structured environment,” you say carfully.
Perry seems satisfied with that. “That’ll do. Clark vouches for your work. And Jimmy came in early groveling for you to stay. Says you liked the job.”
You brighten, shoulders relaxing. “I enjoyed it.”
Perry raises an eyebrow. “You enjoyed the archives?”
“Yes very much,” you say simply.
Clark smiles like he can breathe again.
Perry crosses his arms. “You understand yesterday wasn’t official.”
“Yes,” you say, calm but honest. “Clark told me this morning.”
Perry grunts. “Kent gets ahead of himself. Always has. Means well, though. That’s why I keep him.” He grabs a file. “Alright. You’ll work with Olsen. He’s a headache on legs, as I’m sure you noticed, but he’ll teach you how to navigate this madhouse.”
You nod solemnly. “Understood.”
“Good.” Perry gestures toward the door. “Welcome to the Daily Planet. Go find a desk before someone steals the good chairs.”
You turn to leave. But he stops you with a quiet, surprising “Kid.” You pause turning to face him. His expression softens in a way you didn’t expect from a man who looks like he argues for sport. “You’ll do just fine here,” he says. “Don’t let the noise convince you otherwise.”
Your throat tightens, not painfully, just… unexpectedly warm.
Clark watches you with gentle encouragement.
You manage a small nod. “Thank you.”
Perry waves you off like emotion physically offends him. “Good. Now get out before Kent starts smiling and ruins my morning.”
Clark coughs, flustered, and guides you back into the thrum of the newsroom. The door closes behind you. You let out a slow breath. “He is… intense.”
Clark grins. “He’s not so bad.”
You don’t need much instruction today. when you walk into the archive room, you already know exactly where to sit. Jimmy kicks open the supply closet and tosses a box of gloves in your direction. “Trust me,” he says, “some of these negatives date back to the seventies. If the prints don’t crumble in your hands, the staff photographer might.”
You catch the gloves one-handed. “Noted. Do I need a safety suit?”
“No, but if you find a photo of Perry in his disco phase, I want full credit.”
You smirk, pulling your hair back and surveying the boxes piled around the desk. Some are labeled by year. Some are a chaotic mystery. All of them are yours now. It’s thrilling. You crack your knuckles, then pause and look up at Jimmy. “What’s a disco?”
He blinks. “Oh, boy.”
After a few hours of rummaging through the old boxes you feel like you’re covered in a fine layer of dust, fingers tired, ponytail half-falling out. But the fire inside you is burning bright. You’ve digitized five full years of city council photos, unearthed an original photo of what Jimmy explained was Metropolis’ first pride parade, and to Jimmy’s joy a negative of Perry White smiling.
You feel absolutely unstoppable. You make your way back to Clark’s desk, a little bounce in your step. He’s mid-typing, glasses low on his nose, brow furrowed in that focused way that makes his whole face soften.
You stop a few feet away, quietly clearing your throat.
Clark glances up and immediately, his whole expression shifts. Not just a smile, but something entirely warmer.
“You’re covered in… what is that, asbestos?”
“History,” you say with a wide grin. “I found a photo of the mayor kissing someone who is not his wife. On the mouth. Passionately.”
Clark stares. “Please tell me it wasn’t the current mayor.”
“I don’t know,” you chirp with a smile. “That’s all Jimmy told me.”
He exhales a laugh and stands, brushing a bit of dust off your shoulder. His fingers linger a little longer than necessary.
“You’ve got dust in your hair,” he says gently.
You look up at him, playful. “You’re sure it’s not just gray?”
“Very funny.” He nudges your arm. “You settling in okay?”
You nod. “I think I’m good at this.”
“You are,” he says, without hesitation. And for a second, the noise of the newsroom fades. It’s just the two of you, standing too close, pretending the silence doesn’t mean anything.
Then Lois storms in, phone in one hand, latte in the other, barking orders like a hurricane in heels. “Smallville, I need you on the nuclear development. Jimmy, where are the files from that explosion last month? You—” she points at you mid-stride, “figure out if we’ve got photos of the mayor at any public events with the mystery kisser.”
Your eyes widen. “On it.”
Clark mouths, “Good luck,” as Lois barrels on. You sneak away to the archives room and start your very first real assignment.
You’re hunched over a tray of photo negatives when the door swings open behind you. The smell hits first something warm and entirely unfamiliar.
“If that’s you again, Olsen,” you call without looking up, “I already told you I’m not naming the file Mystery Smooches.”
A low laugh answers. It’s definitely not Jimmy. You glance back. Clark’s there in his usual slightly-creased slacks and that soft, forgettable tie like he’s trying to be invisible, which only makes you want to watch him harder. He’s holding a folded paper bag in one hand, eyes gentle behind his stupid magic glasses.
“You haven’t eaten,” he says.
“Are you tracking my digestion schedule?”
He tilts his head. “No. It’s just that it’s lunch time and I haven’t seen you leave the room.”
You narrow your eyes, but there’s no agenda in his tone, just that maddening kindness he keeps offering.
He walks over and offers you the bag. “Thought you might like a sandwich.”
You take it, reluctantly. It’s warm through the paper.
You sniff it like it might explode.
“It smells… confusing. Soft, but acidic.”
He chuckles. “It’s turkey, lettuce, tomato, mustard, mayo. On sourdough.”
You squint. “So… a creature and some wet things between slices of sponge.”
Clark bites his lip to stop a grin. “Basically.”
You give him one more suspicious look then take a bite. And stop cold. Your eyes widen, it's like flavor fireworks in your mouth. You chew slowly. “This is incredible.”
Clark shrugs like it’s nothing. “It’s just a sandwich.”
You finish chewing, then point at him. “You’ve gotta stop doing this.”
His brows furrow. “Doing what?”
“This.” You wave the sandwich. “This whole… showing up with food, caring if I eat, being absurdly kind to someone you barely know.”
He blinks, caught off guard. “It’s just lunch.”
“It’s a pattern,” you say flatly. “And I didn’t come to Earth to get emotionally ambushed by a Kryptonian with dimples.”
He laughs a short, surprised huff. You keep going, because if you stop now, it’ll feel like you meant it too much. “Seriously. You’re setting a precedent, Kent. Next thing I know you’ll know how I take my coffee.”
He hesitates. You can see how he’s trying not to smile then, quietly “You like your coffee black and I have a feeling it’s because we haven’t added anything to it.”
You do not dignify that with a response.
He glances at the light table. “Anyway… I should let you finish up.”
You nod, but then call after him before he slips out the door. “Clark?”
He turns, hand on the knob.
You lift the sandwich slightly. “Best thing I’ve put in my mouth in this building.”
He smiles “yet,” you add and he trips over his own foot on the way out.
The rest of the work day is uneventful. Clark waits for you by the front door. The sidewalk is bustling. Horns blare in the distance. You’re weaving between strangers with your drink in one hand and your eyes trained on everything but where you’re going.
You step off the curb to cross the street, not at a light, not at a crosswalk just when a yellow car barrels around the corner.
A firm hand grabs your arm and tugs you back.
You slam into Clark’s side, drink sloshing against the lid.
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice still gentle but a little sharper than usual.
You blink up at him. “Crossing.”
“That’s jaywalking.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means you almost got hit by a car.”
“Oh,” you say, completely unbothered. “That wouldn’t have done much.”
“To you,” he mutters, then he sighs and steps to your other side, guiding you with a hand at your back until you’re both walking again. “Okay. Crash course. Sidewalk rules.”
You glance up at him, amused. “There are rules?”
“A few. First, you always walk on the inside. Let me take the side closest to the street.”
You narrow your eyes. “Is this some sort of dominant male Earth ritual?”
He stifles a laugh. “No. It’s a safety thing. If a car jumps the curb or a puddle splashes, I’d rather take the hit than you.”
You stare at him, trying to tell if he’s joking, but unfortunately he’s not and that makes your stomach do that annoying thing again.
He continues, counting off on his fingers. “Two, don’t stop suddenly in the middle of foot traffic unless you want to get shoved. Three always look both ways only cross if it’s clear. Four don’t trust people waving you through in cars you always check before walking through. Five if something is on the floor, it’s garbage do not eat it please.”
You repeat the list of rules on your fingers to make sure you don’t forget when a noise cuts through the city’s rhythm like a blade.
Screeching tires. Distant yelling. A low, echoing boom that doesn’t belong on a quiet block.
Clark stops walking. His head lifts slightly. His brow tightens. And then you see it, the subtle shift in his shoulders. His back straightens. His eyes dart toward the sound. He’s listening for something only he can hear.
You reach for his arm. “Clark?”
He’s already pulling the keys from his pocket.
“There’s a situation. I have to go.”
“Let me come—” “No.” He presses the apartment key into your palm, closing your fingers around it firmly. “You go straight home. Don’t stop. Don’t look back.”
Your stomach drops. “But—”
“Please.” His voice is quiet, but there’s steel behind it. “This isn’t a debate. I’ll be back soon.”
You look at the key. Then at him. There’s no cape, no symbol, no suit just Clark in his suit already backing into the nearest alley.
He glances back at you once. There’s something heavy in his gaze. “Lock the door behind you.” And then he’s gone.
You’re left standing there with a brass key in your hand and your heart thudding like a drum in your ears.
You don’t know what just happened, not really. But you know enough.
Superman’s gone to work. And you? You turn toward home. Toward his apartment. The one that smells like coffee and cotton and warmth. The one that now, somehow, feels like your safest place in the world.
The apartment is too quiet.
Not the peaceful kind, the kind that makes your skin prickle like the walls are waiting for something to go wrong. You stand in the entryway for a long second, staring at the key still warm from Clark’s hand.
“He said lock the door,” you mutter, so you do. Dramatically. With far more force than should be required.
You take three steps into the apartment, then pivot, pacing the length of the living room. You check the window. The balcony. The floor. You circle like a caged creature before sinking down on the couch.
“This is absurd,” you tell the ceiling. “I have survived six sieges, two starship implosions, and a diplomatic banquet where someone tried to poison me with fermented root paste. And now I’m… waiting.”
To distract yourself, you get up again and wander into the kitchen. Maybe humans have tasks that quiet the mind. Like… house duties.
You open the cabinet under the sink. A swarm of bottles stare back at you. Blue ones. Green ones. One with a lemon on it smiling like it knows something you don’t. You grab the nearest spray bottle. It smells like melted plastic and citrus. “Mm. Poison.” You spray the countertop exactly once. It foams instantly.
“Oh. It expands.”
You spray again.
It expands more.
You squint. “This might be dangerous.”
You wipe it with a towel, too hard. The towel disintegrates. Actually disintegrates. Falls apart in patches.
You stare down at it, not blinking. “…Clark cannot blame me for this. The materials on this planet are fragile.” You toss the ruined towel in the sink and back away slowly like you’ve committed a small crime and are considering fleeing the scene.
Still restless, you find yourself wandering into the bedroom, his room, before stopping abruptly in the doorway.
The bed looks lived-in from last night, sheets wrinkled where you tossed, blanket tangled, the pillow with a faint dip in the center where your head rested. A spare pillow sits untouched at the edge like its standing guard.
You step inside before you consciously decide to.
The air smells faintly like detergent and something warm, sunlight, cotton, maybe remnants of Clark’s scent lingering in the fabric. You inhale, then immediately shake your head like that will undo it.
“No,” you mutter at the empty room. “That’s not allowed.”
You cross your arms and scan the space for something distracting. Anything. Your eyes land on the nightstand: an old clock, a tiny lamp, and a hardcover book with a cracked spine.
You pick it up. “To Kill a Mockingbird.” You run your thumb over the embossed letters. “This is about birds?”
You flip it open. After a few pages you realize it’s not about birds. It doesn’t even mention a bird “Hm. Misleading.” You set it down and move to the closet. Clark cleared half of it for you, space you did not earn but was simply… given. That unsettles you more than anything. “I don’t need this much room,” you tell the closet. It remains unmoved.
On his side there are shirts in soft earth tones, jeans folded meticulously, and a hoodie hanging beside yours. Your fingers hover near the sleeve but don’t touch. Instead, you pivot away sharply. “No. Absolutely not.”
You retreat to the bed, then sit on the edge. The mattress dips under your weight. You flatten your palm over the blanket. The fabric is warm where the sun hits it through the window.
“Humans build very distracting nests,” you announce to the empty apartment. But the room is too quiet. Too full of stillness that lets your thoughts creep in. What if he’s hurt? What if he doesn’t come back? What if— “No,” you snap at yourself. “He told you to go home. He’ll return.” And because Kryptonians are cursed with inconvenient instincts, of course, you believe him.
You stand abruptly and push out of the room, letting the door remain open behind you, a reminder that this space is yours for now, even if it hardly feels real.
You return to the living room and collapse onto the couch.
A few minutes later you are holding the remote like it’s a detonator, flipping away from the news the second it mentions the explosion, and trying to lose yourself in a cooking show where a man yells at his colleagues.
Eventually, you pull your knees up to your chest and wait for the door to open. And you hate waiting. And hate that you care. You hate that you don’t hate it enough.
Then the balcony window clicks and Clark flies inside, windblown, dusty, cheeks flushed from heat and adrenaline, your whole chest loosens so abruptly it’s embarrassing.
He sees you curled there, and the relief in his face is immediate.
“You’re home,” he says softly.
You lift your chin, trying to look casual. “I follow orders.”
He smiles, small, warm, almost shaken with leftover worry. “You okay?”
You’re ready with a sarcastic deflection, but instead “I didn’t like not knowing if you were ok.”
It lands heavy. Clark swallows then he moves to sit beside you. Close enough for your knees to brush.
“I’m okay,” he murmurs. “I promised I’d come back.”
“Keep doing that,” you mutter. “The… coming back part.”
He nods once steady, sincere. “I will.”
You pretend to roll your eyes, but your breathing finally evens. And when he leans back into the couch, tired but grounding, you lean too, not touching, but close enough your arm warms against his.
“We should get groceries. We’re running low on edible foods. I’ll take a shower and you can change into something more comfortable.”
You tilt your head. “…Is this a mission?”
He laughs under his breath. “Just food shopping, more like an adventure.”
You hop to your feet instantly. “Yes! I am ready for the gro-cer-ree adventure.”
He stands too, slowly, watching you with the wary expression of a man who has survived war.
“You remember the sidewalk rules?” he asks.
You salute him. “Do not get hit by cars. Do not fight strangers. Do not investigate garbage.”
“That… wasn’t exactly the list, but… close.” He says as he makes his way down the hall. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
The floor was littered with half-eaten/half-purged takeout boxes, dirty and clean clothes tossed onto any surface, and bits of photos of you and Clark scattered around like sad confetti. You were a mess. Ever since you left Clark, everything in your home felt like a threat. Almost as if he would crawl out of the frame and crush your heart again. In a violent fit of uncontrollable grief you ripped your room apart, the hanging flowers now in the trash, leaving evidence of their petals on the floor. His side of the closet was now empty, with all of his clothes thrown across the room. Sometimes at night, you’d cuddle with his sweater. The one you made him for Christmas, just because it smelled like him. Like sugar cookies and eggnog with just a little bit too much nog. Maybe, if you snuggled just close enough, then the love that was put into it would come back to you. It won’t, but you still try.
Cat and Jimmy tried to get you outside, saying, “You need to see something without a screen; it isn’t good for you to stay inside and sulk all day and night.”
“I’m okay rotting in this prison, you guys have fun.” You rasp into the phone.
“It’s only a prison since you made it one, surrounding yourself in his pictures like a shrine isn’t going to do you any good. Just think about the offer, ‘kay?” Cat was getting tired of your behavior. It was fatiguing being around you just because of how sad you are. Nonetheless, she remains a good friend.
“Okay.”
“We aren’t going to force you to come with us, but it would be nice, not just for you but for us. We miss you!”
“That’s very sweet of you guys,” You sigh and think to yourself for a moment, what's the best way you can diffuse the offer? “I’ll think about it and let you know.”
“Great!” She exclaimed, “Just let me know, regardless of what your answer is.”
“Yeah, I will, Cat, thanks. Bye-bye.”
Click.
You weren’t going to go, let alone think about their offer. Who wants to go to the club in heels that hurt and too-tight dresses? Why waste your makeup on a night where you would just stand awkwardly at the bar with a soda, watching Cat and Jimmy attract a harem of men and women? No chance. You figured you would be better off staying home, rewatching a show you don’t even like just to pass the time.
───────────────────────────
About thirty minutes go by, you’re on your phone when suddenly Jimmy’s face takes up the screen.
“Hello?”
“Hey, was just checking to see if you changed your mind? I know you probably aren’t going to come out tonight— WHICH IS FINE, I just wanted to check on you.” The intense music in the background contrasted with the softness in his voice.
“I know it’s disappointing, I’m sorry. I would go, just to see you and Cat but I just can’t.. everything I see in this apartment reminds me of him, it still smells like him.” You pinch your forehead with your index and thumb, “Then I get overwhelmed by the memories and I can’t pull myself out of this river, it’s like it’s trying to kill me.” You emphasized your words, and after you finished your rant, you were met with silence.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, Jimmy, I didn’t mean to ramble like that. I was just—“ You palm your head, ‘You idiot, I hate when I do like that.’
“Don’t worry about it, I’m your friend, I’m here to listen.” He gently reassures you, the music now faded.
“Thanks, Jimmy.”
“Listen, Cat and I understand. Just do something for yourself, okay? Like cleaning your place, I know for a fact it is not guest-appropriate.”
You weakly laugh at the truth of his teasing.
“You don’t have to go out to the city or anything, just do something different, it’ll help you feel better.”
“Thank you, Jimmy the Wise, for the advice.”
“You’re lucky this wizard doesn’t curse you.” The music fades back into the phone, “Listen, I gotta go, but take care of yourself.”
“Okay, I’ll try. Have fun. Bye.” The phone beeps, and your phone returns to the cute cat video you were watching before being interrupted.
‘Something different,” Jimmy's voice lingers. Normally, you would never listen to his awful advice, but this time, you just might.
───────────────────────────
You sigh deeply and look at your surroundings, filth. Absolute filth. How could you let it get like this? I mean, you were a messy person by nature, but nothing like this ever occurred. Maybe because of Clark, that sweetheart of a man, that backstabber.
There were many things you liked about him. He was kind, soft, and gentle despite his size; his attention to detail was impeccable, always remembering the little things. Covering the corners of tables and desks because he noticed how you always bump into them. He always had a second coffee ready for you before you finished the first. The way he held you, avoiding the most ticklish parts of your sides, just to make you more comfortable in his arms. Just as much as you loved all of him, there were a few moments that made you question if he loved all of you.
One night, you were doing dishes together as part of your “after-dinner” routine. You made a snarky joke about a coworker nobody really liked, and he belly laughed, splashing a bit of dishwater on himself in the process.
“You’re so funny, Lois,” He chuckled.
You froze. “What?”
Clark quickly realized his mistake, “Oh gosh, I am so sorry, sweetpea. I did not mean to call you that,” He quickly set the dishes down and wiped his hands. “We’ve just been having a lot of overtime together lately. I promise I did not do that on purpose.” He held your waist as he looked at you with guilty eyes and eyebrows knitted together with embarrassment.
“Yeah, it’s alright, babe. I get it.” You give him a quick peck on the cheek and resume your stance, drying dishes, trying to distract yourself from the fact that he just called you Lois. His ex. If you just glossed over the fact, then maybe you could ignore the newly formed crack in your heart.
You kept many secrets from Clark, like how you were the one who stained his white shirts pink by accident. Or how you discovered dog treats inside his nightstand, despite not having a dog, though you never mentioned it. The biggest secret, however, was your jealousy of Lois Lane. You were envious even before you and Clark were together. She was practically the poster girl for the Daily Planet. Always hitting the front page biweekly, articles shaped to perfection, the only person to ever get an interview with Superman. More than work, she’s drop-dead gorgeous. Her hair is always silky and shiny, cascading against her perfect figure. The perfect balance of curvy and skinny, a face shaped by god himself, and of course, she had all of the personality too. Outgoing and charming, teasingly mean but in a socially acceptable way, wits sharp as a tack, and unrivaled intelligence and intuition. It was impossible to show that up. You couldn’t even be upset because she was so nice to everyone. Everything about her was a reminder that you are less. In your passive thoughts, you wonder if you just had longer hair, lost around 20 pounds, and avoided the sun for a while, you could be more attractive. Just like Lois. Somehow, her existence would constantly rival yours despite her not knowing it.
It makes sense that she and Clark have a past together, a romantic past. They completed each other, balanced one another out like Yin and Yang, and of course, they just looked perfect together.
Perfect, perfect, perfect, perfect.
One adjective that haunts you like a ghost. Ever present, but if you mentioned it to anyone, you would be the crazy lady.
“You know, everyone has their flaws, even the most perfect of perfect people.”
“The standard of perfection is impossible to reach, so don’t even worry about it.”
“Comparison is the thief of joy.”
“Those people have struggles too, we all do, it's part of being human.”
Off-handed pieces of advice from people who didn’t know what they were talking about. Perfect does exist; her name is Lois Lane.
───────────────────────────
You were cleaning your space finally, just one more pile to go, and your place would be spotless with no Clark memories in sight. You were mindlessly bagging trash when a stack of loose papers caught your eye.
“Now what is this?” You whisper to yourself.
You shuffle through them, glancing at each sheet. You suddenly remember, ‘These are my stupid love songs!’ A heat of embarrassment rushed to your face while you recalled writing said stupid love songs. You were so smitten with Clark that you secretly wrote him an album and planned on gifting it on his birthday. His birthday is in two weeks.
‘Different,’ Jimmy's voice echoed.
“Why the fuck not?”
You gathered the papers and went into your room; the acoustics weren’t good, but you weren’t focused on good. Only focused on doing something different, like recording and posting a shitty song onto the internet.
You end the night at 1 am, posting the video of you playing the guitar and singing about how much you love a man, ignoring the reality of who it’s about.
id like to take this moment to be a cheeseball and say thank you all SO much for the likes, reblogs, and comments. it truly means so much to me that over 300 strangers saw my story, AND LIKED IT!!!! i love reading the comments even if there aren’t many which, i highly encourage you to comment on posts even if you’re just a lurker because it truly does mean that much. i posted this as a throwaway and never imagined it actually reaching people LOL
let me know who you think y/n’s love interest should be, batman, barry allen, nightwing, green lantern, signal ANYONE!!!! Or if she shouldnt have one at all teehee, lmk in the comments!!
sidenote: i’d like to apologize in advance for any shitty writing, it’s been a while since i’ve actually written something with a cohesive plot. sidenote sidenote: would you guys be interested in seeing original stories besides fanfics?
From the OP: "If you sit at a desk or stare at your phone all day, this is for you. Here's how to undo the damage:
- Banded Chin Tucks - Strengthen your neck flexors and fight forward head posture
- Banded Pull-Aparts - Target your rotator cuff and improve shoulder stability
- Banded Abduction - Activate the midline of your scapula for better posture
- Lateral Deltoid Raises - Build shoulder stability and control
- Banded Up-and-Overs – Boost scapular mobility and range of motion
These simple banded drills will help you stand taller, move better, and feel stronger - even after hours at a desk."
Some of these are the same or similar to the exercises my physical therapist taught me.
Update: after I reblogged this someone messaged me offering me tickets to the sold out Hausu screening with a Q&A and autograph session with the director
