Athena’s Reading Atheneum

[optimisticplb]

Liability

Alternate Ending

Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch & Platonic GN Resident Reader

Original Ending Here

Summary: After Pittfest, everyone at The Pitt changes, but Robby changes the most. He used to be the mentor who could catch you before you fell. Now he’s colder, sharper, and crueler, acting like cruelty is the same thing as teaching. But on the Fourth of July, when Robby uses the part of you he once helped save against you, you end up on the wrong side of the hospital roof railing, and he’s forced to see just how far he pushed you.

WC: 15K

Tags: Character Death, Heavy Angst, All Hurt No Comfort, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempt, Platonic Relationship, Rooftop Scene, No Y/N, Gender Neutral Reader, Alternate Ending to Original Version

A/N: Due to popular demand by my beloved masochist readers I give you an alternate ending to the original Liability story. The plot and everything leading up to the final moments are still the same but the outcome and consequences have changed. I hope I did this justice and exceeded all expectations.

P.S. Everyone that requested this owes me one tooth rotting fluff rec. to read. I need a palate cleanser. 😭

The first few weeks after Pittfest, everyone understood why Robby was different.

How could they not?

The department itself felt different. Same scuffed floors. Same monitors. Same nurses’ station with its bad coffee, half-dead pens, and discharge paperwork that somehow reproduced when no one was looking.

But something had shifted. Something had cracked open and never fully closed. People spoke softer for a while. Not all the time. Not when EMS rolled in hot or room twelve decided the laws of physics didn’t apply to him. The Pitt was still The Pitt. It demanded motion before grief, charting before sleep, competence before breakdown.

But in the quiet spaces, you could feel it. In the way Dana paused a second longer before snapping at someone. In the way Mohan stared at the board like she could will the names into something less tragic. In the way laughter came back slowly, like everyone had forgotten where they’d left it.

And Robby… Robby had always been hard to read. That was part of him. He had built himself out of sarcasm, caffeine, bad posture, and the kind of medical instinct people either trusted immediately or resented on principle. He could save your patient, insult your differential, and somehow teach you three things before you realized your pride was bleeding.

But before Pittfest, there had been lightness under it. A grin beneath the sarcasm. A flash of amusement when you got mouthy with him. A low, pleased hum when you caught something before he did. A kind of trust that made you stand taller, because Robby didn’t hand it out cheaply.

When he teased you, it used to feel like permission. Like you belonged close enough to be annoyed by him. When he corrected you, it used to feel like teaching. Like he saw the doctor you were becoming and was stubborn enough to drag you the rest of the way there. And when you pushed too hard, which you always did, Robby noticed before you hit the ground.

He was good at that. Catching you before the fall. Not dramatically. Never dramatically. Robby would rather staple his own hand to a discharge packet than have an earnest emotional conversation in public.

But he caught you anyway. A granola bar dropped beside your chart without comment.

A firm, “Go drink water before you become my next patient.”

A hand closing around the back of your scrub top when you swayed after twelve hours, steering you into the nearest chair with a muttered, “Very inspiring. Try fainting somewhere with fewer witnesses next time.”

A consult room door closed quietly behind him after a bad case.

“Sit down.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re vertical. Those are different things.”

You had trusted him with that version of you. The not-fine version.

You were an R3 during Pittfest. Experienced enough to know what you were doing. Not experienced enough for what happened. No one was experienced enough for what happened.

Afterward, everyone became a different version of themselves. Langdon went to rehab. Collins moved to Washington. The spaces they left behind became part of the department’s new anatomy. You became an R4. Mohan became an R4. And Robby was still there. Except he wasn’t. Not the way he used to be.

At first, you told yourself it was grief. Then exhaustion. Then trauma. Then the department falling apart in small, specific ways. But eventually, there was no softer name for it. Robby stopped catching you.

That was the first thing. Not the sharpness. Not the corrections. Not even the impatience. It was the silence where a dry joke used to be. The empty space beside you at the board where he used to appear, coffee in hand, already reading your face before you could fix it.

As an R4, you knew you were supposed to need less. You were supposed to move faster. Think cleaner. Lead without looking over your shoulder every time the room got loud. You were supposed to become the person the lower-level residents looked to, not the person still searching for reassurance from the attending who had taught you how to survive the place. You knew that. But knowing you had to stand alone didn’t make it hurt less when Robby stopped standing nearby.

Mohan handled it better than you did. Or maybe she was just better at looking like she did. She felt Robby’s distance too. You saw it in the pinch around her mouth when he cut her off during rounds, in the way her fingers tightened around a chart when he redirected an intern away from her.

But Mohan had Abbot now. Not officially. Not sentimentally. Abbot was not built for sentimental mentorship unless the soundtrack involved a cardiac monitor and someone bleeding on his shoes. But he had become a place for her to land anyway. A steady voice. A second opinion. A dry comment at just the right time to cut through panic without making her feel stupid for having it. You were happy for her. Mostly. Some days.

Other days, you watched Abbot lean against the counter while Mohan talked through a complicated case, watched him listen like her thinking mattered, watched him correct without carving her open, and something small and ugly twisted behind your ribs. Not because Mohan didn’t deserve it. Because you missed having that. And the worst part was, you used to.

Robby had been the one, years ago, when you were still a med student running on three hours of sleep and a dangerous amount of perfectionism, who pulled you into an empty consult room after you nearly passed out during a shift.

“Sit down.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re vertical. Those are different things.”

You had laughed then, because it was easier than crying.

Robby hadn’t.

He had leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching you with that exhausted, X-ray stare of his.

“You seeing anyone?”

You blinked. “Like dating?”

“Like a professional who gets paid to listen to the things you’re clearly not saying.”

Your face had gone hot.

“I don’t need—”

“Don’t do that.”

Two words.

Quiet.

Cutting.

And somehow kinder than all the soft concern everyone else had tried to give you.

“You don’t get bonus points for white-knuckling your way through life,” he’d said. “You don’t get a better residency match because you refused help. You just get tired. And then you get dangerous.”

That had shut you up. Because dangerous was the word that scared you. Not sad. Not anxious. Dangerous. Robby had seen that. He had seen you.

Two weeks later, you made the appointment. A month after that, you started medication. Robby had been the first person to make help sound less like failure and more like maintenance. Like medicine. Like something you deserved before you collapsed. Which was why the last ten months had felt so much like punishment.

Because now, when you faltered, Robby didn’t pull you aside. He called it out in front of people. Not loudly. Robby didn’t need volume to humiliate you. He had precision.

“If I have to remind you about disposition at this stage, we have a bigger problem.”

“Either run the trauma or step aside for someone who can.”

“Don’t call it caution because you’re afraid to commit.”

“You’re an R4. Stop looking at me like a med student waiting to be rescued.”

Each comment, on its own, was defensible. That was the problem. Any one of them could be explained away as teaching. Tough love. High standards. Emergency medicine not being a place for ego or indecision.

But together, day after day, they formed a shape you couldn’t ignore. He did not trust you anymore. You could feel it in the way he stepped around your orders instead of asking about them. The way he redirected R1s and R2s before they reached you. The way his eyes moved past you at the board, landing on Whitaker instead.

Whitaker, brand-new R1, got the version of Robby you used to know. The patient one. The almost-cheerful one. The one who could take a mistake apart without making the person feel like the mistake had swallowed them whole.

“Walk me through it,” Robby would say, standing beside him at the bedside.

And Whitaker would. Haltingly at first. Then stronger. There was room in it. Room to be wrong. Room to learn. Room to become.

You watched it happen from across the floor with a chart open in your hand and an awful heat behind your eyes. You hated yourself for resenting him. Whitaker had done nothing wrong. But some bitter, exhausted part of you wanted to ask where that version of Robby had gone when you still needed him. Not to hold your hand. Not to save you. Just to stop looking at you like you had already disappointed him.

Mohan noticed. She found you one afternoon in the stairwell between shifts, your back against the wall, one hand pressed hard against your sternum like you could physically hold yourself together. She didn’t ask if you were okay. You loved her for that. Instead, she sat down beside you and handed you a granola bar from her pocket.

“It’s the gross kind,” she said.

You opened one eye. “Why do you have it?”

“Because I keep thinking emergency hunger will make it taste better.”

“Does it?”

“No.”

You huffed something that almost became a laugh. For a minute, neither of you said anything. Beyond the stairwell door, The Pitt carried on without you. Overhead pages. Cart wheels. Someone calling for respiratory. A place that did not care if you were falling apart, as long as you could do it quietly and come back useful.

Mohan rested her elbows on her knees.

“He’s doing it to you too,” she said.

You didn’t pretend not to understand.

“Yeah.”

“He’s harder on us.”

“He expects more from us.”

“That’s one explanation.”

You looked over at her.

Mohan stared ahead, jaw tight. “Not the only one.”

Something in your chest sank.

“He doesn’t want us here,” you said.

Mohan didn’t answer right away. That was answer enough.

Finally, she sighed. “I don’t know what he wants anymore.”

You looked down at the granola bar in your hand. The wrapper crinkled under your thumb.

“Abbot thinks it’s trauma,” Mohan said.

You laughed once, flat and humorless. “Abbot thinks everything is trauma.”

“Abbot is usually right.”

“Annoying habit.”

“Deeply.”

Another silence.

Mohan looked at you carefully. “Are you okay?”

There it was. The question you hated.

You forced a shrug. “I’m tired.”

Mohan’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes softened.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You looked away. For a second, you thought about telling her. 

That you could feel yourself getting worse. That every shift felt like walking into a room where everyone knew you were failing but nobody had decided who would say it first. That you were sleeping less, eating worse, forgetting stupid things, crying in your car before shifts and fixing your face with the resigned efficiency of someone cleaning up a spill.

That Robby’s voice had started following you home.

“R4s should not need reminders for things interns figure out by winter.”

“That’s hesitation, not judgment.”

“You’re too far into this program to look this unsure every time the room gets loud.”

Instead, you said, “I’m fine.”

Mohan looked at you for a long moment. Then she nodded once. Not because she believed you. Because she knew what it looked like to need the lie.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

And somehow, that made you feel worse.

By July, the department had accepted the new shape of things. Collins was still gone. Robby was still Robby, except sharper now. More distant. More impatient with anything that looked like need. And Langdon was back. Technically. He came in on the Fourth of July with his badge clipped to his scrubs and something guarded around his eyes, looking almost like himself if you didn’t know where to look. But you knew where to look.

The room shifted around him differently now. People smiled too carefully. Jokes landed half a second late. Nobody said rehab. Nobody said welcome back too loudly. And Robby rode him all day. Not cruelly, not exactly. Nothing anyone could point to and say too much. But enough.

Enough that Langdon’s jaw kept tightening. Enough that Mohan looked away more than once. Enough that you felt something inside you fold in on itself, because Langdon was back and it still didn’t feel right.

If anything, it felt worse. Because for months, some desperate part of you had told itself that maybe the problem was absence. Langdon gone. Collins gone. Pittfest still echoing. Too many empty spaces. But Langdon was here now, standing ten feet away from you, alive and sober and trying, and Robby still looked like a man determined to make sure nobody got comfortable enough to need him.

Not Langdon. Not Mohan. Not you. Especially not you. And you had learned to stop looking over your shoulder for someone who was no longer there. Mostly. Almost. Except some stupid, stubborn part of you kept waiting for him to notice. Not the mistakes. Not the hesitation. You.

The way your laugh had gotten thinner. The way you stopped eating during shift. The way you volunteered for the hardest cases because at least exhaustion felt like something you had earned. The way you flinched now when Robby said your name.

He noticed. That was the worst part. You knew he noticed. Robby noticed everything. So when his eyes flicked to you after you went too quiet at the board, when his gaze paused on your untouched coffee, when his mouth tightened after you blinked too fast at one of his corrections…

He knew. He had to know. He just didn’t come closer. And every day he didn’t, something in you learned to believe that meant he had chosen not to.

—

By the morning of the Fourth of July, you were already tired before you reached the ambulance bay doors. The city had been restless all night. Heat trapped between buildings. Sirens layered over distant fireworks. People testing their luck with alcohol, grills, illegal explosives, and the kind of confidence that kept emergency departments in business.

Inside, The Pitt was already awake and angry. Mohan stood near the board, hair pulled back, eyes shadowed but alert. She looked over when you came in and offered you the smallest smile. You gave one back. A weak one. A functional one.

Across the department, Whitaker was talking to Robby near room four, nodding intently while Robby pointed something out on a chart. Robby looked tired. More tired than usual. His sabbatical started after today. Three months away from The Pitt. Three months without him. You had spent weeks telling yourself that should feel like relief. Instead, it felt like abandonment with a calendar invite.

Langdon stood near the medication room, one hand braced against the counter, listening while Dana said something low and practical to him. He nodded once, mouth tight, eyes down. He was back. He was really back. And still, somehow, the department felt emptier than it had before.

Robby glanced up. His eyes met yours across the floor. For one second, something moved over his face. Something almost like concern. Then Whitaker asked a question, and Robby looked away. Your chest tightened. 

Mohan followed your gaze.

“Don’t,” she said softly.

You swallowed. “I didn’t say anything.”

“I know.”

That was the problem with old friends. They heard you anyway.

—

By noon, The Pitt had become a fireworks safety commercial written by someone with a personal grudge against emergency medicine.

Room three had a second-degree burn across his palm because he “wanted to see if the fuse was still hot.” Room seven had heat exhaustion, sunburn, and the kind of husband who kept saying she was “being dramatic” until Dana threatened to make him wait outside with the smokers. Room twelve was drunk, bleeding from the eyebrow, and loudly insisting he had been attacked by a folding chair.

You had not stopped moving in six hours.  Not really. You had signed charts standing up, eaten half a protein bar in two bites, lost your coffee somewhere between radiology and trauma two, and washed someone else’s blood off your wrist in the sink by the med room because the bathroom felt too far away.

It was fine. You were fine. You were an R4. That was what R4s did. They moved. They handled things. They closed loops before someone had to ask. They anticipated problems before they became Robby-shaped corrections at the nurses’ station. So you kept moving.

Room six needed discharge papers. Room ten needed repeat labs. Room fourteen’s family wanted an update. Whitaker had a question about a possible ectopic, and you answered it quickly, carefully, without looking over your shoulder to see if Robby had heard. You did not need him to hear. You did not need him to approve. You did not need anything from him. That was the lie you had been carrying all morning, tucked under your ribs like a blade.

Across the department, Robby stood at the board with one hand on his hip, scanning the names with that tired, sharp focus that made everyone around him straighten without realizing it. His eyes moved over you once. Paused. Then moved on. Somehow, that was worse than being corrected. 

You turned back to the chart in front of you and forced yourself to read the same line three times until it made sense.

“Hey.”

Mohan appeared beside you, voice low.

You didn’t look up. “I’m good.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“That’s why I’m saving time.”

She didn’t laugh. That made your throat tighten.

“You’ve been on your feet all morning,” she said.

“So have you.”

“I ate.”

“Congratulations.”

“Don’t be charming. It’s disorienting.”

That almost got you. Almost. Your mouth twitched, but it didn’t hold.

Mohan’s eyes softened in the way you hated lately. Like she could see too much. Like she was standing too close to a bruise.

“Go sit for five minutes,” she said.

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I said I can’t.”

It came out sharper than you meant it to. Mohan went quiet. You hated yourself immediately.

You looked down at the chart, blinking hard. “Sorry.”

“I’m not offended.”

“That’s annoying of you.”

“I know.”

The corner of her mouth lifted slightly, but her eyes stayed worried. Before she could say anything else, Robby’s voice cut across the station.

“Room ten.”

Your spine went rigid. Not because he yelled. He didn’t. Robby never needed to.

You turned.

He stood by the board, looking at the tablet in his hand.

 “Repeat potassium?”

Your brain supplied the answer too late. Ordered. Not resulted. No. Resulted. You had seen it. Hadn’t you? Your fingers tightened around the chart.

“Pending,” you said.

Robby looked up. A tiny pause. The kind nobody else would notice. You noticed.

“Resulted twenty minutes ago,” he said.

Heat crawled up your neck. 

Right. Right, because you had opened it when radiology called. The potassium was fine. You had meant to sign off on it after updating room fourteen’s daughter, but then Whitaker had asked about the ectopic, and room three’s dressing needed.

“I saw it,” you said. “It’s normal. I’m closing it now.”

Robby’s expression didn’t change.

“That would’ve been more useful twenty minutes ago.”

The station quieted around the edges. Not fully. The Pitt never gave anyone the dignity of full silence. But enough. Enough for Dana to glance over from the desk. Enough for Mohan to go still beside you. Enough for Whitaker to suddenly become fascinated by the supply cart.

Your stomach dipped.

“I’m closing it now,” you repeated.

“I heard you.”

There was nothing cruel in his tone. That was the worst part. It was flat. Clinical. Tired. Like you were another problem on the board he didn’t have time to solve.

You nodded once and turned back to the computer. Your fingers moved too fast over the keys. Password wrong. Of course. You swallowed, cleared the field, typed it again. Wrong. Your pulse picked up. Not now. Not here.

You could feel Mohan beside you, not touching, not crowding. Just there. That somehow made it harder. You typed the password a third time. The screen opened. You exhaled through your nose, clicked into room ten’s chart, signed off the lab, updated the plan, closed the loop.

There. Done. Easy. Basic. Minimum expectation.

Your vision blurred for half a second. You blinked it clear. Robby had already moved on. Of course he had. He was with Whitaker now, leaning over a chart, voice lower. Still firm. Still teaching. But there was patience in it. Space.

“Start with what you’re worried about,” Robby said. “Then tell me what you can prove.”

Whitaker nodded, nervous but focused. Robby waited. He actually waited. Something inside you twisted so hard you had to press your palm against the edge of the counter.

Mohan noticed.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Then maybe believe me.”

The words landed badly.

You heard it as soon as they left your mouth.

Mohan’s face closed a little. Not hurt exactly. Careful. That was worse.

You looked away. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I’m just—”

Tired. Overwhelmed. Embarrassed. Jealous of an R1 who had done nothing wrong except receive the version of Robby you missed so badly it felt pathetic.

You shook your head. “I’m just trying to get through the shift.”

Mohan watched you for another second before nodding.

“Okay,” she said.

There it was again. That soft, terrible ‘okay’. The one that meant she knew you were lying and loved you enough not to corner you with it.

You grabbed the next chart. Room fifteen. Anxiety after a firework exploded too close. Chest tightness. Tingling fingers. Shortness of breath. You almost laughed. Of course. Of course the universe had a sense of humor.

You walked into the room before anyone could tell you not to. The patient was young. Early twenties, maybe. Sitting upright, knees pulled close, one hand pressed to her chest while her mother hovered beside the bed.

“I can’t get a full breath,” the patient said, eyes wide. “I know it’s probably panic. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I know you’re busy.”

The words hit too close. Not because of the panic. Because of the apology. 

You softened before you could stop yourself. 

“Don’t apologize for needing help,” you said.

Her eyes flicked to yours. For one second, you believed yourself.

Then Robby’s voice echoed in your head.

“R4s should not need reminders.”

You pushed it down.

You assessed her carefully. Vitals. History. Risk factors. Pain description. Breath sounds. You ordered an EKG, basic labs, chest X-ray. Nothing excessive. Nothing careless. You were not over-identifying. You were not projecting. You were not seeing yourself in her wide eyes and shaking hands. You were being thorough. That was all.

Still, by the time you stepped out, Robby was waiting near the desk.

“What’s your plan?” he asked.

You gave it to him. Clean. Organized. Defensible.

His eyes stayed on you. “And your impression?”

“Likely panic response after the firework scare, but I’m ruling out cardiac and pulmonary causes.”

“Likely panic,” he repeated.

Your jaw tightened. “With appropriate workup.”

“I heard you.”

“You said it like that.”

Something flickered in his face. Warning. You should have stopped. You knew you should have stopped. But the whole day had been made of swallowing things, and something in you had run out of room.

Robby stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I’m asking you to separate the patient from yourself.”

The words punched through you. For a second, all the noise around you thinned.

“What?”

His expression hardened. His eyes looked exhausted, but there was no softness in them.

“You heard me.”

Mohan turned slightly from the board. Dana looked up. You felt it. Every glance you weren’t supposed to notice.

You kept your voice low. “That has nothing to do with this.”

“I hope not.”

Your face went hot. 

No. No, no, no. He didn’t get to do that. Not him. Not with this.

“You hope not?” you repeated.

Robby’s mouth tightened.

“You’re an R4. I need your clinical judgment clean. I need to know you’re looking at the patient in front of you, not filtering it through your own history.”

Your hand curled tighter around the chart. “My history?”

His eyes sharpened. “Don’t twist my words.”

“It’s exactly what you said.”

“You’re personalizing a panic presentation.”

“I ordered a standard workup.”

“You reassured her before you assessed.”

Your breath caught. The cruelty of it was so quiet. So clinical. Like kindness was a symptom. Like compassion was contamination.

“You’re criticizing me for reassuring her?”

“I’m criticizing you for seeing yourself and calling it medicine.”

Mohan said your name softly. You barely heard her. 

Your chest felt hollowed out.

“That is not what happened.”

“Then make sure it doesn’t.”

Your voice dropped. “You don’t get to use that against me.”

Robby went still. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“No,” he said, colder now. “I’m doing my job.”

“Your job is accusing me of being unstable?”

His eyes flicked briefly toward the staff, toward the people pretending not to listen. When he looked back at you, whatever restraint he had left snapped into something uglier.

“My job is making sure my residents are safe to practice.”

The floor dropped out from under you. 

“Safe to practice.”

Your throat tightened so fast it hurt. “I am safe.”

“Are you?”

The question landed like a slap. Small enough that he could deny it. Sharp enough that everyone understood.

You stared at him. He didn’t stop. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe some broken part of him had found momentum and decided cruelty was easier than fear.

“Because lately I don’t know if I’m supervising an R4 or managing someone who’s one bad shift away from unraveling in the middle of my department.”

Mohan moved. “Robby—”

He didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed on you.

“You’re hesitating. You’re overcorrecting. You’re taking everything personally. You flinch every time I give you feedback, and now you’re walking into a psych-adjacent case with your own history written all over your face.”

Your lips parted. Nothing came out.

Robby’s voice lowered further. “That is dangerous.”

There it was. The word. The same word he had used years ago to make you get help. The word that had scared you into saving yourself. Now he was holding it like a weapon.

Your hand tightened on the chart until the edge bent.

“You told me getting help made me safer.”

“It does,” he said.

“Then why are you acting like it makes me a liability?”

For half a second, something moved over his face. Regret. Fear. Then he buried it.

“Because I can’t keep wondering whether you’re making a medical call or having a mental health episode.”

The department went too quiet around the edges. 

Your breath stopped.

Mohan whispered your name again, this time like something had broken.

Robby kept going, and that was the worst part.

“I need an R4 I can trust when the floor turns bad. I need someone who can lead without making me question whether their illness is driving the call.”

Your vision blurred. You blinked it clear.

“You don’t get to call it that.”

“What?”

“My illness,” you said, voice barely holding. “You don’t get to throw that word at me like I’m something you’re diagnosing in front of the board.”

His jaw tightened.

“You want to be treated like a 4th year resident? Then act like one.”

The last piece of you went very still. Not calm. Still.

You set the chart down carefully. Too carefully.

“Room fifteen has appropriate workup pending,” you said. “I’ll follow results.”

Robby’s face shifted. Just barely. Like he heard it. Like some part of him realized he had not corrected you. He had cut you open.  But it was too late.

You stepped back.

“You were the one person who wasn’t supposed to make it sound ugly,” you said.

Then you walked away before your face could betray you. 

Behind you, Mohan said something low to Robby. You didn’t turn around. You couldn’t. Because if you looked back and saw regret on his face, you might break. And if you looked back and didn’t, you knew you would. 

You made it to the bathroom before your hands started shaking. The door clicked shut behind you, and for a second, you just stood there staring at the sink like you had forgotten how to move.

Then your body caught up. Your breath hitched hard enough that you gripped the counter. Not here. Not at work. Not because of him.

You turned the faucet on, letting the water hit the porcelain loud enough to cover the sound that broke out of you. Not a sob. You refused to call it that. Just air leaving wrong.

Your reflection looked pale under the fluorescent lights. Tired. Cracked. Exactly like the kind of person Robby couldn’t trust.

No. That was his voice. His damage. His cruelty. You knew that. You knew it, and still his words sat under your skin.

“Because I can’t keep wondering whether you’re making a medical call or having a mental health episode.”

You splashed cold water over your wrists, fixed your face, and went back out. Because if you fell apart now, it would prove him right.

The department swallowed you whole again. Monitors. Phones. Voices. Alarms chimed faintly around you. No one looked directly at you. That was how you knew everyone knew.

Mohan found your eyes from the board. 

You gave her one small look.

Don’t.

She stopped.

Room fifteen’s workup came back clean. EKG normal. Labs normal. Chest X-ray clear. Panic, most likely. You updated the patient with a voice so calm it almost sounded real.

“You did the right thing coming in,” you told her. “Fear can feel physical. That doesn’t make it fake.”

The patient’s eyes filled. “Thank you.”

You smiled. It hurt.

When you stepped out, Robby was at the board. He saw you. For one suspended second, it looked like he might say something. Then EMS called in another burn, Dana shouted for trauma two, and Robby turned away.

So you kept working.

You signed orders. Closed charts. Caught a med interaction before pharmacy called. Talked Whitaker through a discharge summary even though some ugly part of you resented how grateful he looked afterward.

“Thanks,” he said. “I know you’re busy.”

You swallowed. “Don’t apologize for learning.”

The words tasted bitter.

Across the room, Robby watched you. Not openly. But you felt it. Worry wearing a muzzle.

By the time the sun went down, your whole body felt far away. Someone brought red, white, and blue cupcakes to the nurses’ station. You stared at them until Dana appeared beside you.

“Eat something.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re spiritually buzzing.”

A weak laugh escaped before you could stop it.

Dana’s face softened. That almost undid you.

“I’m okay,” you said.

Dana hummed. “Sure.”

Before she could push, fireworks cracked outside, loud enough to rattle the windows. Half the department flinched. Nobody said anything. Another burst followed.

Mohan closed her eyes at the board. Robby went still. You saw it. The way his shoulders locked. The way his hand tightened around the tablet. The way his face emptied.

For one second, Pittfest came back too clearly. Noise. Blood. Bodies. Robby’s voice cutting through the chaos. You and Mohan as R3s, moving because stopping would mean understanding.

After the last patient was transported out, Robby had found you in a supply room, knees to your chest, scrubs stiff with someone else’s blood. He had sat beside you and held out a water bottle.

“Drink.”

You had stared at him.

“Don’t make me do bedside manner. We’ll both hate it.”

You had laughed. Then cried. And he had stayed. That was the part you couldn’t let go of. He had stayed.

Another firework cracked. Robby looked up. His eyes met yours. Something broken moved across his face. Then he looked away first. And the last hopeful thing in you went quiet.

—

Later, when the rush finally thinned, Dana sent the day shift up to the roof.

“Morale,” she said, like that explained anything.

Mohan found you near the elevators. “Come up with us.”

“I should finish charts.”

“You can finish them after.”

“I’m behind.”

“You’re not,” she said softly. “I checked.”

You looked at her. For a second, you wanted to tell her everything. 

Instead, you smiled. “I’ll come up later.”

Mohan didn’t believe you. But someone called her name, and the elevator opened, and the moment passed. She stepped inside.

You stood there for half a second. Then, before the doors could close, you moved. Mohan’s eyes lifted in surprise.

You forced a small smile. “Changed my mind.”

Dana gave a satisfied hum. “There you are.”

You stepped into the elevator beside them. Robby wasn’t there. You were grateful. You were devastated.

The roof was warmer than it should have been, the concrete still holding onto the heat from the day. It was quieter than you expected. Not empty. Just intimate.

Dana stood near the low wall with a paper cup in hand, shoulders finally dropped from around her ears. McKay leaned beside her, arms folded loosely, face tilted toward the sky. Mel stood a little apart, still and quiet, watching the horizon like she was letting the colors settle somewhere safe. Santos sat on the edge of an old utility box, trying to look unimpressed and failing every time gold split open above the city.

Javadi had her hands tucked into her scrub pockets, eyes wide behind each flash. Perlah and Princess stood near a cluster of nurses, speaking softly between tired bursts of laughter. Mohan stayed beside you. Not touching. Just there.

It was a small pocket of people from the floor, all of you trying to make something beautiful out of a day that had been anything but.

The fireworks bloomed over Pittsburgh in bursts of red, white, and gold. For a while, no one really spoke. Not because there was nothing to say. Because there was too much.

The first explosion of color washed across Dana’s face, and you saw it, the tiny release. Not happiness. Not really. Something quieter. Relief, maybe. The kind that came when you were too tired for joy but still grateful the world could make something pretty.

McKay exhaled slowly. Mel’s shoulders dropped. Santos forgot to pretend she didn’t care. Javadi blinked up like she was trying to memorize it. Perlah and Princess smiled softly at them.

Everyone looked peaceful. Not fixed. Not untouched. Just… peaceful. And you couldn’t get there. That was what scared you. Not the noise. Not the height. Not even Robby’s words still embedded under your skin.

It was this.

Standing beside people you cared about, watching them find something gentle at the end of an awful day. And feeling nothing but distance. Like they were on the roof. And you were already somewhere else.

A firework burst overhead, gold spilling open like light through a wound.

“That one was nice,” McKay said quietly.

“It was,” Mel agreed.

It was. 

You knew it was. You could recognize the shape of beauty. You just couldn’t feel it.

Your hands curled into your scrub pockets.

Mohan glanced over. “You okay?”

You kept your eyes on the sky. “Yeah.”

Mohan let the answer sit between you for a second before she said quietly, “You don’t have to lie to me up here.”

Your chest tightened. Your demons pressed in harder. Because she was kind. Because everyone else looked like they could breathe again. Because you couldn’t.

Another burst cracked overhead. You flinched before you could stop it.

Mohan noticed.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“I’m fine.”

Too quick. Too sharp.

The peace in her face shifted into worry. You hated yourself for taking it from her. Dana glanced over, brief and knowing, but didn’t push. No one did. They let you stand there. Let you pretend.

The fireworks kept going. Louder. Closer. Then softer. Slower. Until finally, the last one bloomed. Faded. Left the sky dark again.

For a few seconds, no one moved. Then Dana pushed off the wall.

“All right,” she said, voice rough but steady. “That’s it.”

Everyone looked at her. Dana glanced around at all of you, something firm settling back into place.

“Go home,” she said.

No argument. No softness. Just Dana.

“You all did enough today.”

The words landed heavier than they should have.

McKay nodded first, like she’d been waiting for permission. Mel followed, quiet but immediate. Santos rolled her shoulders and hopped down from her spot, muttering something about finally sitting somewhere that wasn’t hospital-issued. Javadi gave the sky one last look before turning. Perlah squeezed Princess’ hands gently before heading for the door.

One by one, they moved. Not rushed. Just… done.

Dana passed you last. She nudged your shoulder lightly.

“Don’t stay up here all night.”

You forced a small smile. “I won’t.”

Dana gave you a look. The kind that said she didn’t believe you. The kind that said she knew better than to push. She nodded once anyway. Then she left. The door closed behind her.

Eventually, it was just you and Mohan. The quiet shifted. Heavier now. Closer. Mohan stayed beside you. Still not touching. Still there.

“You coming back down?” she asked.

“In a minute.”

She hesitated. You could feel it. The pull between staying and trusting you.

“You scared me today,” she said softly.

Your throat tightened. “I know.”

“I don’t think you do.”

She was right. That made it worse.

“I just need a second alone,” you said.

Mohan watched you for a long moment. Then she nodded, even though everything in her said she didn’t want to.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

She lingered. Then stepped back and turned. The door opened. Closed. And the quiet changed again. No longer shared. Just yours.

You didn’t move at first. You just stood there after Mohan left, staring at the dark sky where the fireworks had been. The smoke still lingered. Thin gray ribbons drifting over the roofline, breaking apart in the humid night air.

For a while, you listened. To the distant traffic. To the muffled noise of the hospital below. To the soft mechanical hum from the roof units behind you. Everything sounded far away. Even you.

Your hands were still in your scrub pockets. Your shoulders were still loose. Your face was still arranged into something that could pass for fine if anyone opened the door and checked. But no one did.

The roof stayed quiet. And the quiet got inside you.

One step. That was all it was at first. Your shoe scraped lightly against the concrete. Then another. Slow. Unhurried. Almost curious. Like your body had decided to go look at something your mind had not agreed to yet.

The edge waited ahead of you. But there was a railing first. A low metal barrier bolted into the roof, meant to make the boundary obvious. Meant to tell people where safety ended. Meant to be enough.

You stopped in front of it. For a moment, you only looked. One hand lifted. Your fingers curled around the top rail. The metal was still warm from the day, but cooler than the concrete. Smooth in places where weather and hands had worn it down.

It should have stopped you. That was the point of it. A line. A warning. A small, practical mercy built into the roof of a hospital where people spent all day trying not to die.

You stepped closer. Then, slowly, carefully, you lifted one leg over. Your shoe found the narrow strip of concrete on the other side. Then the other leg followed.

The railing was behind you now. That should have meant something. Maybe it did. Maybe that was why your chest went so quiet.

You stood on the wrong side of it, a few feet from the edge. No wall now. No barrier. Just warm concrete. Open air. Nothing dramatic about it. Nothing cinematic. Just a ledge at the top of a hospital where people spent all day trying not to die.

You stopped close enough to see over. Close enough to feel the air change against your skin. The parking lot spread beneath you, bright in patches beneath the lamps. Cars lined up neatly. Ambulance bay glowing. The city carrying on like it had not noticed you standing above it, wondering if there was any version of tomorrow you could still survive.

Your breathing stayed even. That frightened you distantly. You thought panic would come with noise. With tears. With shaking. But this was quieter than that. This was your body finally going still after months of begging to be heard.

You took another step. Then another. Until your toes touched the base of the ledge. You looked at it. No wall. No barrier now. Just the ledge. Lower than you expected. Or maybe you had known that. Maybe some part of you had known all along.

Your hands came out of your pockets. For a second, they hovered uselessly at your sides. Then you sat down. Slowly. Carefully. Like if your movements were calm enough, this could still be called something else. Just sitting. Just air. Just needing quiet.

The concrete was still warm from the day beneath you. Human-warm. Alive-warm. That almost made you stand back up. Almost.

Instead, you shifted closer. One inch. Then another. Your palms pressed flat against the ledge on either side of your thighs, steadying yourself as the backs of your legs met the edge.

For one second, your feet were still on the roof. Safe enough to pretend this was nothing. Then you moved them. One foot forward. Then the other. Your shoes found nothing. Just open space.

Your stomach dipped, but not enough. Not enough to make you scramble back. Not enough to make you choose. Your feet hung over the side of the building.

Below, the hospital looked small. Orderly. Distant. Like a place you used to belong to. Like a place that would keep functioning without you because places always did.

Your chest felt calm. Too calm. Like something inside you had stopped trying to be saved.

Robby’s voice came back, quiet and sharp.

“I don’t know if I can trust you.”

Your fingers rested against the ledge. Not gripping. Not yet. Just resting. You swallowed.

And for the first time… 

You believed him.

“Neither do I.”

The words barely made it out of your mouth. Then you looked down. Not quickly. Not all at once.

Your eyes moved from your shoes to the side of the building, then lower, following the long drop until the parking lot came into focus beneath you.

Ambulance bay lights. White and sterile. Cars lined in neat rows. Painted lines. Concrete islands. A world still organized enough to feel insulting.

For the first time, the height became real. Not symbolic. Not dramatic. Real. The kind of real your body understood before your mind could make language out of it.

Your stomach dipped. Your fingers flexed against the ledge. Below you, the hospital kept breathing. Doors opening. Lights shifting. A figure crossing the lot with keys in hand. Everything ordinary. Everything continuing.

Death looked different from up here. Downstairs, it had noise. Blood. Hands moving fast. Someone calling time. A family member making a sound that stayed in the walls long after they were gone.

Downstairs, death arrived like an emergency. Up here, it waited. Quiet. Patient. Polite. And for one awful, honest second…

You wanted the quiet.

Not death. Not exactly. You didn’t think you wanted to die. You wanted the hurting to stop.

You wanted five seconds where your chest didn’t feel carved open. Five seconds where you didn’t have to be the strong one, the steady one, the almost-attending who could close every loop except the one tightening around your own throat.

You wanted to stop waking up already tired. Stop swallowing pills with shaking hands and calling it maintenance. Stop sitting in therapy trying to explain a loneliness so old it had started to feel like a personality trait. Stop walking into The Pitt every day hoping Robby would look at you like he used to. Stop hating yourself for still needing him to.

Your hands had been resting on the ledge. Barely holding. Now your fingers loosened. Just a little. The concrete pressed into the backs of your thighs. The open air pulled at your shoes.

One lean. One breath. One second where you stopped fighting. A tear slid down your cheek. You didn’t wipe it away. You were so tired. So tired that the thought of falling almost felt like being held.

Behind you, the roof door opened. You didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. For a moment, there was only the scrape of the door. The distant hum of traffic. The last faint echoes of fireworks fading into smoke.

Then everything behind you went still.

“Hey.”

Robby.

Your eyes closed. Of course it was him. 

The person who had taught you how to survive yourself. The person who had made you believe help wasn’t weakness. The person who had looked at the softest part of you today and called it unreliable.

His voice carried carefully across the roof. Not too loud. Not too soft. Like he was trying not to startle you back into your own body too fast.

“Heard Dana sent everyone home after the fireworks,” he said. “You left your bag and phone downstairs.”

You didn’t move. Your eyes stayed fixed somewhere below the parking lot lights. Behind you, he rubbed the back of his neck. You heard the faint scrape of his palm against skin, the restless shift of his fingers into his hair before they dropped away.

“Figured I’d come find you before your stuff disappeared into the nurses’ station permanently.”

Nothing. No answer. No shift of your shoulders. No sign you had heard him at all. And somehow, that scared him more.

For once, Robby didn’t fill the silence with sarcasm. He just stood there. Seeing you. Seeing the ledge. Seeing the open air beneath your feet. Seeing the way your hands were barely touching the concrete at all.

Whatever he had come up here planning to say disappeared. Completely. His mouth opened. Nothing came out. You heard it. That tiny failure. That impossible silence from the man who always had a next step.

He swallowed.

“You’re probably ready to pass out,” he added, trying for light. “Hell of a shift.”

Still nothing. The silence stretched. But he kept talking anyway. Not because he thought it was working. Because stopping felt worse. Because if he could keep the conversation ordinary long enough, maybe you would remember how to be part of it.

“Your phone keeps lighting up,” he said. “A ton of texts. Apparently you’re very popular.”

A breath pulled in behind you. Too careful. Too controlled. Like he was trying to manage himself before he could manage you.

“Pretty sure if you don’t reply soon, the battery’s gonna die.”

Your hand didn’t move. Your feet hung over open air. The roof went quiet except for the city below and the uneven rhythm of Robby trying to breathe normally.

“I was thinking we could walk down,” he said, still trying to sound like this was normal. “Get your bag. Get you out of here before the night shift crazies start multiplying.”

Your fingers flexed against the concrete. He saw it. The movement was small, but it hit him like a monitor alarm. His shoe scraped once against the roof. Stopped. He’d almost moved. Almost.

You heard him drag a hand over the back of his head, fingers catching in his hair before falling to his side.

“You left your pen downstairs,” he said quietly. “The good one.”

Your fingers twitched weakly against the ledge.

Robby swallowed hard.

“Honestly, if we don’t go down soon, someone might steal it.”

A shaky breath left him that almost sounded like a laugh.

“I heard Ellis has been trying to steal that pen for months.”

Your right hand lifted from the concrete. Not purposeful. That was the worst part. It looked absentminded. Like you had forgotten why it was there in the first place.

Robby’s breath caught. The sound was small. Sharp. Impossible to miss. His voice came back thinner than before.

“Don’t move forward.”

The words landed carefully. Terrified.

“If you move, move back. Just back.”

A small, broken laugh left you.

“That’s usually my line.”

Robby went quiet long enough for you to hear his hand return to the back of his neck, rubbing once, twice, harder than before.

“Yeah,” he said, voice catching. “Hope you don’t mind me borrowing it tonight.”

He moved. Not closer. Not yet. Just a shift of weight. One hand lifted slightly, dropped again because even that felt like too much. His fingers flexed at his side, useless and frantic, looking for something to do when there was nothing he could safely touch.

You stared down at the ground. Your heart should have been racing. It wasn’t. That scared you more than anything.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” you said.

Soft. Almost peaceful.

The breath behind you disappeared. For one awful second, there was nothing from him at all. No movement. No correction. No sound except the city below. But he didn’t say no. He swallowed it. Forced it down hard enough you could hear the breath catch in his throat.

“Okay,” he said instead.

His voice shook on the word. He rubbed the back of his neck again, faster this time, like he was trying to keep himself inside his own body.

“Okay. You don’t have to do this anymore tonight.”

You didn’t look at him.

“You can try again tomorrow,” he said, careful with every syllable. “Not the whole thing. Not all of it. Just tomorrow.”

His breath hitched.

“Tonight, you just have to move back.”

“I’m tired.”

“I know.”

“You don’t.”

“You’re right.” His voice shook. “You’re right, I don’t. Not exactly. Not yours. But I know enough. I know enough to know that quiet you’re chasing is lying to you.”

Your fingers loosened. Just a little. 

Robby saw it. His whole body went still. Too still.

“Okay,” he said carefully, fighting to keep his voice even. “I need both hands on the ledge.”

You didn’t.

His breath caught, but he swallowed it down.

“Not fast,” he added. “Just put them back where they were.”

For one suspended second, you didn’t.

His breathing changed. Fast. Ragged. The kind of breathing Robby corrected in patients and ignored in himself.

“Please,” he said.

That got through. Not enough to bring you back. Enough to make your fingers twitch.

Robby took one step closer. You shifted. He stopped so hard his shoes scraped against the roof.

“Okay. Okay. I’m stopping.” He lifted both hands, palms out. “See? I’m not coming closer. I’m not touching you. Just—hands back on the ledge.”

“I don’t trust myself.”

The words hollowed him out. You heard it in the silence behind you. The way his breathing stopped for half a second. The soft scrape of his shoe against the roof as he caught himself from moving too quickly.

His hand dragged over the back of his neck again, fingers pressing hard into the muscle there before catching briefly in his hair.

“Okay,” he said carefully.

His voice sounded lower now. Pulled tight.

“That’s okay.”

You stared down at the parking lot lights. Your right hand hovered slightly above the concrete again.

Robby’s breath caught. You heard him swallow it back down.

“You don’t have to trust yourself for the whole night,” he said. “Just the next ten seconds.”

A wet laugh left you. Wrong. Empty.

“You told me you couldn’t trust me.”

Robby went quiet. Not defensive. Not angry. Just quiet. You heard him breathe in too sharply through his nose.

“I was wrong.”

“You meant it.”

His hand scraped over the back of his neck again.

“I’m sorry.”

Your fingers flexed weakly against the ledge.

“You were ugly.”

“I know.”

“You were cruel.”

His breath hitched.

“I know.”

Your voice thinned into something smaller.

“You made me feel like the sickest part of me was the truest part.”

Behind you, Robby made a sound like the words had gone straight through him. Not loud. Worse. Human.

“I’m sorry,” he said, rough now. “I’m so sorry.”

Behind you, his breathing turned uneven.

His hand dragged over the back of his neck again, rough and restless. Not the attending everyone feared. Not the teacher with impossible standards. Not the man who could run a trauma bay on instinct and fury. Just a person. Terrified. Choking on the damage he had done.

“I needed my teacher,” you whispered. “And you punished me for it.”

His breath broke. A sound came out of him like he had tried to swallow a sob and failed halfway.

“I know.”

Your right hand slipped off the ledge. Fully. Dropped into your lap. Your body tilted forward. One inch. Maybe less. Enough.

The metal rail rattled under his hand. His shoe scraped once against the roof and stopped. For one second, even his breathing vanished. This wasn’t a conversation anymore. You were going to fall. Even you knew it.

Robby moved before thought could stop him, then caught himself halfway, every muscle locked so hard he was trembling.

“Left hand stays,” he said, voice raw, urgent. “Left hand stays on the ledge. Do you hear me?”

You stared down. Your other hand started to lift. Slowly. Like your body had decided something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

“Kid.” Robby’s voice cracked. “Hands. Both hands back now.”

Kid.

The word hit somewhere old. Somewhere trained by years of following his voice through chaos.

Your palm slammed back onto the concrete. Then the other. Hard. Desperate. Your knuckles went white.

Robby bent forward slightly, hands braced on his own knees for half a second, like relief had nearly taken him down. But he didn’t let himself stay there. Couldn’t. He straightened, breathing too fast.

“Good,” he said, voice shaking. “Good. That’s good. Stay there.”

A sob caught in your throat.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Sound like you still know how to take care of me.”

His voice twisted. “I do know how.”

His voice broke on the last word. For a second, neither of you moved.

The roof hummed around you. The city below kept breathing. Your hands stayed loose against the concrete, not gripping hard enough to feel safe.

Robby dragged a hand over the back of his head.

“I just stopped doing it.”

That was worse. Somehow, that was worse. Because it wasn’t that he had forgotten how to take care of you. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen you. He had known. He had seen. He had stopped anyway.

Your breath fractured. “I hate you.”

The words came out small. Tired. Not angry enough to protect you.

Behind you, Robby went very still. “I know.”

Your throat tightened. A tear slipped down your face, warm and quiet. “I don’t.”

His breath caught. “I know that too.”

Your fingers curled faintly against the ledge. “I wanted you to come back.”

The words barely made it past your mouth.

Robby’s voice sounded scraped raw. “I’m here now.”

Your eyes stayed on the parking lot below. The lights blurred.

“Too late.”

He took it. No defense. No correction. No sharp little Robby answer to make it easier for either of you. Just silence. His hand moved to the back of his neck again. Rubbed once. Stopped. Dropped uselessly to his side. 

Behind you, his hand found the metal rail between you and him. The line. The awful, visible line. Safe roof on his side. Open air on yours. For the first time, Robby seemed to understand exactly where he was standing. On the wrong side of the lesson.

For years, he had been the one telling residents not to freeze. Not to panic. Not to let fear make their hands stupid. Now his hands were shaking. Now his chest was heaving. Now he was staring at one of his own residents and trying to convince them that life was still worth staying for.

“Maybe it is too late,” he said, voice hoarse. “Maybe I don’t get to fix what I did tonight. Maybe I don’t get to fix the last ten months.”

You cried silently, staring down.

“But late is what I have,” he said. “So I’m going to use it.”

He took another careful step. Then stopped. Waited.

You didn’t tell him no.

His throat worked.

“You told that girl downstairs fear could be physical and still matter.”

Your fingers tightened slightly.

He saw it. Held onto it.

“You were right. You were right when you said it to her, and you’re right now. This fear matters. Your pain matters. But it does not get to make the decision alone.”

“I don’t want tomorrow.”

“I know.” Robby swallowed hard. “Then don’t take tomorrow. Take the next minute.”

“I don’t know what’s left.”

“You are.”

“That’s not enough.”

“It is to Samira.”

Your face crumpled.

“It is to Dana,” he pressed, voice shaking but stronger now. “It is to McKay. Mel. Perlah. Princess. Everyone who stood on this roof tonight and breathed a little easier because you were standing with them.”

“They don’t need me.”

“They do. Not because you’re useful. Not because you’re an R4. Not because you catch mistakes and close charts and make scared patients feel less stupid for being scared.”

He took another step. Closer now. Close enough to reach the railing. His hand closed around it. The metal clanged softly under his grip. The sound made both of you flinch.

He froze. You froze. Your hands stayed down. Barely.

Robby’s voice dropped. “They need you because you are not just what you can do for people.”

You sobbed once. Hard. “I don’t believe that.”

“I know,” he said. “So I believe it for you tonight.”

His hand curled tighter around the metal until his knuckles blanched.

“You want a reason to stay?” he asked, choking on it now. “Stay because Samira is going to come back looking for you, and she deserves to find you breathing. Stay because Dana told you to go home, and she meant home, not gone.”

Your shoulders shook.

“Stay because Langdon still owes you at least one terrible joke. Stay because Javadi needs someone to tell her she’s allowed to still make mistakes. Stay because there is still coffee that tastes like burnt plastic and patients who apologize for needing help and people who love you badly, stupidly, imperfectly, but still love you.”

You shook your head. Barely. But your body went with it. Your shoulder dipped. Your weight shifted.

The open air seemed to notice before you did.

Robby’s grip on the railing tightened hard enough that the metal gave a small, sharp sound under his hand.

“Don’t,” he said.

The word came out too fast. He swallowed, forced his voice lower.

“Don’t move your head like that. Not while you’re sitting there.”

Your breath shook. “I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I can’t.”

“You can,” he said, and there was panic under the steadiness now, cracking through despite him. “Because you’re stubborn as hell.”

His hand scraped over the back of his neck, then dropped back to the railing.

“And because you’ve been correcting my terrible bedside manner since you were a med student.”

Your fingers twitched against the ledge.

His breath snapped when your fingers twitched. He stayed exactly where he was. Waited. Your hand held. Barely. A broken sound left you. Not a laugh. Not really. But close enough that Robby looked like he might come apart from relief.

“That’s it,” he whispered, nearly breaking.

Then your fingers slipped again. Both of them. Not fully. But enough. The tiny laugh died. The world lurched. Your body tilted forward. The metal rail jerked under his grip.

His breath tore out of him.

“Kid—”

This time it wasn’t command. It was begging.

You looked at him then. Really looked. And suddenly the calm was gone.

All of it.

The height rushed back into your body at once. The drop. The air. The fact that your feet were hanging over nothing. The fact that your hands were failing. The fact that some part of you had wanted this, and now every living piece of you was screaming.

Your eyes went wide. Your voice came out small. Childlike.

“I’m scared.”

The words changed everything.

Robby saw it happen. The emptiness in your face cracked. The awful stillness broke apart. Your eyes widened, and suddenly you were there again. Not gone. Not calm. Not chasing the quiet anymore.

There. Terrified. Alive.

Your breath caught hard enough for him to hear it. Your fingers, loose against the ledge a second ago, clawed suddenly at the concrete. Searching for purchase. Searching for anything.

Your shoulders jerked backward like your body had finally understood what your mind had tried to leave behind.

You didn’t want to fall. Not anymore.

“Robby—”

His name barely made it out of your mouth. Then your weight shifted. Too far. The ledge slipped beneath your palms. 

Your eyes locked on his. And the fear in them gutted him. It wasn’t peace. It wasn’t surrender. It wasn’t a choice anymore. It was panic. Regret. Please.

Your hand shot out toward him. Not gracefully. Not dramatically. Desperate. Fingers spread. Reaching for him. Reaching for the man who had taught you how to stay upright in chaos. Reaching like some part of you still believed he could catch you if you asked him to.

Robby moved. No thought. No plan. No careful distance. Just panic wearing his body. He lunged across the railing hard enough for the metal to slam into his ribs, one arm shooting out toward your hand.

For half a second, your fingers brushed his. Skin against skin. Almost. His hand closed too late. He caught fabric instead. The back of your scrub top bunched in his fist, tight and real and impossible. For one breath, he had you.

He felt your weight pull against his arm. Felt the sharp drag of cloth through his fingers. Felt your body jolt like maybe, maybe, maybe…

Your eyes stayed on his. Wide. Wet. Terrified. You were still reaching. Still trying. Your mouth opened around one last broken sound. Not his name this time. Just fear. 

Then the fabric gave. Not in one clean motion. Slowly. Cruelly. Thread by thread, inch by inch, slipping through his fist while his hand clenched harder, while his nails scraped uselessly against cloth, while every muscle in his body screamed no.

Your fingers slid away from his wrist. Your face changed. You knew. He saw the exact second you knew. That there was no ground beneath you anymore. That he was too late. That wanting to live had come back one heartbeat too late.

Robby’s mouth opened. Nothing came out at first. Your hand reached for him again, smaller now, farther away than it should have been. Then your name tore out of him. Raw. Destroyed. Begging the air to give you back.

And then you were gone.

Robby hit the railing so hard the metal screamed beneath him. His arm plunged into empty space, fingers closing over nothing, then opening again, reaching again, like some broken part of him still thought there was a way to catch you if he just refused to stop trying.

But there was only air. Only the drop. Only the place where your terrified eyes had been. Only the terrible truth that you had changed your mind. And he had still been too late.

Below, the world cracked open. Not the fall itself. The sound after. For one impossible second, there was nothing. Then the scream came.

It ripped upward from the ambulance bay so sharply that Robby’s whole body jerked against the railing. Not one voice. Several. Overlapping. Different pitches of horror colliding into each other.

Someone screamed like they had seen something no human being should ever have to see. Another voice shouted. Then another.

A sound of shock moved through the crowd beneath him in waves. Not words anymore. Just raw human devastation. Gasps. Cries. Someone sobbing openly. Someone shouting directions with panic cracking through every syllable.

Robby heard all of it. Every second. Every horrible sound. And he couldn’t make himself move. His hands stayed locked around the railing so tightly they hurt. His breathing came apart in shallow, uneven bursts.

“No,” he whispered.

The word disappeared into the noise below. Another scream tore through the ambulance bay. Closer together now. More frantic. More people arriving. More voices reacting to what they were seeing.

And through all of it, Robby stayed bent over the railing, staring into the dark space where you had disappeared.

His arm still reached downward. Still searching. His fingers opening and closing around nothing. His brain refused to catch up.

You had been there. Right there. Your fingers had touched his. Your eyes had locked onto his with sudden, terrible fear.

“I’m scared.”

He had heard it. He had watched you come back to yourself. Watched the calm vanish. Watched survival hit you too late. And now below him, the entire ambulance bay sounded like grief before grief even had a name yet.

A stretcher rattled violently somewhere beneath him. Someone shouted. Someone cried out so hard it turned into sobbing halfway through. Robby’s stomach twisted. Because he knew those sounds. He knew what people sounded like when hope collapsed in real time.

“No,” he said again, louder now.

But his voice broke apart. Below, the noise only grew. More footsteps. More panic. More horror spreading outward from one terrible point on the concrete.

And somewhere inside all of it was the unbearable truth his mind still refused to hold completely… 

You had changed your mind. You had wanted to live. And he had still been too late.

The roof door burst open behind him.

“Robby?”

Dana’s voice hit the night hard. 

Mohan was right behind her, breathless and already scared in the specific way people got scared when they sensed disaster before they understood it.

“What happened?”

Robby didn’t turn. 

Dana’s stomach dropped immediately. He was bent halfway over the railing, one hand still stretched out into empty space like his body hadn’t realized yet there was nothing left to grab.

“Robby,” Dana said again, sharper now.

Still nothing.

Then the screams below reached them. Not clear enough to understand. Not close enough to separate into words. Just sound. Human panic rising up the side of the building in waves.

Mohan froze. Not fully understanding yet. Just enough. Her eyes darted across the roof. The ledge. The empty stretch of concrete beside it. The railing. The wrong side of the railing. And not you.

“No,” she said immediately. Small. Reflexive. 

She looked toward the utility boxes. The corners of the roof. The door. Like maybe you had moved. Like maybe this was some horrible misunderstanding and you were sitting against a wall crying somewhere.

“No,” she said again, faster now, turning in a full circle. “Where are they?”

Dana’s face changed. 

Mohan looked back at Robby. “You were with them.”

Robby finally turned around. His face wasn’t a face anymore. Just shock stretched over skin.

Mohan’s pulse spiked. “Where are they!”

Robby’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Below them, the noise kept rising. Not voices anymore. Not anything Mohan could make sense of. Just alarm. Horror. A terrible rush of movement and sound spreading somewhere beneath them.

Dana’s eyes shut for half a second. That was enough. 

Mohan shoved past her. “No.”

Dana grabbed for her arm too late. “Samira—”

“No.”

Mohan ran for the railing. Not because she believed it. Because she didn’t. 

Because her brain refused it so violently that some part of her still expected to look over the edge and see you standing on a lower landing or crouched somewhere crying or hurt but alive. Anything except what the sounds below were trying to tell her.

Dana caught the back of Mohan’s scrub top just as she reached the ledge.

“Don’t.”

Mohan fought her instantly. “Let me go!”

“No.”

“Dana, let me see!”

“You do not need to see that.”

Mohan twisted violently in her grip, trying to force herself toward the edge anyway.

“I left them here!” she screamed. “I left them alone!”

Her voice cracked apart on the last word.

Dana wrapped both arms around her waist now, physically holding her back from the railing.

“Samira, stop.”

“No!”

Mohan’s eyes were fixed on the edge like if she looked hard enough reality would change.

“They were right here,” she whispered frantically. “They were right here.”

Below, the sound kept swelling. Distant. Distorted. Devastated. The kind of noise people made when something irreversible happened in front of them.

Mohan heard it. And still her brain kept rejecting it.

“No,” she whispered again.

Then her eyes found Robby. He was still standing there beside the railing. Still shaking. Still staring downward like part of him had gone over with you and never come back. 

Mohan saw his empty hand. Saw the shape of guilt already crushing him alive. And suddenly her denial found somewhere to go.

“You.”

Robby flinched hard enough that Dana saw it.

“You were with them.”

His throat moved. No words.

Mohan’s eyes narrowed through her tears. 

“Why were you up here?”

Robby’s face twitched.

Her voice shook harder. 

“Why were you here?”

Dana closed her eyes.

Mohan’s face crumpled, anger folding into panic all over again.

“I left them alone,” she said. “I left because they asked me to. Because they looked me in the eye and told me they needed a minute.”

Her eyes flicked to the railing. The empty ledge. The wrong side of it.

“And somehow you were the one who found them?”

Robby’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. 

Mohan shook her head.

“No. No, that doesn’t make sense.”

Then she looked back at him, and the grief sharpened into something brutal.

“What did you say to them?”

Robby looked like the words cut straight through him.

“What did you say!” she screamed.

Dana’s grip tightened around Mohan’s waist. “Samira.”

“No!” Mohan snapped. “Why else would he be here?”

Robby couldn’t answer.

Mohan laughed once, broken and horrified. 

“What, did you come up here to push them over the edge one last time? Is that it?”

Robby’s face collapsed.

“Did you need one more chance to tell them they weren’t good enough before you left?” she spat. “One more private correction? One more way to make them feel unstable and useless where nobody else could hear?”

“Samira,” Dana warned, but her own voice was shaking now.

“No,” Mohan choked out. “No, he knew. He knew they were hurting.”

Below them, another wave of sound rose from the ambulance bay. 

Mohan heard it and broke completely. Because no one sounded like that unless there was nothing left to hope for. Her knees buckled. Dana caught her weight immediately, dragging her back from the railing while Mohan sobbed against her shoulder.

“I should’ve stayed,” Mohan choked out. “I should’ve stayed with them.”

Dana held her tighter. “They asked you not to.”

“I knew better!” Her voice echoed across the roof. “I knew something was wrong. I knew they weren’t okay. I knew and I still walked away!”

Then she looked at Robby again. And whatever mercy she might have had left disappeared.

“You did this.”

Robby didn’t deny it. That made it worse.

“You knew they were hurting,” Mohan sobbed. “You knew they were getting smaller every single day, and you kept going. You kept pushing. You kept cutting them open in front of everyone like it was teaching.”

Robby stared at her like he deserved every word.

“You made them think being sick made them dangerous,” Mohan said, voice breaking into something almost unrecognizable. “You made them think the part of them they trusted you with was ugly.”

His breath hitched.

Mohan shoved weakly at Dana’s arms, desperate now, grief turning frantic because there was nowhere for it to go.

“They just wanted you to be proud of them!” she screamed. “That’s all they wanted. God, Robby, they wanted your approval so badly they didn’t even know how to stand without it anymore!”

Dana’s face crumpled.

Robby looked back toward the ledge. His voice came out hollow.

“I didn’t want them in emergency medicine.”

Mohan went still. Dana’s grip loosened slightly. 

Robby stared at nothing.

“This place was going to kill them.”

“I thought if they couldn’t be happy they’d leave,” Robby whispered. “If I made them angry enough. If I made them hate me enough. They’d get out before this place took the rest of them.”

His face twisted.

“And I didn’t want them to miss me when I was gone.”

Mohan looked at him like he had slapped her. 

“You selfish son of a bitch.”

Robby closed his eyes. 

“I know.”

“You don’t know!” she spat through tears. “You don’t get to know! They’re gone, and you’re still standing here!”

That was the word that finally landed.

Gone.

Robby’s knees buckled. Dana let go of Mohan only long enough to catch him.

“Robby.”

He didn’t respond.

“Robby, look at me.”

He stared past her. 

Dana grabbed both sides of his jacket and forced herself into his line of sight.

“You are coming off this roof.”

“I can’t.”

“You are.”

“I have to—”

“No,” Dana said, voice breaking now. “The only thing you have to do is to come down.”

His face collapsed. For a second, it looked like grief might take him physically apart. His mouth opened around a sound that didn’t become words. His hands lifted uselessly, still shaking, still curled like they remembered losing hold.

Dana pulled him against her before he could fall. Robby went stiff at first. Then he broke. Not loudly. Not at first. Just one ruined breath against Dana’s shoulder. Then another. Then his whole body folded into it.

Dana held him with one arm around his back and one hand at the back of his head, her own face wet, her jaw trembling with the effort of staying upright.

“I didn’t catch them,” he choked.

Dana squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s okay.”

“I had them.”

“Breathe.”

“I had them, Dana.”

“It’s okay. Just breathe.”

Mohan stood a few feet away, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe.

For one awful second, all three of them were just bodies on a roof, surrounded by smoke and heat and the echo of fireworks, listening to the world below rearrange itself around your absence.

Then another set of footsteps hit the roof. 

Abbot. 

He stopped at the door. Took in Dana holding Robby. Mohan folded over herself. The empty ledge. His face went slack.

“No.”

Dana looked at him. That was all it took. Abbot crossed the roof and caught Robby by the back of the neck, firm and grounding.

“Michael.”

Robby made a broken sound. Abbot’s hand tightened.

“Look at me.”

Robby didn’t. Abbot stepped closer, voice low and rough.

“Michael. You are walking off this roof.”

Robby shook his head once, barely. Abbot’s face cracked. Then he moved in beside Dana and held him too. Not carefully. Not professionally. Like if he and Dana put enough hands on him, they could keep what was left of him from following you over the edge.

Robby’s knees gave anyway. Dana and Abbot went down with him. Mohan screamed into both hands. Robby knelt on the concrete between them, sobbing now, fully and violently, his hands fisted in Dana’s sleeve and Abbot’s jacket like he was drowning on dry land.

“They changed their mind,” he choked. “They wanted to live.”

Abbot’s eyes filled. He looked at Dana over Robby’s bowed head. Neither of them knew what to say. Because ‘no’ wasn’t enough. Not yet. Maybe not ever. 

So Abbot pressed his forehead briefly against the side of Robby’s head and said the only true thing left.

“Breathe.”

Robby couldn’t. Dana held tighter.

“Breathe anyway.”

The rest came apart in fragments. The walk downstairs. Dana on one side. Abbot on the other. Mohan behind them, shaking so badly someone had to guide her by the elbow. 

Police. Hospital administration. Questions. Statements. Hands on his shoulders. Voices saying his name. Robby remembered none of it clearly. Only pieces.

Dana saying, “Not now,” to someone who wanted answers.

Abbot saying, “Back off,” in a voice so cold the hallway went silent.

Mohan was crying somewhere he couldn’t see.

Your name spoken too gently by strangers. Your bag under the desk. Your phone lighting up again and again. Your good pen clipped to the front pocket.

At some point, someone told him there was nothing they could do. Or maybe no one did. Maybe he just knew from the way everyone stopped looking directly at him.

—

Later that night, Robby found himself sitting beside your bed.

He didn’t remember walking there. Didn’t remember asking. Didn’t remember Dana’s hand leaving his shoulder or Abbot’s voice telling someone to give him a minute.

There was a blanket over you. White. Pulled all the way up. Not carelessly. Not like someone was hiding you. Carefully. Tenderly. With the kind of mercy people offered when there was nothing left to fix except dignity.

Only one hand had been left uncovered. Just one. Your hand rested against the sheet, still and cold and unbearably familiar. And around your wrist was your watch.

The one you always wore. The one Robby had seen a hundred times while you checked pulses, signed charts, reached for coffee, stole your pen back with a muttered threat under your breath. The glass was cracked now. The hands had stopped.

Robby stared at it until his vision blurred.

That was how they had known. Not your face. Not your voice. Not any of the things that made you you. A watch. A broken watch on a still wrist. Your time of death held there in shattered glass.

His breath folded in on itself. 

Your hands had always been doing something. Typing. Charting. Stealing your pen back. Holding coffee you never finished. Pressing against your chest when the world got too loud. Now your hand did nothing.

Robby sat beside the bed and tried to understand a world where that was allowed. Where you could be still and he could be breathing. Where your watch could be broken at the exact minute your life ended, and his heart could keep going anyway, steady and obscene inside his chest.

His hands curled between his knees until his knuckles went pale.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

The room didn’t answer. There was no one left in it who could.

His eyes stayed on your uncovered hand. On the cracked watch face. On the stopped hands beneath the fractured glass. Time had ended for you. And somehow, impossibly, it had not ended for him.

“No,” he whispered. “No, that’s not enough.”

His breath shook.

“I did this.”

The words barely made it out.

“I keep wanting there to be another explanation. Trauma. Grief. The job. Anything that makes it sound less like a choice.”

His eyes burned. 

“But I chose it.”

A tear dropped onto the floor.

“I saw you getting worse, and I kept going.”

His mouth twisted like the words made him sick.

“I told myself I didn’t want you here because emergency medicine was killing you. Because you cared too much. Because this place takes people like you and teaches them to confuse being useful with being alive.”

He swallowed hard.

“And maybe part of that was true.”

His voice cracked.

“But it wasn’t all of it.”

He looked down at his hands.

“I didn’t want you to need me. I didn’t want you waiting for me after I left. I didn’t want to look back from that sabbatical and know I mattered enough to hurt you.”

His face folded.

“So I hurt you first.”

The silence pressed in.

“I thought if I made you hate me, you’d survive me leaving.”

His breath broke.

“But I didn’t make you hate me.”

He looked at the hospital white covering you. The single hand left uncovered. The watch that had become the only proof anyone could bear to name.

“I made you hate yourself.”

A sob caught in his throat.

“I made you believe the sickest part of you was the truest part. I made you believe you were dangerous. I made you believe I was right.”

His hand lifted like he wanted to touch yours. Then stopped.

“I was supposed to know better.”

His voice shattered.

“I did know better.”

The room hummed around him. Your hand stayed still. And now there was nothing left inside him trying to survive. That was the worst part. Not the grief. Not even the horror.

The relief.

Because your death had finally given him what he had been reaching toward for months. A reason. A sentence. A punishment that felt clean enough to deserve.

Robby stared at the blanket covering your body. At the careful mercy of it. At the way they had hidden what the fall had taken because dignity was the last thing anyone could still give you.

His fingers drifted to the Star of David at his throat. The metal was warm from his skin. He gripped it hard enough for the points to bite into his palm. He wanted it to hurt. 

He had pushed God out years ago. Out of trauma bays. Out of death. Out of every prayer that came too late to matter.

But this almost felt like judgment. Not from God. From you. From the empty room. From the stopped watch on your wrist.

“You died because of me,” he whispered.

No denial came. No voice in his head argued back. Just the truth sitting beside him, covered in white.

“I killed you.”

The words wrecked him because he meant them. Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. Completely. And the second he said it, some ruined part of him went quiet. Because if he had killed you, then maybe he deserved to die too. Not eventually. Not abstractly. Now.

The thought did not scare him. His grief had narrowed the world until there was only you, still and covered, and him, breathing when he shouldn’t be.

He thought of his sabbatical. Three months gone. Three months everyone already expected him to disappear into. An exit that had been waiting for him long before tonight. Before the roof. Before your hand slipped through his.

He had told himself he was tired. Burned out. Done. He had told himself leaving would be quieter if everyone hated him first. Now he knew the truth. He had been rehearsing his own absence. And your death had given him permission to stop pretending it was anything else.

His grip tightened around the star until pain sparked through his palm.

“You wanted to live,” he choked out.

That was the part that destroyed him. Not only that you died. That at the end, you changed your mind. He had seen it happen.

The terror crashing back into your face. Your hand reaching for him. Your body trying, too late, to come back from the edge. You had wanted to live. And by the time you did, he had already made dying feel easier.

A sob tore out of him.

He bent forward until his forehead nearly touched the edge of the bed.

“I’m sorry, kid,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Your hand did not move. The watch did not start again. The room gave him nothing. He didn’t want comfort. He didn’t want forgiveness. He wanted consequence. He wanted the kind of punishment that ended.

The door opened quietly. Robby didn’t turn.

Mohan stepped inside. Her face was destroyed. Eyes swollen. Hair loose around her face. She looked younger than she had that morning. Younger and older and hollowed out.

For a while, she just stood there looking at you.

Then her mouth trembled.

“They asked me to leave,” she said.

She closed her eyes.

“They told me they needed a second alone.”

Her body shook once.

“I should’ve stayed anyway.”

Robby looked down.

Mohan wiped at her face roughly, almost angry at the tears for being there.

“I keep hearing them say ‘okay’.”

Her voice cracked once.

“I keep hearing myself say it back.”

Robby said nothing.

Mohan looked at him then. There was no softness in her face anymore. Only grief sharpened into something clean and merciless.

“I talked to Dana and Abbot.”

Robby went still.

“They think your sabbatical is suicide mission.”

His eyes lifted slowly.

Mohan stepped closer. 

“If you are sitting here thinking their death gives you permission to end yours, stop.”

Robby flinched.

Her voice stayed cold.

“You don’t get that.”

“Mohan—”

“No.” Her voice cut through his like a blade. “You do not get that.”

His mouth closed.

“You don’t get to hurt them, lose them, and then use their death as your exit. You don’t get to make yourself the second tragedy and pretend it’s guilt. You don’t get to make the rest of us bury you too because living with what you did feels unbearable.”

Robby’s breath hitched.

“Good,” Mohan said.

His eyes flicked to hers.

“Let it be unbearable.”

The words landed hard.

Mohan’s jaw trembled, but she didn’t look away.

“They don’t get to leave this room. They don’t get tomorrow. They don’t get therapy. They don’t get to heal from what you did or what this place did or how tired they were.”

A tear slipped down her cheek.

“You do.”

Robby’s face crumpled.

“So no,” she said, voice lower now. Blunter. “You don’t get to be free by dying.”

He looked away.

Mohan stepped closer anyway.

“You live. That is your punishment.”

His breath fractured.

“You wake up tomorrow, and they don’t. You walk into work, and they don’t. You hear their voice every time the building gets quiet. You remember their hand slipping through yours. You remember that they were scared. You remember that at the very end, all they wanted was to live.”

Robby’s shoulders shook.

“And you were too late.”

He bent forward like the words had gone through him.

Mohan didn’t soften. Not this time.

“And then you get help,” she said. “Real help. The help they don’t get anymore.”

His eyes burned.

“You go to therapy. You take a break. You come back. You tell the truth. You let Dana and Abbot watch you. You let people be angry. You let me hate you.”

Robby looked up.

Her face was wet. Cold. Furious.

“I hate you right now. I hate you so much I can barely stand in this room with you.”

His face folded.

“And you don’t get to run from that either.”

Silence. 

The room hummed around them. Your hand stayed still against the blanket.

Mohan’s voice dropped, each word blunt enough to bruise.

“You live so everyone who loved them gets to hate you.”

Robby’s breath broke.

“You live so we get to be furious. So we get to look at you and remember what you did. So you don’t get the mercy of disappearing before anyone can hold you responsible.”

“Mohan,” he whispered.

“No.” She shook her head once. “You asked for this when you decided your fear mattered more than their life.”

The words hit so hard he looked physically sick.

Mohan blinked through tears.

“And the worst part?” Her voice cracked, but the anger stayed. “The worst part is they would still want you to get help.”

Robby shut his eyes.

“They would hate what I’m saying to you right now.”

Her mouth twisted.

“They’d probably tell me I’m being cruel. They’d probably tell me you’re hurting too. They’d probably still find a way to make room for you, because that’s what they did. That’s what killed them.”

A sob tried to break through her voice. She swallowed it down.

“After everything you said to them, after everything you made ugly, they would still want you to live long enough to become better.”

Her voice hardened again.

“So do it.”

Robby stared at her.

“Not because you deserve peace. Not because this makes anything right. Not because you get to forgive yourself someday and call it healing.”

She stepped closer.

“Because they don’t get to heal, and you do. Because they wanted to live, and you still can. Because the only decent thing left for you to do is become someone who never would have done this to them.”

Robby whispered, “I don’t know how.”

Mohan’s face twisted.

“Then figure it out,” she said. “They don’t get to anymore.”

Silence. That one landed differently.

He looked toward your hand. The broken watch. The stillness.

Mohan followed his gaze, and for one second, the anger cracked. Grief broke through raw and ugly. She stepped to the bed and touched your uncovered hand with two fingers. Barely. Carefully. Like anything more might break what was left of her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to you. “I should’ve stayed.”

Robby’s eyes filled.

Mohan pulled her hand back. 

At the door, she stopped and looked at him one last time.

“They just wanted you to be proud of them.”

Robby bowed his head.

“And they were still trying,” Mohan said, voice raw. “Even after you made it hurt. Even after you made it ugly. They were still trying to become the doctor you told them they could be.”

Her face hardened through the tears.

“So do it.”

Robby looked up.

“Become the man they thought you were,” she said. “And live with knowing they will never be able to see it.”

Then she left.

Robby sat alone beside your bed. The room hummed around him. Your hand stayed still. For a long time, he thought punishment should feel like an ending. Something sharp. Something final. Something he could walk into and be done with.

But Mohan was right. Punishment was not an ending. Punishment was tomorrow. Waking up in a world where you didn’t. Walking into work and knowing exactly where the air changed. Hearing your voice in every silence. 

Knowing your last word to him had been scared. Knowing his last touch had not been enough. Maybe punishment was living long enough to become someone who would have never let this happen.

Robby reached out. His hand hovered over yours. Then, finally, he touched your fingers. Cold. Still. Real.

A sob bent him forward until his forehead nearly touched the edge of the bed.

“I’m sorry, kid,” he whispered.

No answer. There would never be an answer again.

Eventually, Robby stood. Not because he was ready. Not because grief had loosened. 

Because Dana and Abbot were waiting outside. Because Mohan was right. Because you were gone. Because he was not.

He looked at you one last time. At the single hand they had left uncovered. At the broken watch circling your wrist. At the stillness of fingers that had once reached for him and found nothing.

The rest of you was hidden beneath hospital white. Carefully. Mercifully. Like even in death, someone had tried to protect you from what the fall had taken.

And Robby understood, with a grief so heavy it felt physical, that this was all he would ever be allowed to see of you again. 

For one wild second, he wanted to take the watch. The only piece of you still visible. The only proof that time had once belonged to you too. His fingers twitched. Then stopped.

No. He didn’t get to keep part of you just because he couldn’t survive leaving with nothing. Your time had stopped. The watch stayed with you.

Then he walked out. Dana was in the hall. Abbot stood beside her. Neither of them asked if he was okay. Dana only reached for his hand. Abbot put a palm against the back of his neck. For one second, Robby almost collapsed between them. Then he didn’t.

He kept standing. That was all. That was the punishment. That was the beginning. Behind him, the door stayed closed.

And this time, when Robby walked away, he understood that the punishment was not the moment he lost you. It was every moment after. It was knowing he had put the pain in your voice.

Knowing he had made the roof feel quieter than living. Knowing you had reached for him in the end because some part of you still believed he could save you.

And knowing that, for the rest of his life, he would look for you in every doorway, every shift change, every impossible silence and you would never be there again.

Because he had done this. Because he had pushed you too far. Because by the time he finally reached for you, there was no you left to bring back.

[optimisticplb]

Liability

Original Ending

Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch & Platonic GN Resident Reader

Alternate Ending Here

Summary: After Pittfest, everyone at The Pitt changes, but Robby changes the most. He used to be the mentor who could catch you before you fell. Now he’s colder, sharper, and crueler, acting like cruelty is the same thing as teaching. But on the Fourth of July, when Robby uses the part of you he once helped save against you, you end up on the wrong side of the hospital roof railing, and he’s forced to see just how far he pushed you.

WC: 11K

Tags: Heavy Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempt, Platonic Relationship, Rooftop Scene, No Y/N, Gender Neutral Reader

A/N: This was a request a while back, but I think I accidentally deleted the message. Sorry! So hopefully the person that requested this sees it.

The first few weeks after Pittfest, everyone understood why Robby was different.

How could they not?

The department itself felt different. Same scuffed floors. Same monitors. Same nurses’ station with its bad coffee, half-dead pens, and discharge paperwork that somehow reproduced when no one was looking.

But something had shifted. Something had cracked open and never fully closed.

People spoke softer for a while. Not all the time. Not when EMS rolled in hot or room twelve decided the laws of physics didn’t apply to him. The Pitt was still The Pitt. It demanded motion before grief, charting before sleep, competence before breakdown.

But in the quiet spaces, you could feel it. In the way Dana paused a second longer before snapping at someone. In the way Mohan stared at the board like she could will the names into something less tragic. In the way laughter came back slowly, like everyone had forgotten where they’d left it.

And Robby… Robby had always been hard to read.

That was part of him. He had built himself out of sarcasm, caffeine, bad posture, and the kind of medical instinct people either trusted immediately or resented on principle. He could save your patient, insult your differential, and somehow teach you three things before you realized your pride was bleeding.

But before Pittfest, there had been lightness under it. A grin beneath the sarcasm. A flash of amusement when you got mouthy with him. A low, pleased hum when you caught something before he did. A kind of trust that made you stand taller, because Robby didn’t hand it out cheaply.

When he teased you, it used to feel like permission. Like you belonged close enough to be annoyed by him. When he corrected you, it used to feel like teaching. Like he saw the doctor you were becoming and was stubborn enough to drag them the rest of the way there. And when you pushed too hard, which you always did, Robby noticed before you hit the ground.

He was good at that. Catching you before the fall. Not dramatically. Never dramatically. Robby would rather staple his own hand to a discharge packet than have an earnest emotional conversation in public.

But he caught you anyway.

A granola bar dropped beside your chart without comment.

A firm, “Go drink water before you become my next patient.”

A hand closing around the back of your scrub top when you swayed after twelve hours, steering you into the nearest chair with a muttered, “Very inspiring. Try fainting somewhere with fewer witnesses next time.”

A consult room door closed quietly behind him after a bad case.

“Sit down.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re vertical. Those are different things.”

You had trusted him with that version of you. The not-fine version.

You were an R3 during Pittfest. Experienced enough to know what you were doing. Not experienced enough for what happened. No one was experienced enough for what happened.

Afterward, everyone became a different version of themselves. Langdon went to rehab. Collins moved to Washington. The spaces they left behind became part of the department’s new anatomy. You became an R4. Mohan became an R4.

And Robby was still there. Except he wasn’t. Not the way he used to be.

At first, you told yourself it was grief. Then exhaustion. Then trauma. Then the department falling apart in small, specific ways. But eventually, there was no softer name for it. Robby stopped catching you.

That was the first thing. Not the sharpness. Not the corrections. Not even the impatience. It was the silence where a dry joke used to be. The empty space beside you at the board where he used to appear, coffee in hand, already reading your face before you could fix it.

As an R4, you knew you were supposed to need less. You were supposed to move faster. Think cleaner. Lead without looking over your shoulder every time the room got loud. You were supposed to become the person the lower-level residents looked to, not the person still searching for reassurance from the attending who had taught them how to survive the place.

You knew that. But knowing you had to stand alone didn’t make it hurt less when Robby stopped standing nearby.

Mohan handled it better than you did. Or maybe she was just better at looking like she did. She felt Robby’s distance too. You saw it in the pinch around her mouth when he cut her off during rounds, in the way her fingers tightened around a chart when he redirected an intern away from her.

But Mohan had Abbot now. Not officially. Not sentimentally. Abbot was not built for sentimental mentorship unless the soundtrack involved a cardiac monitor and someone bleeding on his shoes.

But he had become a place for her to land anyway. A steady voice. A second opinion. A dry comment at just the right time to cut through panic without making her feel stupid for having it.

You were happy for her. Mostly. Some days.

Other days, you watched Abbot lean against the counter while Mohan talked through a complicated case, watched him listen like her thinking mattered, watched him correct without carving her open, and something small and ugly twisted behind your ribs.

Not because Mohan didn’t deserve it. Because you missed having that. And the worst part was, you used to.

Robby had been the one, years ago, when you were still a med student running on three hours of sleep and a dangerous amount of perfectionism, who pulled you into an empty consult room after you nearly passed out during a shift.

“Sit down.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re vertical. Those are different things.”

You had laughed then, because it was easier than crying.

Robby hadn’t.

He had leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching you with that exhausted, X-ray stare of his.

“You seeing anyone?”

You blinked. “Like dating?”

“Like a professional who gets paid to listen to the things you’re clearly not saying.”

Your face had gone hot.

“I don’t need—”

“Don’t do that.”

Two words.

Quiet.

Cutting.

And somehow kinder than all the soft concern everyone else had tried to give you.

“You don’t get bonus points for white-knuckling your way through life,” he’d said. “You don’t get a better residency match because you refused help. You just get tired. And then you get dangerous.”

That had shut you up.

Because dangerous was the word that scared you. Not sad. Not anxious.

Dangerous.

Robby had seen that. He had seen you.

Two weeks later, you made the appointment. A month after that, you started medication.

Robby had been the first person to make help sound less like failure and more like maintenance.

Like medicine. Like something you deserved before you collapsed. Which was why the last ten months had felt so much like punishment.

Because now, when you faltered, Robby didn’t pull you aside. He called it out in front of people. Not loudly. Robby didn’t need volume to humiliate you. He had precision.

“If I have to remind you about disposition at this stage, we have a bigger problem.”

“Either run the trauma or step aside for someone who can.”

“Don’t call it caution because you’re afraid to commit.”

“You’re an R4. Stop looking at me like a med student waiting to be rescued.”

Each comment, on its own, was defensible. That was the problem.

Any one of them could be explained away as teaching. Tough love. High standards. Emergency medicine not being a place for ego or indecision.

But together, day after day, they formed a shape you couldn’t ignore. He did not trust you anymore.

You could feel it in the way he stepped around your orders instead of asking about them. The way he redirected R1s and R2s before they reached you. The way his eyes moved past you at the board, landing on Whitaker instead.

Whitaker, brand-new R1, got the version of Robby you used to know. The patient one. The almost-cheerful one. The one who could take a mistake apart without making the person feel like the mistake had swallowed them whole.

“Walk me through it,” Robby would say, standing beside him at the bedside.

And Whitaker would. Haltingly at first. Then stronger. There was room in it. Room to be wrong. Room to learn. Room to become.

You watched it happen from across the floor with a chart open in your hand and an awful heat behind your eyes. You hated yourself for resenting him. Whitaker had done nothing wrong.

But some bitter, exhausted part of you wanted to ask where that version of Robby had gone when you still needed him.

Not to hold your hand. Not to save you. Just to stop looking at you like you had already disappointed him.

Mohan noticed.

She found you one afternoon in the stairwell between shifts, your back against the wall, one hand pressed hard against your sternum like you could physically hold yourself together.

She didn’t ask if you were okay. You loved her for that. Instead, she sat down beside you and handed you a granola bar from her pocket.

“It’s the gross kind,” she said.

You opened one eye. “Why do you have it?”

“Because I keep thinking emergency hunger will make it taste better.”

“Does it?”

“No.”

You huffed something that almost became a laugh. For a minute, neither of you said anything. 

Beyond the stairwell door, The Pitt carried on without you. Overhead pages. Cart wheels. Someone calling for respiratory. A place that did not care if you were falling apart, as long as you could do it quietly and come back useful.

Mohan rested her elbows on her knees.

“He’s doing it to you too,” she said.

You didn’t pretend not to understand.

“Yeah.”

“He’s harder on us.”

“He expects more from us.”

“That’s one explanation.”

You looked over at her.

Mohan stared ahead, jaw tight. “Not the only one.”

Something in your chest sank.

“He doesn’t want us here,” you said.

Mohan didn’t answer right away.

That was answer enough.

Finally, she sighed. “I don’t know what he wants anymore.”

You looked down at the granola bar in your hand. The wrapper crinkled under your thumb.

“Abbot thinks it’s trauma,” Mohan said.

You laughed once, flat and humorless. “Abbot thinks everything is trauma.”

“Abbot is usually right.”

“Annoying habit.”

“Deeply.”

Another silence.

Mohan looked at you carefully. “Are you okay?”

There it was. The question you hated.

You forced a shrug.

“I’m tired.”

Mohan’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes softened.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You looked away. 

For a second, you thought about telling her. 

That you could feel yourself getting worse. That every shift felt like walking into a room where everyone knew you were failing but nobody had decided who would say it first. That you were sleeping less, eating worse, forgetting stupid things, crying in your car before shifts and fixing your face with the resigned efficiency of someone cleaning up a spill.

That Robby’s voice had started following you home.

“R4s should not need reminders for things interns figure out by winter.”

“That’s hesitation, not judgment.”

“You’re too far into this program to look this unsure every time the room gets loud.”

Instead, you said, “I’m fine.”

Mohan looked at you for a long moment. Then she nodded once.

Not because she believed you. Because she knew what it looked like to need the lie.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

And somehow, that made you feel worse.

By July, the department had accepted the new shape of things. Collins was still gone. Robby was still Robby, except sharper now. More distant. More impatient with anything that looked like need. And Langdon was back.

Technically.

He came in on the Fourth of July with his badge clipped to his scrubs and something guarded around his eyes, looking almost like himself if you didn’t know where to look. But you knew where to look.

The room shifted around him differently now. People smiled too carefully. Jokes landed half a second late. Nobody said rehab. Nobody said welcome back too loudly.

And Robby rode him all day. Not cruelly, not exactly. Nothing anyone could point to and say too much.

But enough.

Enough that Langdon’s jaw kept tightening. Enough that Mohan looked away more than once. Enough that you felt something inside you fold in on itself, because Langdon was back and it still didn’t feel right.

If anything, it felt worse. Because for months, some desperate part of you had told itself that maybe the problem was absence.

Langdon gone. Collins gone. Pittfest still echoing. Too many empty spaces.

But Langdon was here now, standing ten feet away from you, alive and sober and trying, and Robby still looked like a man determined to make sure nobody got comfortable enough to need him.

Not Langdon. Not Mohan. Not you.

Especially not you.

And you had learned to stop looking over your shoulder for someone who was no longer there.

Mostly. Almost.

Except some stupid, stubborn part of you kept waiting for him to notice.

Not the mistakes. Not the hesitation.

You.

The way your laugh had gotten thinner. The way you stopped eating during shift. The way you volunteered for the hardest cases because at least exhaustion felt like something you had earned. The way you flinched now when Robby said your name.

He noticed. That was the worst part. You knew he noticed. Robby noticed everything.

So when his eyes flicked to you after you went too quiet at the board, when his gaze paused on your untouched coffee, when his mouth tightened after you blinked too fast at one of his corrections…

He knew. He had to know. He just didn’t come closer.

And every day he didn’t, something in you learned to believe that meant he had chosen not to.

By the morning of the Fourth of July, you were already tired before you reached the ambulance bay doors.

The city had been restless all night. Heat trapped between buildings. Sirens layered over distant fireworks.

People testing their luck with alcohol, grills, illegal explosives, and the kind of confidence that kept emergency departments in business.

Inside, The Pitt was already awake and angry.

Mohan stood near the board, hair pulled back, eyes shadowed but alert. She looked over when you came in and offered you the smallest smile. You gave one back. A weak one. A functional one.

Across the department, Whitaker was talking to Robby near room four, nodding intently while Robby pointed something out on a chart.

Robby looked tired. More tired than usual. His sabbatical started after today. Three months away from The Pitt. Three months without him.

You had spent weeks telling yourself that should feel like relief. Instead, it felt like abandonment with a calendar invite.

Langdon stood near the medication room, one hand braced against the counter, listening while Dana said something low and practical to him. He nodded once, mouth tight, eyes down. He was back. He was really back. And still, somehow, the department felt emptier than it had before.

Robby glanced up. His eyes met yours across the floor. For one second, something moved over his face. Something almost like concern. Then Whitaker asked a question, and Robby looked away. 

Your chest tightened.

Mohan followed your gaze.

“Don’t,” she said softly.

You swallowed.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I know.”

That was the problem with old friends.

They heard you anyway.

—

By noon, The Pitt had become a fireworks safety commercial written by someone with a personal grudge against emergency medicine.

Room three had a second-degree burn across his palm because he “wanted to see if the fuse was still hot.”

Room seven had heat exhaustion, sunburn, and the kind of husband who kept saying she was “being dramatic” until Dana threatened to make him wait outside with the smokers.

Room twelve was drunk, bleeding from the eyebrow, and loudly insisting he had been attacked by a folding chair.

You had not stopped moving in six hours.  Not really. You had signed charts standing up, eaten half a protein bar in two bites, lost your coffee somewhere between radiology and trauma two, and washed someone else’s blood off your wrist in the sink by the med room because the bathroom felt too far away.

It was fine. You were fine. You were an R4. That was what R4s did.

They moved. They handled things. They closed loops before someone had to ask. They anticipated problems before they became Robby-shaped corrections at the nurses’ station.

So you kept moving.

Room six needed discharge papers. Room ten needed repeat labs. Room fourteen’s family wanted an update. Whitaker had a question about a possible ectopic, and you answered it quickly, carefully, without looking over your shoulder to see if Robby had heard.

You did not need him to hear. You did not need him to approve. You did not need anything from him. That was the lie you had been carrying all morning, tucked under your ribs like a blade.

Across the department, Robby stood at the board with one hand on his hip, scanning the names with that tired, sharp focus that made everyone around him straighten without realizing it.

His eyes moved over you once. Paused. Then moved on. Somehow, that was worse than being corrected.

You turned back to the chart in front of you and forced yourself to read the same line three times until it made sense.

“Hey.”

Mohan appeared beside you, voice low.

You didn’t look up. “I’m good.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“That’s why I’m saving time.”

She didn’t laugh. That made your throat tighten.

“You’ve been on your feet all morning,” she said.

“So have you.”

“I ate.”

“Congratulations.”

“Don’t be charming. It’s disorienting.”

That almost got you. Almost. Your mouth twitched, but it didn’t hold.

Mohan’s eyes softened in the way you hated lately. Like she could see too much. Like she was standing too close to a bruise.

“Go sit for five minutes,” she said.

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I said I can’t.”

It came out sharper than you meant it to. Mohan went quiet. You hated yourself immediately.

You looked down at the chart, blinking hard. “Sorry.”

“I’m not offended.”

“That’s annoying of you.”

“I know.”

The corner of her mouth lifted slightly, but her eyes stayed worried.

Before she could say anything else, Robby’s voice cut across the station.

“Room ten.”

Your spine went rigid. Not because he yelled. He didn’t. Robby never needed to.

You turned.

He stood by the board, looking at the tablet in his hand. “Repeat potassium?”

Your brain supplied the answer too late. 

Ordered.  Not resulted. No. Resulted. You had seen it. Hadn’t you?

Your fingers tightened around the chart.

“Pending,” you said.

Robby looked up. A tiny pause. The kind nobody else would notice. You noticed.

“Resulted twenty minutes ago,” he said.

Heat crawled up your neck. 

Right. 

Right, because you had opened it when radiology called. The potassium was fine. You had meant to sign off on it after updating room fourteen’s daughter, but then Whitaker had asked about the ectopic, and room three’s dressing needed.

“I saw it,” you said. “It’s normal. I’m closing it now.”

Robby’s expression didn’t change.

“That would’ve been more useful twenty minutes ago.”

The station quieted around the edges. Not fully. The Pitt never gave anyone the dignity of full silence.

But enough.

Enough for Dana to glance over from the desk. Enough for Mohan to go still beside you. Enough for Whitaker to suddenly become fascinated by the supply cart.

Your stomach dipped.

“I’m closing it now,” you repeated.

“I heard you.”

There was nothing cruel in his tone. That was the worst part. It was flat. Clinical. Tired. Like you were another problem on the board he didn’t have time to solve.

You nodded once and turned back to the computer. Your fingers moved too fast over the keys.

Password wrong. Of course. You swallowed, cleared the field, typed it again. Wrong. Your pulse picked up. Not now. Not here.

You could feel Mohan beside you, not touching, not crowding. Just there. That somehow made it harder. 

You typed the password a third time. The screen opened. You exhaled through your nose, clicked into room ten’s chart, signed off the lab, updated the plan, closed the loop.

There. Done. Easy. Basic. Minimum expectation.

Your vision blurred for half a second. You blinked it clear. Robby had already moved on.

Of course he had.

He was with Whitaker now, leaning over a chart, voice lower. Still firm. Still teaching. But there was patience in it. Space.

“Start with what you’re worried about,” Robby said. “Then tell me what you can prove.”

Whitaker nodded, nervous but focused. Robby waited. He actually waited. Something inside you twisted so hard you had to press your palm against the edge of the counter.

Mohan noticed.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Then maybe believe me.”

The words landed badly.

You heard it as soon as they left your mouth.

Mohan’s face closed a little. Not hurt exactly. Careful. That was worse.

You looked away. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I’m just—”

Tired. Overwhelmed. Embarrassed. Jealous of an R1 who had done nothing wrong except receive the version of Robby you missed so badly it felt pathetic.

You shook your head.

“I’m just trying to get through the shift.”

Mohan watched you for another second before nodding.

“Okay,” she said.

There it was again. That soft, terrible ‘okay’. The one that meant she knew you were lying and loved you enough not to corner you with it.

You grabbed the next chart. Room fifteen. Anxiety after a firework exploded too close. Chest tightness. Tingling fingers. Shortness of breath. You almost laughed. Of course. Of course the universe had a sense of humor.

You walked into the room before anyone could tell you not to. The patient was young. Early twenties, maybe. Sitting upright, knees pulled close, one hand pressed to her chest while her mother hovered beside the bed.

“I can’t get a full breath,” the patient said, eyes wide. “I know it’s probably panic. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I know you’re busy.”

The words hit too close. Not because of the panic. Because of the apology. 

You softened before you could stop yourself.

“Don’t apologize for needing help,” you said.

Her eyes flicked to yours. For one second, you believed yourself.

Then Robby’s voice echoed in your head.

“R4s should not need reminders.”

You pushed it down.

You assessed her carefully. Vitals. History. Risk factors. Pain description. Breath sounds. You ordered an EKG, basic labs, chest X-ray. Nothing excessive. Nothing careless.

You were not over-identifying. You were not projecting. You were not seeing yourself in her wide eyes and shaking hands. You were being thorough.

That was all.

Still, by the time you stepped out, Robby was waiting near the desk.

“What’s your plan?” he asked.

You gave it to him.

Clean. Organized. Defensible.

His eyes stayed on you.

“And your impression?”

“Likely panic response after the firework scare, but I’m ruling out cardiac and pulmonary causes.”

“Likely panic,” he repeated.

Your jaw tightened.

“With appropriate workup.”

“I heard you.”

“You said it like that.”

Something flickered in his face.

Warning.

You should have stopped. You knew you should have stopped. But the whole day had been made of swallowing things, and something in you had run out of room.

Robby stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I’m asking you to separate the patient from yourself.”

The words punched through you. For a second, all the noise around you thinned.

“What?”

His expression hardened. His eyes looked exhausted, but there was no softness in them.

“You heard me.”

Mohan turned slightly from the board. Dana looked up. You felt it. Every glance you weren’t supposed to notice.

You kept your voice low. “That has nothing to do with this.”

“I hope not.”

Your face went hot.

No.

No, no, no.

He didn’t get to do that. Not him. Not with this.

“You hope not?” you repeated.

Robby’s mouth tightened.

“You’re an R4. I need your clinical judgment clean. I need to know you’re looking at the patient in front of you, not filtering it through your own history.”

Your hand curled tighter around the chart.

“My history?”

His eyes sharpened.

“Don’t twist my words.”

“It’s exactly what you said.”

“You’re personalizing a panic presentation.”

“I ordered a standard workup.”

“You reassured her before you assessed.”

Your breath caught. 

The cruelty of it was so quiet. So clinical. Like kindness was a symptom. Like compassion was contamination.

“You’re criticizing me for reassuring her?”

“I’m criticizing you for seeing yourself and calling it medicine.”

Mohan said your name softly. You barely heard her.

Your chest felt hollowed out.

“That is not what happened.”

“Then make sure it doesn’t.”

Your voice dropped. “You don’t get to use that against me.”

Robby went still.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“No,” he said, colder now. “I’m doing my job.”

“Your job is accusing me of being unstable?”

His eyes flicked briefly toward the staff, toward the people pretending not to listen. When he looked back at you, whatever restraint he had left snapped into something uglier.

“My job is making sure my residents are safe to practice.”

The floor dropped out from under you. 

“Safe to practice.”

Your throat tightened so fast it hurt.

“I am safe.”

“Are you?”

The question landed like a slap. Small enough that he could deny it. Sharp enough that everyone understood.

You stared at him.

He didn’t stop. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe some broken part of him had found momentum and decided cruelty was easier than fear.

“Because lately I don’t know if I’m supervising an R4 or managing someone who’s one bad shift away from unraveling in the middle of my department.”

Mohan moved. “Robby—”

He didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed on you.

“You’re hesitating. You’re overcorrecting. You’re taking everything personally. You flinch every time I give you feedback, and now you’re walking into a psych-adjacent case with your own history written all over your face.”

Your lips parted. Nothing came out.

Robby’s voice lowered further.

“That is dangerous.”

There it was. The word. The same word he had used years ago to make you get help. The word that had scared you into saving yourself.

Now he was holding it like a weapon.

Your hand tightened on the chart until the edge bent.

“You told me getting help made me safer.”

“It does,” he said.

“Then why are you acting like it makes me a liability?”

For half a second, something moved over his face. Regret. Fear. Then he buried it.

“Because I can’t keep wondering whether you’re making a medical call or having a mental health episode.”

The department went too quiet around the edges. 

Your breath stopped.

Mohan whispered your name again, this time like something had broken.

Robby kept going, and that was the worst part.

“I need an R4 I can trust when the floor turns bad. I need someone who can lead without making me question whether their illness is driving the call.”

Your vision blurred. You blinked it clear.

“You don’t get to call it that.”

“What?”

“My illness,” you said, voice barely holding. “You don’t get to throw that word at me like I’m something you’re diagnosing in front of the board.”

His jaw tightened.

“You want to be treated like a 4th year resident? Then act like one.”

The last piece of you went very still. 

Not calm. 

Still.

You set the chart down carefully. Too carefully.

“Room fifteen has appropriate workup pending,” you said. “I’ll follow results.”

Robby’s face shifted. Just barely. Like he heard it. Like some part of him realized he had not corrected you.

He had cut you open.

But it was too late.

You stepped back.

“You were the one person who wasn’t supposed to make it sound ugly,” you said.

Then you walked away before your face could betray you.

Behind you, Mohan said something low to Robby.

You didn’t turn around.

You couldn’t.

Because if you looked back and saw regret on his face, you might break.

And if you looked back and didn’t, you knew you would.

You made it to the bathroom before your hands started shaking.

The door clicked shut behind you, and for a second, you just stood there staring at the sink like you had forgotten how to move.

Then your body caught up.

Your breath hitched hard enough that you gripped the counter.

Not here.

Not at work.

Not because of him.

You turned the faucet on, letting the water hit the porcelain loud enough to cover the sound that broke out of you.

Not a sob.

You refused to call it that.

Just air leaving wrong.

Your reflection looked pale under the fluorescent lights. Tired. Cracked. Exactly like the kind of person Robby couldn’t trust.

No.

That was his voice.

His damage.

His cruelty.

You knew that.

You knew it, and still his words sat under your skin.

“Because I can’t keep wondering whether you’re making a medical call or having a mental health episode.”

You splashed cold water over your wrists, fixed your face, and went back out.

Because if you fell apart now, it would prove him right.

The department swallowed you whole again.

Monitors. Phones. Voices. Alarms chimed faintly around you.

No one looked directly at you.

That was how you knew everyone knew.

Mohan found your eyes from the board.

You gave her one small look.

Don’t.

She stopped.

Room fifteen’s workup came back clean. EKG normal. Labs normal. Chest X-ray clear.

Panic, most likely.

You updated the patient with a voice so calm it almost sounded real.

“You did the right thing coming in,” you told her. “Fear can feel physical. That doesn’t make it fake.”

The patient’s eyes filled.

“Thank you.”

You smiled.

It hurt.

When you stepped out, Robby was at the board.

He saw you.

For one suspended second, it looked like he might say something.

Then EMS called in another burn, Dana shouted for trauma two, and Robby turned away.

Of course he did.

So you kept working.

You signed orders. Closed charts. Caught a med interaction before pharmacy called. Talked Whitaker through a discharge summary even though some ugly part of you resented how grateful he looked afterward.

“Thanks,” he said. “I know you’re busy.”

You swallowed.

“Don’t apologize for learning.”

The words tasted bitter.

Across the room, Robby watched you.

Not openly.

But you felt it.

Worry wearing a muzzle.

By the time the sun went down, your whole body felt far away.

Someone brought red, white, and blue cupcakes to the nurses’ station. You stared at them until Dana appeared beside you.

“Eat something.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re spiritually buzzing.”

A weak laugh escaped before you could stop it.

Dana’s face softened.

That almost undid you.

“I’m okay,” you said.

Dana hummed. “Sure.”

Before she could push, fireworks cracked outside, loud enough to rattle the windows.

Half the department flinched.

Nobody said anything.

Another burst followed.

Mohan closed her eyes at the board.

Robby went still.

You saw it.

The way his shoulders locked. The way his hand tightened around the tablet. The way his face emptied.

For one second, Pittfest came back too clearly.

Noise.

Blood.

Bodies.

Robby’s voice cutting through the chaos.

You and Mohan as R3s, moving because stopping would mean understanding.

Afterward, he had found you in a supply room, knees to your chest, scrubs stiff with someone else’s blood.

He had sat beside you and held out a water bottle.

“Drink.”

You had stared at him.

“Don’t make me do bedside manner. We’ll both hate it.”

You had laughed.

Then cried.

And he had stayed.

That was the part you couldn’t let go of.

He had stayed.

Another firework cracked.

Robby looked up.

His eyes met yours.

Something broken moved across his face.

Then he looked away first.

And the last hopeful thing in you went quiet.

—

Later, when the rush finally thinned, Dana sent the day shift up to the roof.

“Morale,” she said, like that explained anything.

Mohan found you near the elevators.

“Come up with us.”

“I should finish charts.”

“You can finish them after.”

“I’m behind.”

“You’re not,” she said softly. “I checked.”

You looked at her.

For a second, you wanted to tell her everything.

Instead, you smiled.

“I’ll come up later.”

Mohan didn’t believe you.

But someone called her name, and the elevator opened, and the moment passed.

She stepped inside.

You stood there for half a second. Then, before the doors could close, you moved.

Mohan’s eyes lifted in surprise.

You forced a small smile. “Changed my mind.”

Dana gave a satisfied hum. “There you are.”

You stepped into the elevator beside them.

Robby wasn’t there. You were grateful. You were devastated.

The roof was warmer than it should have been, the concrete still holding onto the heat from the day.

It was quieter than you expected. Not empty. Just intimate.

Dana stood near the low wall with a paper cup in hand, shoulders finally dropped from around her ears. McKay leaned beside her, arms folded loosely, face tilted toward the sky. Mel stood a little apart, still and quiet, watching the horizon like she was letting the colors settle somewhere safe. Santos sat on the edge of an old utility box, trying to look unimpressed and failing every time gold split open above the city.

Javadi had her hands tucked into her scrub pockets, eyes wide behind each flash. Perlah and Princess stood near a cluster of nurses, speaking softly between tired bursts of laughter.

Mohan stayed beside you. Not touching. Just there.

It was a small pocket of women from the floor, all of you trying to make something beautiful out of a day that had been anything but.

The fireworks bloomed over Pittsburgh in bursts of red, white, and gold.

For a while, no one really spoke. Not because there was nothing to say. Because there was too much.

The first explosion of color washed across Dana’s face, and you saw it, the tiny release. Not happiness. Not really. Something quieter. Relief, maybe. The kind that came when you were too tired for joy but still grateful the world could make something pretty.

McKay exhaled slowly. Mel’s shoulders dropped. Santos forgot to pretend she didn’t care. Javadi blinked up like she was trying to memorize it. Perlah and Princess smiled softly at them.

Everyone looked peaceful. 

Not fixed. Not untouched.

Just… peaceful.

And you couldn’t get there. That was what scared you.

Not the noise. Not the height. Not even Robby’s words still embedded under your skin.

It was this.

Standing beside people you cared about, watching them find something gentle at the end of an awful day. And feeling nothing but distance.

Like they were on the roof. And you were already somewhere else.

A firework burst overhead, gold spilling open like light through a wound.

“That one was nice,” McKay said quietly.

“It was,” Mel agreed.

It was.

You knew it was. You could recognize the shape of beauty. You just couldn’t feel it.

Your hands curled into your scrub pockets.

Mohan glanced over. “You okay?”

You kept your eyes on the sky.

“Yeah.”

Mohan let the answer sit between you for a second before she said quietly, “You don’t have to lie to me up here.”

Your chest tightened. 

Your demons pressed in harder. Because she was kind. Because everyone else looked like they could breathe again. Because you couldn’t.

Another burst cracked overhead. You flinched before you could stop it.

Mohan noticed.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“I’m fine.”

Too quick. Too sharp.

The peace in her face shifted into worry. You hated yourself for taking it from her. Dana glanced over, brief and knowing, but didn’t push. 

No one did.

They let you stand there.

Let you pretend.

The fireworks kept going.

Louder. Closer. Then softer. Slower.

Until finally, the last one bloomed. Faded. Left the sky dark again.

For a few seconds, no one moved.

Then Dana pushed off the wall.

“All right,” she said, voice rough but steady. “That’s it.”

Everyone looked at her. 

Dana glanced around at all of you, something firm settling back into place.

“Go home,” she said.

No argument. No softness. Just Dana.

“You all did enough today.”

The words landed heavier than they should have.

McKay nodded first, like she’d been waiting for permission. Mel followed, quiet but immediate. Santos rolled her shoulders and hopped down from her spot, muttering something about finally sitting somewhere that wasn’t hospital-issued. Javadi gave the sky one last look before turning. Perlah squeezed Princess’ hands gently before heading for the door.

One by one, they moved.

Not rushed.

Just… done.

Dana passed you last. 

She nudged your shoulder lightly.

“Don’t stay up here all night.”

You forced a small smile. “I won’t.”

Dana gave you a look. The kind that said she didn’t believe you. The kind that said she knew better than to push. 

She nodded once anyway.

Then she left.

The door closed behind her.

Eventually, it was just you and Mohan.

The quiet shifted. Heavier now. Closer.

Mohan stayed beside you. Still not touching. Still there.

“You coming back down?” she asked.

“In a minute.”

She hesitated.

You could feel it. The pull between staying and trusting you.

“You scared me today,” she said softly.

Your throat tightened.

“I know.”

“I don’t think you do.”

She was right. That made it worse.

“I just need a second alone,” you said.

Mohan watched you for a long moment. Then she nodded, even though everything in her said she didn’t want to.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

She lingered. Then stepped back. Then turned.

The door opened.

Closed.

And the quiet changed again. No longer shared.

Just yours.

You didn’t move at first. You just stood there after Mohan left, staring at the dark sky where the fireworks had been.

The smoke still lingered. Thin gray ribbons drifting over the roofline, breaking apart in the humid night air.

For a while, you listened.

To the distant traffic. To the muffled noise of the hospital below. To the soft mechanical hum from the roof units behind you.

Everything sounded far away.

Even you.

Your hands were still in your scrub pockets. Your shoulders were still loose. Your face was still arranged into something that could pass for fine if anyone opened the door and checked.

But no one did.

The roof stayed quiet.

And the quiet got inside you.

One step.

That was all it was at first.

Your shoe scraped lightly against the concrete.

Then another.

Slow. Unhurried. Almost curious.

Like your body had decided to go look at something your mind had not agreed to yet.

The edge waited ahead of you. But there was a railing first. A low metal barrier bolted into the roof, meant to make the boundary obvious. Meant to tell people where safety ended. Meant to be enough.

You stopped in front of it. For a moment, you only looked. One hand lifted. Your fingers curled around the top rail.

The metal was still warm from the day, but cooler than the concrete. Smooth in places where weather and hands had worn it down.

It should have stopped you. That was the point of it. A line. A warning.

A small, practical mercy built into the roof of a hospital where people spent all day trying not to die.

You stepped closer. Then, slowly, carefully, you lifted one leg over.

Your shoe found the narrow strip of concrete on the other side. Then the other leg followed.

The railing was behind you now. That should have meant something.

Maybe it did. Maybe that was why your chest went so quiet.

You stood on the wrong side of it, a few feet from the edge.

No wall now. No barrier.

Just warm concrete.

Open air.

Nothing dramatic about it. Nothing cinematic.

Just a ledge at the top of a hospital where people spent all day trying not to die.

You stopped close enough to see over. Close enough to feel the air change against your skin.

The parking lot spread beneath you, bright in patches beneath the lamps. Cars lined up neatly. Ambulance bay glowing. The city carrying on like it had not noticed you standing above it, wondering if there was any version of tomorrow you could still survive.

Your breathing stayed even. That frightened you distantly. You thought panic would come with noise. With tears. With shaking.

But this was quieter than that.

This was your body finally going still after months of begging to be heard.

You took another step. Then another. Until your toes touched the base of the ledge.

You looked at it.

No wall. No barrier now. Just the ledge. Lower than you expected. Or maybe you had known that. Maybe some part of you had known all along.

Your hands came out of your pockets. For a second, they hovered uselessly at your sides. Then you sat down.

Slowly. Carefully.

Like if your movements were calm enough, this could still be called something else.

Just sitting. Just air. Just needing quiet.

The concrete was still warm from the day beneath you.

Human-warm. Alive-warm. That almost made you stand back up.

Almost.

Instead, you shifted closer. One inch. Then another.

Your palms pressed flat against the ledge on either side of your thighs, steadying yourself as the backs of your legs met the edge.

For one second, your feet were still on the roof. Safe enough to pretend this was nothing.

Then you moved them. One foot forward. Then the other. Your shoes found nothing.

Just open space.

Your stomach dipped, but not enough. Not enough to make you scramble back. Not enough to make you choose. Your feet hung over the side of the building.

Below, the hospital looked small. Orderly. Distant.

Like a place you used to belong to. Like a place that would keep functioning without you because places always did.

Your chest felt calm. Too calm.

Like something inside you had stopped trying to be saved.

Robby’s voice came back, quiet and sharp.

“I don’t know if I can trust you.”

Your fingers rested against the ledge. Not gripping. Not yet. Just resting.

You swallowed.

And for the first time…

You believed him.

“Neither do I.”

The words barely made it out of your mouth. Then you looked down.

Not quickly. Not all at once.

Your eyes moved from your shoes to the side of the building, then lower, following the long drop until the parking lot came into focus beneath you.

Ambulance bay lights. White and sterile. Cars lined in neat rows. Painted lines. Concrete islands.

A world still organized enough to feel insulting.

For the first time, the height became real.

Not symbolic. Not dramatic.

Real.

The kind of real your body understood before your mind could make language out of it.

Your stomach dipped. Your fingers flexed against the ledge.

Below you, the hospital kept breathing.

Doors opening. Lights shifting. A figure crossing the lot with keys in hand. Everything ordinary. Everything continuing.

Death looked different from up here. Downstairs, it had noise. Blood. Hands moving fast. Someone calling time. A family member making a sound that stayed in the walls long after they were gone.

Downstairs, death arrived like an emergency.

Up here, it waited.

Quiet. Patient. Polite.

And for one awful, honest second…

You wanted the quiet.

Not death. Not exactly.

You didn’t think you wanted to die. You wanted the hurting to stop.

You wanted five seconds where your chest didn’t feel carved open. Five seconds where you didn’t have to be the strong one, the steady one, the almost-attending who could close every loop except the one tightening around her own throat.

You wanted to stop waking up already tired.

Stop swallowing pills with shaking hands and calling it maintenance. Stop sitting in therapy trying to explain a loneliness so old it had started to feel like a personality trait. Stop walking into The Pitt every day hoping Robby would look at you like he used to. Stop hating yourself for still needing him to.

Your hands had been resting on the ledge. Barely holding.

Now your fingers loosened. Just a little.

The concrete pressed into the backs of your thighs.

The open air pulled at your shoes.

One lean. One breath. One second where you stopped fighting.

A tear slid down your cheek.

You didn’t wipe it away.

You were so tired. So tired that the thought of falling almost felt like being held.

Behind you, the roof door opened.

You didn’t turn around.

Couldn’t.

For a moment, there was only the scrape of the door. The distant hum of traffic. The last faint echoes of fireworks fading into smoke.

Then everything behind you went still.

“Hey.”

Robby.

Your eyes closed. Of course it was him. 

The person who had taught you how to survive yourself. The person who had made you believe help wasn’t weakness. The person who had looked at the softest part of you today and called it unreliable.

His voice carried carefully across the roof. Not too loud. Not too soft. Like he was trying not to startle you back into your own body too fast.

“Heard Dana sent everyone home after the fireworks,” he said. “You left your bag and phone downstairs.”

You didn’t move. Your eyes stayed fixed somewhere below the parking lot lights.

Behind you, he rubbed the back of his neck. You heard the faint scrape of his palm against skin, the restless shift of his fingers into his hair before they dropped away.

“Figured I’d come find you before your stuff disappeared into the nurses’ station permanently.”

Nothing. No answer. No shift of your shoulders. No sign you had heard him at all.

And somehow, that scared him more.

For once, Robby didn’t fill the silence with sarcasm. He just stood there. Seeing you. Seeing the ledge. Seeing the open air beneath your feet. Seeing the way your hands were barely touching the concrete at all.

Whatever he had come up here planning to say disappeared. Completely.

His mouth opened. Nothing came out.

You heard it. That tiny failure. That impossible silence from the man who always had a next step.

He swallowed.

“You’re probably ready to pass out,” he added, trying for light. “Hell of a shift.”

Still nothing. The silence stretched. But he kept talking anyway. Not because he thought it was working. Because stopping felt worse.

Because if he could keep the conversation ordinary long enough, maybe you would remember how to be part of it.

“Your phone keeps lighting up,” he said. “A ton of texts. Apparently you’re very popular.”

A breath pulled in behind you. Too careful. Too controlled. Like he was trying to manage himself before he could manage you.

“Pretty sure if you don’t reply soon, the battery’s gonna die.”

Your hand didn’t move. Your feet hung over open air. 

The roof went quiet except for the city below and the uneven rhythm of Robby trying to breathe normally.

“I was thinking we could walk down,” he said, still trying to sound like this was normal. “Get your bag. Get you out of here before the night shift crazies start multiplying.”

Your fingers flexed against the concrete. He saw it. The movement was small, but it hit him like a monitor alarm.

His shoe scraped once against the roof. Stopped. He’d almost moved. Almost.

You heard him drag a hand over the back of his head, fingers catching in his hair before falling to his side.

“You left your pen downstairs,” he said quietly. “The good one.”

Your fingers twitched weakly against the ledge.

Robby swallowed hard.

“Honestly, if we don’t go down soon, someone might steal it.”

A shaky breath left him that almost sounded like a laugh.

“I heard Ellis has been trying to steal that pen for months.”

Your right hand lifted from the concrete. Not purposeful. That was the worst part. It looked absentminded. Like you had forgotten why it was there in the first place.

Robby’s breath caught. The sound was small. Sharp. Impossible to miss.

His voice came back thinner than before.

“Don’t move forward.”

The words landed carefully. Terrified.

“If you move, move back. Just back.”

A small, broken laugh left you.

“That’s usually my line.”

Robby went quiet long enough for you to hear his hand return to the back of his neck, rubbing once, twice, harder than before.

“Yeah,” he said, voice catching. “Hope you don’t mind me borrowing it tonight.”

He moved. Not closer. Not yet.

Just a shift of weight. One hand lifted slightly, dropped again because even that felt like too much. His fingers flexed at his side, useless and frantic, looking for something to do when there was nothing he could safely touch.

You stared down at the ground. Your heart should have been racing. It wasn’t. That scared you more than anything.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” you said.

Soft. Almost peaceful.

The breath behind you disappeared. For one awful second, there was nothing from him at all. No movement. No correction. No sound except the city below. 

But he didn’t say no. He swallowed it. Forced it down hard enough you could hear the breath catch in his throat.

“Okay,” he said instead.

His voice shook on the word. He rubbed the back of his neck again, faster this time, like he was trying to keep himself inside his own body.

“Okay. You don’t have to do this anymore tonight.”

You didn’t look at him.

“You can try again tomorrow,” he said, careful with every syllable. “Not the whole thing. Not all of it. Just tomorrow.”

His breath hitched.

“Tonight, you just have to move back.”

“I’m tired.”

“I know.”

“You don’t.”

“You’re right.” His voice shook. “You’re right, I don’t. Not exactly. Not yours. But I know enough. I know enough to know that quiet you’re chasing is lying to you.”

Your fingers loosened. Just a little.

Robby saw it. His whole body went still. Too still.

“Okay,” he said carefully, fighting to keep his voice even. “I need both hands on the ledge.”

You didn’t.

His breath caught, but he swallowed it down.

“Not fast,” he added. “Just put them back where they were.”

For one suspended second, you didn’t.

His breathing changed. Fast. Ragged. The kind of breathing Robby corrected in patients and ignored in himself.

“Please,” he said.

That got through. Not enough to bring you back. Enough to make your fingers twitch.

Robby took one step closer.

You shifted.

He stopped so hard his shoes scraped against the roof.

“Okay. Okay. I’m stopping.” He lifted both hands, palms out. “See? I’m not coming closer. I’m not touching you. Just—hands back on the ledge.”

“I don’t trust myself.”

The words hollowed him out.

You heard it in the silence behind you.

The way his breathing stopped for half a second. The soft scrape of his shoe against the roof as he caught himself from moving too quickly.

His hand dragged over the back of his neck again, fingers pressing hard into the muscle there before catching briefly in his hair.

“Okay,” he said carefully.

His voice sounded lower now. Pulled tight.

“That’s okay.”

You stared down at the parking lot lights. Your right hand hovered slightly above the concrete again.

Robby’s breath caught.

You heard him swallow it back down.

“You don’t have to trust yourself for the whole night,” he said. “Just the next ten seconds.”

A wet laugh left you. Wrong. Empty.

“You told me you couldn’t trust me.”

Robby went quiet. Not defensive. Not angry. Just quiet.

You heard him breathe in too sharply through his nose.

“I was wrong.”

“You meant it.”

His hand scraped over the back of his neck again.

“I’m sorry.”

Your fingers flexed weakly against the ledge.

“You were ugly.”

“I know.”

“You were cruel.”

His breath hitched.

“I know.”

Your voice thinned into something smaller.

“You made me feel like the sickest part of me was the truest part.”

Behind you, Robby made a sound like the words had gone straight through him. Not loud. Worse. Human.

“I’m sorry,” he said, rough now. “I’m so sorry.”

Behind you, his breathing turned uneven.

His hand dragged over the back of his neck again, rough and restless. Not the attending everyone feared. Not the teacher with impossible standards. Not the man who could run a trauma bay on instinct and fury. Just a person. Terrified. Choking on the damage he had done.

“I needed my teacher,” you whispered. “And you punished me for it.”

His breath broke. A sound came out of him like he had tried to swallow a sob and failed halfway.

“I know.”

Your right hand slipped off the ledge.

Fully.

Dropped into your lap. Your body tilted forward. One inch. Maybe less. Enough.

The metal rail rattled under his hand. His shoe scraped once against the roof and stopped. For one second, even his breathing vanished. This wasn’t a conversation anymore. You were going to fall. Even you knew it.

Robby moved before thought could stop him, then caught himself halfway, every muscle locked so hard he was trembling.

“Left hand stays,” he said, voice raw, urgent. “Left hand stays on the ledge. Do you hear me?”

You stared down. Your other hand started to lift. Slowly. Like your body had decided something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

“Kid.” Robby’s voice cracked. “Hands. Both hands back now.”

Kid.

The word hit somewhere old. Somewhere trained by years of following his voice through chaos.

Your palm slammed back onto the concrete. Then the other. Hard. Desperate. Your knuckles went white.

Robby bent forward slightly, hands braced on his own knees for half a second, like relief had nearly taken him down. But he didn’t let himself stay there. Couldn’t. He straightened, breathing too fast.

“Good,” he said, voice shaking. “Good. That’s good. Stay there.”

A sob caught in your throat.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Sound like you still know how to take care of me.”

His voice twisted.

“I do know how.”

His voice broke on the last word. For a second, neither of you moved.

The roof hummed around you. The city below kept breathing. Your hands stayed loose against the concrete, not gripping hard enough to feel safe.

Robby dragged a hand over the back of his head.

“I just stopped doing it.”

That was worse. Somehow, that was worse. Because it wasn’t that he had forgotten how to take care of you. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen you. He had known. He had seen. He had stopped anyway.

Your breath fractured.

“I hate you.”

The words came out small. Tired. Not angry enough to protect you.

Behind you, Robby went very still.

“I know.”

Your throat tightened. A tear slipped down your face, warm and quiet.

“I don’t.”

His breath caught.

“I know that too.”

Your fingers curled faintly against the ledge.

“I wanted you to come back.”

The words barely made it past your mouth.

Robby’s voice sounded scraped raw.

“I’m here now.”

Your eyes stayed on the parking lot below. The lights blurred.

“Too late.”

He took it. No defense. No correction. No sharp little Robby answer to make it easier for either of you. Just silence.

His hand moved to the back of his neck again. Rubbed once. Stopped. Dropped uselessly to his side.

Behind you, his hand found the metal rail between you and him. The line. The awful, visible line. Safe roof on his side.

Open air on yours.

For the first time, Robby seemed to understand exactly where he was standing. On the wrong side of the lesson.

For years, he had been the one telling residents not to freeze. Not to panic. Not to let fear make their hands stupid. 

Now his hands were shaking. Now his chest was heaving. Now he was staring at one of his own residents and trying to convince them that life was still worth staying for.

“Maybe it is too late,” he said, voice hoarse. “Maybe I don’t get to fix what I did tonight. Maybe I don’t get to fix the last ten months.”

You cried silently, staring down.

“But late is what I have,” he said. “So I’m going to use it.”

He took another careful step. Then stopped. Waited.

You didn’t tell him no.

His throat worked.

“You told that girl downstairs fear could be physical and still matter.”

Your fingers tightened slightly.

He saw it. Held onto it.

“You were right. You were right when you said it to her, and you’re right now. This fear matters. Your pain matters. But it does not get to make the decision alone.”

“I don’t want tomorrow.”

“I know.” Robby swallowed hard. “Then don’t take tomorrow. Take the next minute.”

“I don’t know what’s left.”

“You are.”

“That’s not enough.”

“It is to Samira.”

Your face crumpled.

“It is to Dana,” he pressed, voice shaking but stronger now. “It is to McKay. Mel. Perlah. Princess. Everyone who stood on this roof tonight and breathed a little easier because you were standing with them.”

“They don’t need me.”

“They do. Not because you’re useful. Not because you’re an R4. Not because you catch mistakes and close charts and make scared patients feel less stupid for being scared.”

He took another step. Closer now. Close enough to reach the railing. His hand closed around it. The metal clanged softly under his grip. The sound made both of you flinch.

He froze. You froze.

Your hands stayed down. Barely.

Robby’s voice dropped.

“They need you because you are not just what you can do for people.”

You sobbed once. Hard.

“I don’t believe that.”

“I know,” he said. “So I believe it for you tonight.”

His hand curled tighter around the metal until his knuckles blanched.

“You want a reason to stay?” he asked, choking on it now. “Stay because Samira is going to come back looking for you, and she deserves to find you breathing. Stay because Dana told you to go home, and she meant home, not gone.”

Your shoulders shook.

“Stay because Langdon still owes you at least one terrible joke. Stay because Javadi needs someone to tell her she’s allowed to still make mistakes. Stay because there is still coffee that tastes like burnt plastic and patients who apologize for needing help and people who love you badly, stupidly, imperfectly, but still love you.”

You shook your head. Barely. But your body went with it. Your shoulder dipped. Your weight shifted.

The open air seemed to notice before you did.

Robby’s grip on the railing tightened hard enough that the metal gave a small, sharp sound under his hand.

“Don’t,” he said.

The word came out too fast. He swallowed, forced his voice lower.

“Don’t move your head like that. Not while you’re sitting there.”

Your breath shook.

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I can’t.”

“You can,” he said, and there was panic under the steadiness now, cracking through despite him. “Because you’re stubborn as hell.”

His hand scraped over the back of his neck, then dropped back to the railing.

“And because you’ve been correcting my terrible bedside manner since you were a med student.”

Your fingers twitched against the ledge.

His breath snapped when your fingers twitched. He stayed exactly where he was. Waited.

Your hand held. Barely. A broken sound left you. Not a laugh. Not really. But close enough that Robby looked like he might come apart from relief.

“That’s it,” he whispered, nearly breaking.

Then your fingers slipped again. Both of them. Not fully. But enough. The tiny laugh died. The world lurched. Your body tilted forward. The metal rail jerked under his grip.

His breath tore out of him.

“Kid—”

This time it wasn’t command. It was begging.

You looked at him then. Really looked. And suddenly the calm was gone.

All of it.

The height rushed back into your body at once. The drop. The air. The fact that your feet were hanging over nothing. The fact that your hands were failing. The fact that some part of you had wanted this, and now every living piece of you was screaming.

Your eyes went wide. Your voice came out small. Childlike.

“I’m scared.”

Then your balance tipped. Too far.

Robby moved. No calculation. No careful step. No safe distance. He lunged across the railing, one arm hooking hard around your waist, the other catching the back of your scrub top as your body pitched forward.

For half a second, there was nothing under you. 

Nothing.

Your shoes kicked empty air. A scream tore out of you.

Robby made a sound like an animal. He hauled you back with everything he had.

Your hip struck the ledge, pain flashing white-hot through the numbness. Your hands clawed at his sleeve, his wrist, the front of his shirt, anything.

“I’ve got you,” he choked. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you—”

He pulled you fully onto the roof. Not gracefully. Not cleanly. Momentum took both of you down hard. His back hit first. You landed against him, half on his chest, half on the concrete, breath knocked loose in a broken gasp.

For one second, there was no sound. 

No city. No hospital. No fireworks. Just the brutal, animal silence after almost.

Robby’s arms closed around you so tightly you couldn’t move. Not enough to hurt. Enough to anchor. Enough to make sure every part of you was on the roof with him.

His hand pressed against the back of your head, fingers trembling in your hair. His other arm stayed locked around your ribs, holding you against him like the ledge was still trying to pull you away.

Your face was crushed against his chest. You could feel his heartbeat through his scrub top. Fast. Violent. Terrified. Alive. Then his breath broke. Once. Twice.

A rough, strangled sound that didn’t belong to him. Not Robby. Not the man who ran codes with steady hands and cut through chaos like fear was something that happened to other people.

This sound was wrecked. Human. Small. His fingers curled tighter at the back of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he choked.

You froze.

“I’m sorry.”

His voice cracked on it. Then again.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The words hit harder than the fall. Because he wasn’t saying them like a man trying to be forgiven.

He was saying them like he had finally seen the edge he’d walked you toward and couldn’t survive the sight of it. 

You felt his body shake beneath yours. Not from effort. Not anymore. From sobs he was trying and failing to swallow.

“Robby,” you tried, but your voice came out broken beyond use.

He shook his head against the roof, eyes squeezed shut, one tear slipping sideways into his hairline.

“No. No, I did this. I did this.”

His arms tightened again, and his breath hitched like the words hurt coming out.

“I pushed you away. I saw you getting smaller and I told myself it was training. I told myself you were becoming stronger. I told myself if you hated me, maybe you’d leave before this place ate you alive.”

A sob tore through him.

“And then you almost—”

He couldn’t finish it. His whole chest caved beneath your cheek.

You started crying then. Not the quiet tears from the ledge. Not the numb, distant kind. This was ugly. Panicked.

A sound ripped out of you because your body had finally caught up with what had almost happened.

You had almost fallen. You had almost let yourself.

Robby’s hand moved from the back of your head to the side of it, pressing you closer while his thumb shook against your temple.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, shredded and breathless. “I’m sorry, kid. I’m so sorry. I never should’ve said it. I never should’ve touched that part of you. I knew better. I knew better.”

You clutched his scrub top in both fists. The fabric twisted in your hands.

“I thought I was going to fall,” you sobbed.

His breath collapsed above you.

“I know.”

“I thought I was going to do it.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t want to want it.”

“I know.” His voice broke completely. “God, I know.”

He bent over you as much as he could from where he lay, forehead pressing into your hair. And then Robby cried. Really cried. Not one controlled tear. Not a rough breath he could pass off as exhaustion.

He cried into your hair with his arms around you and his shoulders shaking, the sound muffled and helpless and devastatingly unlike him.

“I almost lost you,” he said, barely understandable. “I almost lost you because I was too proud to admit I was wrong.”

You cried harder.

He pulled in a ruined breath.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Over and over. Like repetition could build a wall between you and the ledge. Like if he said it enough, he could go back ten months and stay.

You pressed your face harder into his chest, your body trembling violently now.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

Robby’s arms tightened.

“I know.”

“No, I’m scared,” you sobbed. “I’m scared because I wanted it to stop. I’m scared because it felt quiet. I’m scared because I don’t know what happens when I stand up.”

His breath shuddered against your hair.

“Then we don’t stand up yet.”

“I can’t go back down there.”

“Then we don’t go yet.”

“I can’t see everyone.”

“You don’t have to. Not all at once.”

“I can’t be alone.”

That one broke him all over again. He pressed his face into your hair, voice muffled and wrecked.

“You won’t be. Not tonight. Not after this. I swear to you.”

“You’re leaving.”

“I’m not.”

“You were.”

His breathing hitched.

“I was.”

You went still against him. Robby swallowed hard, and when he spoke again, his voice was raw enough to bleed.

“I was leaving wrong.”

The words sat between you. Heavy. Terrible. True.

“I thought disappearing would be cleaner,” he said. “I thought if I made everyone angry enough, disappointed enough, you’d all let me go easier.”

His hand shook against your shoulder.

“I thought grief was something I could manage for people if I made sure they hated me first.”

Your throat closed.

“That’s horrible.”

“I know.”

“That’s stupid.”

A wet, broken sound left him. Almost a laugh. Almost a sob.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “It’s very stupid.”

You cried again, softer this time, but still shaking.

His palm moved slowly over your back, not soothing exactly. More like checking.

There. There. There.

Like he needed to prove to himself you were still under his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

Quieter now. More exhausted.

“I should’ve protected you from me.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

The roof was cold beneath your leg. His scrub top was damp under your cheek. Your knee throbbed. Your hands ached from how hard you’d grabbed him.

Below, the hospital kept moving.

Somewhere under you, monitors still beeped. Someone still needed discharge paperwork. Someone still wanted coffee. Someone was probably complaining about the wait.

Life continued.

But here, on the roof, Robby held you like the whole world had narrowed down to one impossible fact.

You were still breathing.

He pressed his cheek to the top of your head.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered.

His voice broke again.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

For the first time all night, you believed him. 

Not about everything. Not about tomorrow. Not about yourself.

But about this.

About his arms around you. About the concrete under your body. About the terrible, shaking relief in his chest.

You were on the safe side of the ledge. 

You were crying.

Robby was crying.

And neither of you let go.

[optimisticplb]

What Happens in Vegas Never Stays in Vegas

Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch x Reader

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

Summary: After a drunken Vegas wedding, Robby disappears by morning, leaving you with nothing but a ring and a mistake that was supposed to stay in Vegas. But when a pregnancy and state paperwork force you to track down the husband who vanished, Robby learns the truth and this time, walking away isn’t so easy.

WC: 13K

Tags: Drunken Vegas Wedding, Runaway Husband, Unexpected Pregnancy, Forced Reunion, Second Chance Romance, Robby Wants to Stay, Romantic Comedy vibes with some Angst, No use of Y/N

Robby took a walk before sunrise.

That was what he told himself, anyway.

A walk.

Not avoiding the house. Not avoiding the fact that it was his first day off in four days and he had no idea how to exist inside it with you there for an entire morning. Not avoiding the closed bedroom door at the end of the hall or the couch that had spent the last few nights trying to rearrange his spine out of spite.

Just a walk.

His back hurt. His neck was stiff. His head was too loud. All reasonable reasons to put on shoes before the sun was fully up and leave his own house like he had somewhere important to be.

He didn’t. That was the problem. For four days, he and you had barely seen each other. Not really.

There had been passing moments. Five minutes in the kitchen before he left for work. A tired exchange in the hallway when he came home and you were already halfway to bed. Texts about medicine, groceries, whether you could use the washer, whether he minded if you moved things around in the kitchen. Nothing big. Nothing that asked anything of him. Just… there.

You were in his house, but most of the time he knew that by evidence.

A mug in the sink that wasn’t his. The blanket on the couch folded differently than he folded it. The coffee set up for the morning without comment. A plate covered in foil in the fridge when he came home too late to eat with you, with a small note tucked beside it.

I wasn’t sure when you’d be home, so I left some pasta. It should still be good.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing that asked anything of him. Just food waiting in the fridge. Coffee ready to brew. A house that no longer looked untouched when he got back after a long shift.

And somehow, instead of making him feel crowded, it had done something worse. It had made him grateful. 

He hadn’t realized how much of you he’d been coming home to until he started noticing the little pieces of you everywhere. Quiet things. Careful things. Proof that you had been there. Proof that you were still there.

That thought followed him down the sidewalk as the neighborhood sat quiet around him, blue-gray and barely awake. A dog barked somewhere two streets over. A car passed slowly at the end of the block. The air was cool enough to make him shove his hands deeper into the pocket of his hoodie.

He walked until his shoulders loosened and his thoughts didn’t.

He had a plan for the day. Clear out the spare room. Finally deal with the boxes he’d been ignoring. Make it look less like storage and more like something usable.

Jack was coming later with a truck. That was another problem. Not because of Jack. The problem was the furniture. Robby had bought furniture. A bed frame. A mattress. A dresser. A small nightstand. A lamp because the room only had the overhead light and the overhead light made everything look like bad news waiting to happen. Practical things. Normal things.

Except they didn’t feel normal the longer he thought about them. He wasn’t trying to make it permanent. That was what he told himself. He was trying to make it comfortable.

For you.

A bed that wasn’t his. Drawers you wouldn’t have to ask to use. A nightstand for water, medicine, your phone, things you’d reach for without thinking. A lamp with softer light so the room didn’t feel like somewhere you were just passing through. Small things. Practical things. Things that didn’t feel small at all. Because none of that was temporary. Not really.

It was the kind of setup you made for someone who was going to stay long enough to settle. Long enough to stop asking where things went. Long enough to feel like they didn’t have to keep one foot out the door. It was the kind of space you made when you wanted someone to feel at home. Which was where the problem started. Because wanting that, wanting you comfortable here, like this was yours as much as his, wasn’t neutral.

He dragged a hand over the back of his neck. He should have asked you. He knew that now.

Jack hadn’t understood that part in the store. Not fully. To Jack, Robby was standing in the lighting aisle overthinking a lamp like a man with too much guilt and no clear outlet for it.

“You’re overthinking a lamp,” Jack had said.

“I’m not overthinking a lamp.”

“You’ve been staring at lamps for six minutes.”

“It’s a bad lamp.”

“It’s a lamp, Robby.”

“It’s ugly.”

“It’s going in a room you currently use to store tax documents and a broken printer.”

“No,” Robby had said, too fast. “It’s going in a room she’s staying in.”

Jack had looked at him then, like maybe he was starting to catch the edge of it.

Robby’s jaw tightened.

“I don’t want her to hate it.”

“She’s not going to hate a lamp.”

“That’s not the point.”

Because it wasn’t.

The point was that Robby wanted the room to feel comfortable. Soft enough. Warm enough. Like somewhere you could close the door and breathe. Like somewhere you didn’t have to feel temporary.

And he already knew if he brought you here to pick things out yourself, you’d choose the cheapest version of everything and call it fine. You’d make yourself easy. You’d make yourself small. He didn’t want that. Still, he should have asked.

Because buying the bed, the dresser, the nightstand, the lamp, all of it, meant he had tried to make a room feel like home for you without asking what home looked like. And that was the part he couldn’t quite get around.

He wanted you comfortable. He wanted you to have somewhere to put your things without asking. Somewhere to sleep that wasn’t borrowed from him. Somewhere to close a door and have privacy instead of feeling like you were tucked into the least inconvenient corner of his life. He wanted the room to say what he was not stupid enough to say out loud yet. 

The thought followed him all the way back down the block, quiet and impossible to outrun.

By the time he reached the house, the sun had started lifting properly, pale light catching on windows and parked cars. His house sat quiet at the end of the short driveway, blue siding soft in the morning.

For one second, he stopped at the edge of the walk and looked at it. It looked the same. It wasn’t. 

He climbed the porch steps and reached for the door. Then stopped. Coffee. Fresh coffee. Not yesterday’s abandoned half-pot. Not something he had set up himself. Fresh coffee, warm and dark, slipping out through the small gap near the door like the house had exhaled.

Robby blinked once. Then opened the door.

The first thing he heard was the low murmur of the radio from the kitchen. Not loud. Barely there. Some morning station turned down enough that the voices blended into the clink of dishes and the soft scrape of something moving across the counter.

The second thing he saw was you. In his kitchen. Barefoot. Hair slightly messy from sleep, one side tucked behind your ear and the other falling loose around your face. You wore an oversized T-shirt and soft shorts, standing in front of the stove with one hip angled against the counter like you had been there longer than five minutes.

A mug sat near your hand. His mug. The chipped one with the faded hospital logo he kept meaning to throw away and never did.

There was pancake batter on the counter. A pan warming on the stove. A plate waiting beside it. You had found the butter, the coffee filters, the spatula with the melted corner. You had found enough of him to make breakfast.

Robby stood in the doorway for half a second too long. You turned at the sound of the door. And froze. Not fully. Just enough. 

Your shoulders tightened. Your hand paused around the spatula. Your eyes flicked from him to the pan, then to the mug, then back to him like you were suddenly seeing the kitchen through his eyes and realizing you might have crossed some invisible line neither of you had drawn.

“Morning,” you said.

“Morning.” Robby stepped inside and stopped like he’d forgotten how to enter his own house.

You turned back toward the stove a little too quickly. “I didn’t know when you’d be back.”

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Just went out for a bit.”

“Right.” You nodded, like that explained anything. “Of course.”

Neither of you moved.

The silence stretched long enough for you to become painfully aware of the spatula in your hand, the pan on the stove, the fact that you were barefoot in his kitchen making breakfast like that was a normal thing to do.

“I made coffee,” you said.

His eyes flicked toward the pot. “I saw.”

“And breakfast.”

“I saw that too.” He heard it as soon as he said it. Too flat. Not unkind, but not enough either.

Your shoulders lifted slightly, like you were trying to make yourself smaller without actually moving.

Robby’s jaw tightened. “Thank you,” he added, quieter.

You paused. Just enough for him to notice. Then you nodded, still not fully looking at him. “Yeah. Of course.”

Of course.

Like making breakfast in his kitchen after four days of barely speaking was normal. Like you weren’t still angry with him. Maybe you were. Maybe you were just good at being kind around it. That thought sat somewhere uncomfortable behind his ribs.

You shifted your weight, suddenly focused on the pan. “I wasn’t sure what you usually eat.”

“Usually?” he said. “Whatever’s around.”

You glanced at the plate, then back at him. “Well, good thing fresh coffee and pancakes are around.”

His mouth twitched. “Lucky me.”

“Try not to get spoiled.”

“I think it’s too late for that.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself, then looked back at the stove like the pancakes had become urgent.

Robby stayed where he was, watching you move through his kitchen like you were still asking permission for it, even as you did everything like you belonged there. He didn’t know when that had started. Or when it had stopped feeling strange.

He stepped closer, then stopped again, like the space between the doorway and the counter required more thought than it should.

“Do you want me to—”

“No,” you said quickly.

Too quickly.

You winced. “Sorry. I mean, I’ve got it.”

“Okay.”

He reached for a plate at the same time you did. Both of you froze.

You pulled your hand back first. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re fine.”

“It’s your kitchen.”

“Apparently not this morning.”

You looked at him.

He looked mildly surprised he’d said it.

Then your mouth tugged upward, small and reluctant.

“Right there,” you said, pointing to the counter.

He set the plate down with unnecessary care. “Got it.”

You turned back to the stove, shoulders a little looser now. “You can sit if you want.”

He hesitated. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I’ve got it.”

He nodded once but still didn’t move.

You glanced over your shoulder.

“…Michael.”

He blinked.

“What?”

“Sit.”

He did, almost too fast, like he’d been waiting for the instruction. And that did something strange to his chest. He picked up his fork just to have something to do with his hands, eyes dropping to the plate like it might give him something steady to focus on.

You turned back to the stove. And for a second, neither of you spoke. But the room felt different. 

Quieter. Closer.

Like something had shifted just enough that neither of you knew what to do with it yet.

You flipped the last pancake, then turned off the burner like you’d done it a hundred times in that kitchen.

Robby noticed that too.

The way you didn’t hesitate. The way you didn’t ask. The way you still looked like you were bracing for him to tell you to stop.

You brought your plate over and sat across from him. Not too close. Not far enough to feel intentional. Just… there.

He took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed.

“They’re good,” he said.

It came out quieter than he meant.

You looked up, a little caught off guard. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You nodded once, small, like you weren’t sure what to do with that. “Thanks.”

Robby dropped his gaze back to the plate. He didn’t know what any of your answers meant anymore. Not since you’d shown up. Not since you’d stayed. Not since you’d started doing things like this, making coffee, making breakfast, moving through his house like you were trying not to take up space and still somehow changing the way it felt anyway.

He took another bite just so he wouldn’t keep looking at you.

“Do you… have anything planned today?” you asked. 

Your voice was careful. Like you were stepping around something neither of you had named yet.

He shook his head, then corrected himself. “Yeah. A few things.”

You nodded, waiting.

“I was going to clean out the spare room,” he said. “Get the boxes out. Make it usable.”

Your fork slowed. “You don’t have to do that today.”

“I know.”

“It can wait.”

“Yeah.” He glanced down at his plate. “It’s been waiting.”

He hadn’t meant it to sound like that. He heard it after. You did too. Your eyes stayed on him a second longer than they should have. He didn’t look up.

“This is your first day off,” you said. “Since I got here.”

“I’m aware.”

“You could just… not do anything.”

He let out a small breath through his nose. “I don’t think I’m very good at that.”

“No,” you said softly. “I’m starting to notice.”

That almost pulled a smile out of him. Almost. He looked up then. Caught you already looking at him.

You looked away first. Back to your plate.

“I can help,” you said.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.” You glanced back up. “I want to.”

That stopped him. Not because he didn’t believe you. Because he did. And he didn’t know what to do with that yet.

“You made breakfast,” he said.

“That doesn’t count.”

“It does.”

“It really doesn’t.” You shifted in your seat. “You’ve been sleeping on the couch for four days.”

He looked at you. “You’ve been pregnant longer than that.”

You blinked then narrowed your eyes. “That is not the same thing.”

“No,” he said, reaching for his coffee. “Mine has more back pain.”

A small laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.

He felt it land. Felt something in his chest loosen just a fraction.

You shook your head, still smiling faintly. “I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“I can carry things.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then let me help.”

He set the mug down. “You can help by not worrying about it.”

You gave him a look. He held it for a second. Then looked away first.

“Besides,” he added, quieter, “Jack’s coming later to help.”

“Jack?”

“My friend from work.”

You nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Silence settled again. Not as sharp. Still there.

You both went back to your plates. And Robby found himself watching you again, the way you ate, slower now. The way your shoulders weren’t as tight. The way you still didn’t quite relax all the way. Like you were waiting for something to shift back. Like this could still go wrong.

He didn’t know how to fix that. Didn’t know if he could. But he wanted to. More than he expected. More than he was ready to admit out loud.

He looked down at his plate again. Took another bite. And stayed quiet, because right now, quiet was the only thing that didn’t seem to make it worse.

You cut into your pancakes again, then glanced at him like you were trying to decide whether to ask the next question.

He waited. That was easier than guessing wrong.

“Jack’s bringing a truck?” you asked.

“Yeah.”

“To move things out?”

“Some of it,” he said. “Storage unit. Donation. Trash.”

You nodded, then looked toward the hallway like you could see the closed spare room door from where you sat. “That sounds like a lot.”

“It’s mostly boxes.”

You looked back at him, a little braver now. “Are you sure you don’t want me to help?”

“No.”

The answer came out too fast.

Your eyebrows lifted.

He sighed. “I mean—no, I don’t want you lifting anything.”

“I didn’t say lifting.”

“You were going to.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

A reluctant smile tugged at your mouth. “Okay, fine.”

“Thank you.”

“But I reserve the right to judge from a safe distance.”

“That seems fair.”

“And make comments.”

“Less fair.”

“And possibly snacks.”

He looked up at that.

You looked down at your plate like you hadn’t meant to offer that part out loud.

Robby didn’t say anything for a second.

The house settled around you both, quiet except for the soft scrape of your fork and the low hum of the fridge.

Then he said, carefully, “Snacks are allowed.”

Your smile came back, small and unsure, but there.

“Good to know.”

He took another sip of coffee, mostly to hide the fact that he liked it. 

Liked this.

Liked you in his kitchen, arguing about boxes and making breakfast and offering snacks like you weren’t quietly rearranging the shape of his whole day. Like you weren’t making it harder and harder for him to pretend this was just temporary.

The word sat there.

Temporary.

He didn’t say it. Didn’t have to.

It was in the spare room waiting to be cleared. In the couch where he’d been sleeping. In the way you kept asking before using things and then quietly made them better anyway.

You reached for your coffee, both hands wrapping around the mug.

“So,” you said, trying for light and not quite making it. “Safe distance. Snacks. No heavy lifting.”

“Correct.”

“Very strict rules.”

“Basic safety.”

“Mm.” You took a sip. “Sounds suspiciously like control.”

Robby looked up fast enough that your expression changed. Just a flicker. Like you hadn’t meant it seriously. Like maybe you had.

His grip tightened around his mug.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said.

Your eyes held his for a second.

“I know.”

But there was something behind it. Not accusation. Not anger. Something more careful than that. Something that reminded him you had reasons to be careful. Reasons he had helped create.

He nodded once, slower this time. “You tell me if it starts feeling that way.”

You looked down into your coffee. The kitchen went quiet again. Not easy this time. But honest.

“Okay,” you said.

Robby didn’t push. He wanted to. Wanted to explain. Wanted to promise. Wanted to reach across the table and somehow make the shape of all of this less sharp. Instead, he stayed still. Let you have the quiet.

After a moment, you looked up again and gave him a small, crooked smile.

“Still judging from a safe distance though.”

His chest loosened.

“Wouldn’t expect anything else.”

“Good.”

You took another bite of pancake, and he did the same.

The silence came back, but it softened around the edges. Not fixed. Not simple. Just survivable. And maybe, for this morning, that was enough.

Robby was still thinking about what you’d said when a horn sounded outside. Once. Then again. Loud enough to make both of you look toward the front of the house.

You lowered your fork. “Subtle?”

Robby closed his eyes. “Jack.”

Another knock followed almost immediately, heavy and impatient against the door.

You glanced back at him, one brow lifting.

“He’s early,” Robby said.

“He seems patient.”

“He’s not.”

He stood, but didn’t move right away. For one small second, he looked like he wanted to say something else.

Then the knock came again.

Robby exhaled. “And now he’s worse.”

That pulled a small laugh out of you.

He looked at you when it happened. Just for half a second. Then he turned toward the door, leaving the plates on the table, the coffee still warm, and whatever had almost been said sitting quietly behind him.

By the time he opened it, Jack was already halfway inside. Solid build, posture that didn’t slump even this early, movements efficient without being rushed. He had that quiet, controlled energy of someone used to chaos and not impressed by it. The kind of man who could walk into a room and take it over without raising his voice.

Which, unfortunately, made you stand a little straighter.

Your hand moved to the hem of your shirt before you could stop it, fingers worrying the fabric once. You didn’t know this man. Not really. You only knew his name from a piece of paper taped to the fridge.

Emergency contact. Friend from work. Bringing a truck.

Your eyes flicked to Robby for half a second before settling back on Jack. 

Jack’s gaze landed on you, sharp for a second, taking in more than you wanted him to, before his expression shifted, just enough to make it easier to breathe.

“Morning,” Jack said, easy, like this wasn’t an intrusion at all.

Then, like he’d decided to make this easier on you by making it worse for Robby, he added, “You must be the famous Vegas wife.”

You blinked and then laughed, a little surprised by it. “Yeah,” you said. “The pregnant, one-night-stand edition.”

Robby dragged a hand over his face, but the sound had already gotten to him. 

That laugh. Small. Unprepared. Real.

It loosened something in him before he could stop it, even while he muttered, “Jesus, Jack.”

Jack only looked pleased with himself.

“Nice to meet you,” Jack said. “I’m Jack Abbot. One of Robby’s… three friends.”

You smiled, still a little unsure. “I figured.”

Jack tilted his head. “Oh yeah?”

“Your number’s on the fridge,” you said. “Emergency contact.”

Jack glanced at Robby, something amused and softer passing over his face. “That right?”

Robby muttered, “Don’t make it weird.”

Jack looked back at you. “Too late. Deeply honored.”

Then he nodded toward the hallway. “Guest room?”

“Yeah.”

His gaze flicked between you and Robby, catching the stiffness still sitting there.

Jack opened the door. It stuck for half a second before giving way with a soft scrape, like it hadn’t been opened in a while. He stepped just far enough to clear the frame then stopped. The room sat exactly as promised.

Boxes stacked unevenly against one wall. Some sealed, some half-open, flaps bent and curling. A desk buried under papers, cords, things that had been set down and never picked back up. A printer pushed to the side like it had offended someone. Dust catching in the light coming through the window, thin and pale across everything. It wasn’t chaos. It was… paused.

“…this is worse than I thought.”

Robby, right behind him, didn’t even look fully into the room. “Don’t.”

Jack shifted his weight, eyes moving slowly over the space, taking in more than he needed to.

“I’m not judging,” he said.

“You are.”

“I’m assessing.”

You laughed, softer this time, from just behind them, the sound filling the doorway in a way the room hadn’t been.

Robby felt it before he meant to. The tension in his shoulders eased by a fraction. His grip loosened at his side. Something in his chest, tight since he’d walked back into the house, let up just enough for him to breathe around it. He didn’t look back at you. He didn’t want to make it obvious.

Jack stepped inside, nudging one of the boxes lightly with his foot. It didn’t budge much.

He glanced back at Robby, then toward you. “Alright. Where do we start?”

Robby scanned the room, already sorting it in his head. “That wall goes to storage. Desk comes out. Everything else—”

“Absolutely not.”

Robby stopped.

You blinked. “What?”

Jack still wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were on you.

You’d already shifted forward without realizing it, hand half-reaching toward the nearest small box like maybe if it looked light enough, no one would count it.

Jack pointed toward the hallway without turning. “You’re not lifting boxes.”

“I didn’t say I was lifting boxes.”

“You had the face.”

You frowned. “The face?”

“The ‘I’m just going to grab one little thing and pretend it doesn’t count’ face.”

Robby nodded once. “You did.”

You looked at him. “I was standing here.”

“Preparing,” Robby said.

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

“…maybe.”

Jack nodded, satisfied. “Good. We’re learning honesty.”

“I can carry light things,” you tried.

“No,” Robby said.

“No,” Jack said at the exact same time.

You looked between them. “Really?”

Jack shrugged. “Two against one.”

Robby added, “Overruled.”

You huffed out a small laugh, shaking your head. “I’m not fragile.”

“No one said you were,” Jack said easily. “We said you’re not carrying boxes.”

“That feels like the same thing.”

“It’s not,” Robby said.

You glanced at him.

He held your eyes for half a second, then looked down like he’d heard how quickly that came out. Like maybe it had been more honest than he meant it to be.

“It’s me not wanting you to carry boxes,” he added, quieter.

Something in the room tightened. Not badly. Just enough.

Jack caught it immediately. He looked away first, giving both of you somewhere else to put your faces, then pointed toward the hallway. 

“Kitchen. Couch. Somewhere not here.”

You crossed your arms lightly. “Did you just look me in the eye and send a woman to the kitchen?”

Jack stopped mid-point, hand still in the air. His expression barely changed, but something behind his eyes definitely recalculated.

Robby looked down, shoulders already giving him away.

“…I would like to withdraw that sentence,” Jack said.

“Good call,” you said.

Robby huffed a quiet laugh. The sound was small, but you heard it. So did Jack. And for a second, the tension eased again.

Jack pointed at Robby. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to.”

“No, you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Maybe a little.”

You smiled before you could stop it. Robby saw that too, and something in his face softened before he looked away.

Jack turned back to you, hand still hovering like he wasn’t sure where it was safe to point anymore. “Okay. New plan. Anywhere in the house that isn’t this room.”

“That’s a little better.”

“Growth,” Jack said.

“Minimal,” Robby muttered.

You shifted back a step into the hallway, still smiling. “I’ll just… stay out of the way.”

Robby looked at you then. “You’re not in the way.”

It came out automatic. Too quick to be polished. Your smile faded into something smaller. Jack, for once, didn’t touch it.

He just cleared his throat lightly. “Safer for everyone if you supervise from a non-disastrous location.”

You laughed under your breath. Robby’s shoulders loosened again.

You glanced between them, the room feeling a little less sharp than it had five minutes ago. “You’re both very reassuring.”

“Professionals,” Jack said.

“At some things,” Robby added.

You shook your head, turning toward the kitchen. “Yell if you need anything.”

“We won’t,” Robby said.

“Water,” Jack said at the same time.

Robby closed his eyes.

You laughed again as you walked away. And this time, Robby let himself look after you for one second longer than he should have.

Jack leaned back slightly, looking toward the doorway you’d just left through.

“You two aren’t being awkward at all.”

Robby dragged a box toward him. “…this is the most time I’ve actually spent around her.”

Jack looked at him. “Seriously?”

Robby nodded once. “Yeah. We’ve mostly just passed each other before and after work.”

Jack’s gaze shifted back toward the hallway, listening to the faint sounds of you moving around in the kitchen.

“You can hear it, right?”

Robby frowned. “What.”

“The nerves,” Jack said. “Yours. Hers.”

Robby didn’t answer.

Jack shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. “At least you’re matching.”

Robby huffed quietly, shaking his head, but he didn’t argue.

From the kitchen, something clinked, ceramic against the counter, soft and careful.

Both of them stilled for just long enough to hear it.

Jack glanced at him. “Go easy.”

Robby didn’t look away from the doorway. “I am.”

Jack nodded once.

“Yeah,” he said. “I can see that.”

Then he grabbed the nearest box and shifted it toward the door.

“Come on,” he added, lighter now. “Before I start labeling your emotional baggage.”

Robby exhaled, dragging the next box after him. And the moment, whatever it had been, settled back into the quiet.

-

For the next hour, the room got worse before it got better.

Boxes came out first. One by one, then two at a time, sliding into the hallway with cardboard scraping over wood and dust lifting into the morning light. Robby made piles with the kind of focus that suggested he had rules for all of it.

Storage. Donate. Trash. Maybe.

Jack took one look at the system and immediately ruined it. He picked up a box from the maybe pile, opened it, and looked inside. Then he closed it. Then opened it again, like maybe the contents would improve on the second try.

Robby watched him. “What.”

Jack lifted his eyes. “This is seven cables and a receipt from 2019.”

“It might be important.”

“The receipt?”

“The cables.”

“For what?”

Robby paused.

Jack nodded. “Exactly.”

From the kitchen, your laugh carried down the hall. Not loud. Not fully comfortable yet. But there.

Robby pointed toward the doorway. “You’re not supposed to be part of this.”

“I’m not,” you called back, softer. “I’m just… listening from a distance.”

Jack looked toward the hall, then back at Robby. “Safe distance has ears.”

Robby shook his head, but his shoulders eased a little.

Jack held the box out. “Pick one.”

Robby frowned. “What.”

“One cable. The rest go.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“It is today.”

From the kitchen, you said, “I mean… he has a point.”

Robby turned toward the hallway. “You too?”

“Sorry,” you said, though you sounded like you were smiling.

Jack nodded. “Two against one.”

Robby stared at the box like it had betrayed him.

“…fine,” he muttered, pulling one cable out.

Jack immediately took the box. “Progress.”

“This feels wrong,” Robby said.

“You’ll survive.”

Your laugh came again. Still small. Still careful. But easier than before.

Robby didn’t tell you to stop listening this time. He just glanced toward the hallway, almost like he was checking that you were still there.

You were. Not in the room. Not in the way. But close enough that your voice kept finding them. Close enough that every time you laughed, something in Robby loosened.

The room kept shifting after that.

Boxes dragged into the hall. Old papers stacked. Dust lifted and settled again. Jack found reasons to comment on nearly everything he touched, and every so often, your voice drifted in from the kitchen.

A small laugh.

A quiet, “That sounds important.”

Or, “That sounds like trash.”

Never too loud. Never too sure. But each time, you sounded a little less like you were waiting to be told you’d stepped too far. 

Eventually, you appeared in the doorway with two glasses of water held carefully in both hands.

“I’m not lifting anything,” you said before either of them could speak.

Jack lifted one hand. “No accusations have been made.”

You glanced between them. “You both looked like you were about to say it.”

Robby’s mouth twitched. “We were.”

You smiled, small but real. Robby noticed. 

You stepped only as far as the doorway, holding one glass out to him. “Water.”

He crossed the room to take it, careful not to let his fingers linger when they brushed yours.

“Thanks,” he said.

You nodded, then handed the other glass to Jack.

Jack accepted it easily. “See? You’re helping.”

“I was told morale support was essential,” you said.

“It is,” Jack said. “Vital work.”

Robby looked at the mess around them. “Is it?”

Jack took a sip. “Morale is delicate.”

You laughed under your breath. The tension in Robby’s shoulders slipped a fraction.

Jack saw it. But this time, he didn’t say anything. He just nodded toward the next box.

“Alright,” he said. “Back to brave choices.”

You stayed in the doorway for a few more seconds, looking around the room like you were trying to understand the shape of it under the mess. 

Then you stepped back. Not far. Just enough to stay out of the way. Still close enough to be part of it.

Jack reached for the next box, grunting slightly at the weight. He glanced at the label.

“Med school?”

Robby didn’t look up. “Keep.”

Jack blinked. “You don’t even know what’s in it.”

“Textbooks.”

“From when?”

“Medical school.”

Jack stared at him.

“They were expensive,” Robby said.

Jack nodded. “So were my twenties, but I let those go too.”

From the kitchen, you laughed.

Robby pointed toward the hallway. “You’re not part of this.”

“I’m morale support,” you called back.

Jack opened the box and lifted one out. “This reference material still thinks pagers are cutting edge.”

Robby reached for it. “They can go in storage.”

Jack shook his head. “One box. Not all of them.”

Robby stared at him, then exhaled. “…fine.”

Jack moved the rest. “Look at that. Progress.”

-

You made it all of ten minutes before standing still felt wrong.

The kitchen was clean. Too clean. Counter wiped twice. Dishes rinsed. Coffee pot set back where you’d found it. The sponge squeezed out and placed neatly by the sink like that mattered. Like any of it mattered.

You stood there for a second, hands resting on the edge of the counter, listening to the sound of men clearing out a room down the hall.

Boxes scraping. Jack saying something low and dry. Robby answering in that clipped, tired voice that somehow still managed to sound amused.

You couldn’t hear every word. You didn’t need to. The sound filled the house anyway. Not loud. Not overwhelming.

Just… present.

You turned slowly, looking around the kitchen.

Michael’s kitchen.

The mug you had used sat upside down on the drying towel. His coffee still smelled warm in the pot. Morning light slid across the counter, catching on crumbs you’d missed near the plate. The house felt lived in now. Not perfectly. Not permanently.

But more than before. Because of you.

That thought should have scared you. It did. A little. But not enough to make you run from it.

You moved into the living room, barefoot against the floor, and stopped near the couch where Robby had slept for four nights. The blanket was folded over the arm now, not the way he folded it. The way you folded it. Tighter. Neater. Smoothed at the corners.

Your hand reached out before you meant for it to, brushing lightly over the fabric. He had slept there because of you. Because he’d given you the room. Because he’d made a choice before you ever asked him to.

You swallowed. 

Down the hall, something thudded.

“Easy,” Robby called.

“I’m being easy,” Jack answered.

“That was not easy.”

“That was controlled impact.”

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. Small. Private. Just yours. And then the quiet settled again.

You looked around the living room. The couch. The blanket. The coffee table. The shoes by the door. Your shoes next to his.

That was what got you.

Not the breakfast. Not the boxes. Not even the room.

Your shoes. Sitting there beside his like they had any right to. Like this was normal. Like you were someone who came home here.

Your breath caught in a way that embarrassed you, even alone. Your hand left the blanket and drifted down, settling against your stomach. Not because you felt anything.

You didn’t.

There was no flutter. No movement. No tiny confirmation from inside you. Just your hand. Your body. 

The truth of it.

You stood there with your palm against yourself and let the weight of the morning catch up.

You were pregnant. In Michael’s house. Listening to him clear a room for you. Not because someone forced him. Not because you begged.

Because he wanted to.

Because somewhere between panic and paperwork and all the things neither of you knew how to say, he had woken up on his first day off and decided to make space.

For you. For this. For whatever came next.

Your eyes burned suddenly, and you hated that. Not because it hurt. Because it didn’t. 

That was the problem. 

It felt soft. It felt dangerous. It felt like standing in front of a door you didn’t know how to open while someone on the other side quietly unlocked it for you.

You looked down at your hand against your stomach.

“Hey,” you whispered.

The word barely made it into the room. 

You weren’t talking to a kick. Or a heartbeat you could hear. Or anything you could hold. You were talking to the idea of someone.

To the tiny, impossible future inside you. To the part of yourself that still didn’t know whether it was allowed to want anything this badly.

“Hi,” you tried again, even softer.

Your thumb moved against your shirt. For a second, you let yourself imagine it. Not all of it. Not the big things. Not forever.

Just one morning.

A room with softer light. A drawer that belonged to you. Michael’s coffee in the kitchen. Jack making terrible jokes from down the hall. Your baby growing somewhere safe.

You, not temporary.

You, not borrowing air.

You, not apologizing for needing a place to land.

The image came so suddenly it almost knocked the breath out of you.

You closed your eyes.

No.

Not no.

Just… Careful.

Wanting was dangerous when you didn’t know what people would do with it. Wanting made you soft in places you had spent years trying to protect. Wanting turned kindness into something you could lose.

But your hand stayed where it was.

Your body didn’t move away from the thought. That scared you more than anything. Because for the first time since you’d said the words I’m pregnant, the future didn’t look like a door slamming shut.

It looked like a room being cleared. Messy. Dusty. Unfinished. But opening.

You inhaled slowly.

“One day at a time,” you whispered.

It wasn’t a promise. Not quite.

It was permission.

Permission not to run from the good just because it was good. Permission not to decide the ending before the morning was even over. Permission to stand in Michael's living room with your hand on your stomach and admit, only to yourself, that maybe some part of you wanted this house to keep sounding like this.

Like work. Like voices. Like someone making room.

Down the hall, Jack said something you couldn’t hear. Robby laughed. Not much. Barely. But enough.

Your chest tightened again, only this time you didn’t fight it. You opened your eyes and looked toward the hallway.

“Your dad’s kind of a lot,” you murmured.

The words startled you as soon as you said them.

Your dad.

You pressed your lips together, breathing through the sudden ache of it. It felt too soon. Too intimate. Too much. But it didn’t feel wrong.

That was the part you didn’t know what to do with.

A small, helpless smile pulled at your mouth.

“Don’t get attached,” you whispered.

Then, after a second, quieter…

“Or maybe… don’t listen to me.”

You stood there a moment longer, palm warm against your stomach, letting yourself have the thought without punishing yourself for it.

Then you dropped your hand. Not because the moment was over. Because you needed something to do with all of it.

You went back to the kitchen, pulled two glasses from the cabinet, and filled them with water.

Your hands were steady. Mostly.

You balanced the glasses carefully and looked once more down the hall, toward the room that was slowly becoming something else.

“Morale support,” you murmured.

It sounded like a joke. It wasn’t entirely one.

Then you picked up the waters and walked back toward the noise.

You balanced the glasses carefully and walked back toward the noise.

The hallway looked different now.

Boxes lined one side of it, some taped shut, some open, some labeled in Robby’s handwriting and some clearly relabeled in Jack’s, because one of them said DO NOT LET ROBBY KEEP THIS in thick black marker.

You slowed when you saw it.

“Really?” you called.

From inside the room, Jack answered, “Accurate labeling prevents future confusion.”

Robby muttered, “He’s been given too much power.”

You stepped into the doorway with both glasses in hand.

The room had gotten worse. Somehow. There were boxes everywhere now. Piles where there hadn’t been piles before. Dust on the floor. A stack of old textbooks near the wall. One lonely cable sitting on the desk like it had survived a war.

But under all of it, you could see the shape of something new. Floor. Actual floor. A stretch of bare wall. Sunlight falling through the window without being blocked by cardboard.

Your chest tightened again, but softer this time.

Jack looked up first, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Morale support returns.”

You lifted the glasses. “Hydration support.”

“Even better.”

Robby glanced over from where he was kneeling beside a box, and for half a second his expression changed. Not much. Just enough. Like he noticed you were quieter than before. Like he noticed something had shifted, even if he didn’t know what.

“You okay?” he asked.

The question landed gently. Too gently.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Jack looked between the two of you, then very deliberately became fascinated with the box in front of him.

Robby stayed looking at you.

You held one glass out to him. “Water.”

He took it, fingers brushing yours for barely a second. Nothing dramatic. Still, you felt it.

“Thanks,” he said.

You nodded again, then handed the other glass to Jack.

Jack accepted it easily. “See? You’re helping.”

You smiled, stepping just inside the room before remembering you weren’t supposed to. “It looks different.”

Robby followed your gaze around the room. “Different bad or different good?”

You took a second before answering. The space didn’t feel like a storage room anymore.

The wall that had been buried was finally visible, scuffed in places, a few old nail holes catching the light, but open. The floor stretched farther than it had before, wood showing through in uneven patches where boxes had been dragged away, dust pushed into soft lines along the edges.

The desk had been pulled out from the wall, its surface cleared just enough to see what it actually was instead of what had been piled on top of it. Cords were gone. Papers stacked. The clutter didn’t disappear, it just stopped owning the space.

And the window…The light came through clean now. Not filtered through cardboard or blocked by something forgotten. It cut across the room in a long strip, catching the air, the dust still settling, the edges of what was left behind.

It wasn’t finished. It wasn’t even close. But it didn’t feel stuck anymore.

“Different,” you said. “Possible.”

Robby looked back at you.

“Yeah,” he said, quieter. “That’s what I was going for.”

And there it was again. That soft thing. That dangerous thing.

You looked down first, because if you kept looking at him, the morning was going to become something you didn’t know how to hold.

Jack cleared his throat.

“Well,” he said, “before we start congratulating ourselves, we should probably move the desk.”

Robby closed his eyes. “You were so close to being quiet.”

“I know. Scared me too.”

You laughed, grateful for the interruption.

Robby stood, setting his glass on the cleared corner of the desk. “You should probably stay out there while we move the desk.”

You lifted both hands. “I know. I know. No boxes. No lifting. No standing under falling cardboard.”

You shook your head and stepped into the hallway again, but this time you didn’t go far. You stayed just outside the room, leaning lightly against the wall with your arms folded, watching as they each took one side of the desk.

Robby looked over at you.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

Jack grunted as he lifted his side. “He’s checking to make sure you’re not secretly helping.”

“I am standing here.”

“That’s how it starts,” Robby said.

You smiled. Robby tried not to. Failed a little.

Together, they eased the desk away from the wall, slow and careful, wood scraping softly against the floor. And for the first time, standing just outside the room didn’t feel like being kept out.

It felt like being watched over. It felt like being included without being asked to prove you deserved to be there.

That was new. That was terrifying. That was nice.

They got the desk out after three awkward turns, one near injury, and Jack saying, “Pivot,” exactly once before Robby threatened to leave him in the hallway.

After that, the room emptied fast.

Boxes disappeared into the hall. The old chair went to the garage. The stack of textbooks got narrowed down to one, which Robby treated like a personal sacrifice and Jack called “character development.”

When the last box was gone, the room looked strange. Bare. Dusty. Open.

You stood in the doorway with a roll of paper towels in one hand and a trash bag in the other.

Robby looked at you. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

Jack leaned against the doorframe. “I’d let this one go.”

You pointed at him with the paper towels. “I’m not lifting anything.”

Robby narrowed his eyes.

“I’m wiping,” you said. “Very low-risk activity.”

Jack nodded. “Historically safer than lifting.”

Robby sighed. “Fine.”

So you cleaned. Not because anyone asked you to. Because the room felt like it needed it.

You wiped dust from the windowsill while Robby swept the floor, pushing thin gray lines into a growing pile by the door. Jack moved in and out of the room with trash bags, the space gradually emptying of everything that didn’t belong.

The window resisted at first, then gave with a stubborn scrape. Fresh air slipped in, cool and clean, stirring the dust in the sunlight and pulling the stale cardboard smell out of the room.

For the first time, it didn’t look like a storage room. It looked like a room waiting for someone.

Jack clapped once. “Alright. Now we make it worse again.”

You looked at him.

He grinned. “Furniture.”

“Furniture?”

Jack nodded toward the door. “Come see.”

You hesitated, but then followed.

The truck was open. And it wasn’t random. A mattress. Still wrapped. Boxes stacked in clean lines. A dresser that had been picked, not grabbed. A lamp sitting on top like someone had thought about where it would go.

You stared at it longer than you meant to.

“Oh.”

Robby shifted beside you. “I should’ve asked what you liked.”

You looked at him.

He didn’t quite meet your eyes. “I didn’t want to overcomplicate it. Just… get something in here.”

You looked back at the truck. At the mattress. The dresser. The nightstand. The lamp. At the way everything had been chosen like it mattered.

“If you hate any of it,” he added, quieter, “we’ll take it back.”

You blinked.

“All of it,” he said.

That got you to look at him again.

Robby’s hand moved to the back of his neck. “I mean it.”

You swallowed, then looked back at the truck.

“I don’t hate it,” you said softly.

For a second, neither of you moved.

“It works.”

Robby nodded once, like he was taking that in. But he didn’t move.

“Does it feel… like too much?” he asked, careful.

You shook your head.

“No,” you said. “It feels like you thought about it.”

That hit him. You could see it.

He glanced away first this time, like he didn’t quite know what to do with that.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I did.”

The quiet stretched just long enough to feel full.

You nodded once. “Thank you.”

Robby looked like he almost asked something. Then didn’t.

You glanced back at the truck. “We should probably start bringing it in.”

“Yeah,” he said.

Jack cleared his throat loudly. “Hey, Romeo, a little help would be nice.”

Robby didn’t look back at you. He just stepped forward and took the other end.

You stepped out of the way. But your eyes stayed on him. On the way he moved. Careful. Steady. Like this wasn’t just a task. Like it meant something. You hadn’t expected that. Not from him. Not like this.

They carried the first piece inside.

Came back out for the next. And you stayed there, watching the room change before it even existed.

The first box went in. Then another. And another. You lost count after that. You just watched.

Watched Robby move back and forth between the truck and the house, steady, focused, careful in a way that didn’t feel like habit.

It felt like intention. That was the part that stayed with you. Not the furniture. Not the effort. The intention. You hadn’t expected him to go this far.

Robby came back for another box and paused when he reached you.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded. Your voice didn’t trust itself yet.

He studied you for half a second, then nodded back, like that was enough. And kept moving.

When they disappeared back down the hall for the last trip, you stepped into the room.

It was still in pieces.

Boxes stacked. Frame unbuilt. The mattress leaning against the wall. Not finished. But not empty.

You moved slowly, like the space might change if you rushed it. Your hand brushed the edge of the nightstand as you passed.

Solid. Real. Yours.

You stood there for a second longer than you meant to. Then exhaled, quiet. And didn’t step back out.

-

Jack set the last box against the wall and wiped his hands on his jeans.

“Alright,” he said. “That’s everything out of the truck.”

You looked around the room. “It looks like a furniture store exploded.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “But tastefully.”

Robby gave him a look. “That’s not helpful.”

“It is emotionally helpful.” Jack glanced at you, then nodded toward the boxes. “I’ll come back tomorrow and help put it together.”

You blinked. “You don’t have to do that.”

Jack smiled. “I know.”

Then he looked at Robby. “But he’s old, and I don’t trust him alone with instructions.”

Robby stared at him. “You’re forty-five.”

“Exactly,” Jack said. “Young and experienced.”

Jack grabbed his keys off the counter like he’d been there a hundred times instead of just that morning.

“Try not to make it weird,” he said, already halfway to the door.

Robby didn’t look at him. “Leave.”

Jack paused long enough to glance back at you. “I’ll be back tomorrow. We’ll get it put together.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

Then he was gone.

The door shut, and just like that, the house went quiet. Not empty. Not uncomfortable. Just… quieter.

You stood where you were, listening to the absence of movement. No footsteps. No boxes shifting. No voice cutting through the space to keep things moving.

Robby moved first. He crossed back toward the room, pushing one of the boxes a few inches with his foot like he needed something to do with his hands.

“Sorry,” he said.

You blinked. “For what?”

He shrugged, not looking at you. “All of it. Today. Just—” He gestured vaguely toward the room. “I didn’t mean to take over.”

You leaned lightly against the doorway. “You didn’t.”

He glanced up.

You held his gaze. “You made space.”

Robby exhaled slowly, like something in his chest had loosened just enough to let air through.

“Yeah,” he said.

The quiet settled again.

You pushed off the doorway and stepped into the room. The boxes were stacked where they’d been left. The mattress leaned against the wall, still wrapped. The lamp sat on the nightstand like it was waiting for someone to turn it on.

You reached out without thinking, brushing your fingers lightly along the edge of the dresser. Solid. Real.

You pulled your hand back.

“It’s a lot,” you admitted. “Thank you.”

Robby nodded. “Yeah.”

But he didn’t say it like it was a problem.

You looked around the room again. Not finished. Not set up. But yours. At least for now.

You glanced back at him. “You don’t have to sleep on the couch tonight.”

Robby shook his head immediately. “It’s fine.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.” He gave a small shrug. “So do I.”

That stopped you. Not defensive. Not stubborn. Just decided.

You nodded once. “Okay.”

Another quiet moment settled between you. Different from before. Not as sharp. Just unfamiliar.

You stepped back toward the doorway, hands brushing together like you needed something to do with them.

“Do you—” you started, then stopped.

Robby looked at you. “What?”

You shrugged a little, glancing toward the kitchen. “I could make dinner.”

It wasn’t a strange offer. You had made breakfast. You had already been in his kitchen. Already learned where some things were. Already filled his fridge with groceries neither of you had quite talked about.

Still, the words came out softer than you meant them to. Like you were checking if the day had changed the rules.

Robby’s brows pulled together slightly. “You don’t have to.”

“I know.” You nodded. “I just want to. If that’s okay.”

He studied you for a moment.

Then nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

You let out a small breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Okay.”

He shifted, pushing off the wall. “I’ll help.”

You shook your head immediately. “You’ve been lifting furniture all day.”

“I can still stand in a kitchen.”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to prevent,” you said lightly.

His mouth twitched.

“Sit,” you added, nodding toward the living room. “I’ve got it.”

Robby hesitated. Then, for once, didn’t argue.

“Alright,” he said.

You gave a small nod and turned toward the kitchen, already scanning what was there. Behind you, you heard him move. Not toward you. Toward the couch.

For the first time that day, doing something for him didn’t feel like proving anything. It just felt normal. Or close to it.

You moved into the kitchen. Robby didn’t follow. He stayed just outside it, one shoulder against the wall, arms crossed loosely because he needed somewhere to put his hands.

Watching.

You opened the fridge without hesitation. That caught him first. Not because opening a fridge mattered. It didn’t. But because you didn’t pause before doing it. You didn’t look back at him for permission. You didn’t ask if it was okay.

You just opened it. Like you knew what was inside. Like you had a reason to know. 

Of course you did.

You’d gone grocery shopping. You had filled the drawers and shelves with things that hadn’t been there before. Food he hadn’t bought. Food he wouldn’t have thought to buy. Small things. Normal things. Domestic things.

Robby let out a slow breath through his nose. That word had been following him all day.

Domestic.

It shouldn’t have fit.

Not with the mess of how this started. Not with Vegas and paperwork and pregnancy tests and the kind of history that made both of you stand too carefully in the same room.

But it did. 

It fit when he came home and found coffee waiting. It fit when you made breakfast in his kitchen like you were still afraid to want the right to be there. It fit when you stood in the doorway of that cleaned-out room and said it looked possible. It fit now, watching you pull things from the fridge and set them on the counter like this was a house that belonged to more than one person.

He didn’t know when you had stopped being angry with him. Maybe you hadn’t. Maybe it was still there, tucked under politeness and pancakes and the fact that Jack had been around all day making it easier not to look straight at anything. Maybe you were tired. Maybe you were being kind because that was what you did when you didn’t know what else to do.

Maybe the anger hadn’t gone anywhere. Maybe you had just learned how to carry it quietly.

That thought sat badly in his chest.

He watched you reach for a pan. Watched your hand move across the handle before you set it on the stove. Steady. Calm. Like you weren’t standing in his house after he had already given you reasons not to trust him. Like you weren’t carrying his child.

That thought landed heavier. His eyes dropped before he could stop them. Not long. Just a flicker. To your stomach.

There was nothing to see yet. Nothing obvious. Nothing changed enough for the world to know. You were still just you in soft clothes, hair slightly loose from the day, moving around his kitchen with groceries you had bought and a quietness he didn’t know how to read.

But he knew. And once he knew, he couldn’t unknow it. The baby was there in every decision now. In the room down the hall. In the dresser still in pieces. In the lamp he had chosen after standing in a store for six minutes like the wrong shade of beige might ruin both your lives. 

In the way he wanted to ask if you were tired.

If you were hungry. If you were scared. If you still felt angry. If you wanted any of this to stay. Not him. Not like that.

He wasn’t asking for romance. He wasn’t asking to be loved. He wasn’t asking you to forgive him on a timeline just because he had cleared out a room and bought furniture.

That wasn’t what this was.

Or maybe it was the beginning of something, but not that. Not yet.

What he wanted was simpler. Harder. He wanted to learn how to be better for you.

Not in a grand, polished, overnight way. Not in a way that erased what had happened or made any of this suddenly easy. He wanted to learn how to be steady. How to listen without defending himself. How to help without taking over. How to be present without making you feel trapped by his presence.

He wanted a relationship built around trust before anything else. Respect before expectation. Safety before closeness. He wanted to be enough as a partner. As the person standing beside you when things got hard. As the father of your child.

Not perfect.

Not suddenly transformed into someone who knew what to say. 

Just enough.

Enough that you didn’t feel alone. Enough that the room didn’t feel borrowed. Enough that when you opened his fridge, you didn’t feel like you had to apologize for taking up space.

You cracked something into a bowl, the small sound too sharp in the quiet kitchen.

Robby shifted against the wall.

You didn’t look back.

“You can sit,” you said.

He blinked, dragged back into the room.

“I am sitting.”

You glanced over your shoulder. He was still standing. Your eyes moved over him once, slow and unimpressed.

“That’s not sitting.”

“It’s close.”

“It’s leaning.”

“Adjacent.”

A small smile touched your mouth before you turned back to the counter.

There it was again.

That ease. That tiny thing you gave him without warning. 

He didn’t know what to do with it.

All day, little moments had kept happening before he could prepare for them. You laughing at Jack. You teasing him about his back. You standing beside the truck and saying the furniture worked. You looking at the room like it scared you and mattered to you at the same time.

Every time, Robby had found himself wanting one more second. One more laugh. One more glance. One more piece of proof that maybe you felt it too.

Not romance. Not yet. Just the shift. The house changing around both of you. The shape of something less hostile than before.

The stove clicked on.

You moved through the kitchen slowly, comfortable enough to know where some things were and careful enough to still avoid opening the wrong drawer. That nearly undid him more than confidence would have.

Because you were still learning the space. Still negotiating with it. Still not fully certain. And he wanted to give you that certainty so badly it made his chest ache.

“You went grocery shopping,” he said.

It came out quieter than he meant.

You glanced back. “Yeah.”

“Thank you.”

Your mouth twitched faintly. “I figured you would eventually.”

He nodded once. The quiet stretched. Then stretched again.

“You didn’t have to,” he said.

You looked down at the counter. “I know.”

There it was again.

I know.

The same thing you said when you did something anyway.

He wondered how many things in your life you had done because you knew you didn’t have to, but still felt like you should. He hated that thought.

You reached for a spatula. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is,” he said.

You paused. Not fully. Just enough.

Robby pushed off the wall, but didn’t come closer.

“I mean…” He exhaled softly, choosing the words with more care than he was used to. “It makes the house feel different.”

You didn’t turn around right away. The pan warmed between you. The smell of butter started to fill the kitchen. When you finally looked back, your expression was guarded.

Not cold. Not angry. Just careful. Like you were deciding whether the floor would hold if you put weight on it.

“Different good or different bad?” you asked.

He almost smiled at the echo of earlier. But he didn’t. Because this one mattered.

“Good,” he said.

Your eyes stayed on him.

He held them.

“It feels good.”

The words were simple. Too simple for what they did to the room.

Your fingers tightened lightly around the spatula. Robby saw it. Filed it away. Didn’t push.

You looked away first, turning back to the stove.

“Okay,” you said softly.

Again, he didn’t know what that meant. But this time, he didn’t need to force it into an answer. The food cooked quietly. You moved. He watched.

And the whole time, the same thought stayed with him…

I don’t want this to end.

Not the cooking. Not the room. Not the sound of you in his kitchen. Not the baby, still invisible and already changing everything. Not the fragile, half-built trust between you that neither of you had named because naming it would make it too real too fast.

He wanted time. That was all. 

Time to prove he could be steady. Time to prove he could listen. Time to prove he could be more than the man who made the mess. Time to become someone you could trust beside you.

Not in front of you. Not over you. Beside you.

You plated the food without ceremony, then turned with one plate in your hand.

Robby stepped forward before you could call him over.

Your fingers brushed when he took it. Barely. But neither of you moved away right away.

His thumb hovered near yours for a second longer than necessary.

“Thanks,” he said.

Your eyes lifted to his.

“Yeah.”

The silence settled between you. Small. Full. The kind that felt like a question neither of you was ready to ask.

Robby looked at you and wondered if you felt it too. 

If the house felt different to you. If this morning had gotten under your skin the way it had gotten under his. If some small, cautious part of you wanted this to last longer than the arrangement. Longer than convenience. Longer than temporary.

He wanted to ask. He didn’t. Instead, he nodded toward the living room.

“Couch?”

You looked at him for a second longer than you had to. Then nodded.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Couch.”

And when you followed him out of the kitchen, plate in hand, Robby let himself hope.

Just a little. That you weren’t only staying because you had nowhere else to go.

The living room felt smaller with both of you in it.

Not cramped.

Just aware.

Robby sat at one end of the couch, his plate balanced carefully in one hand, the remote loose in the other. You sat at the opposite end with your knees angled slightly toward the coffee table, your plate resting in your lap, both of you leaving enough space between your bodies to pretend the distance wasn’t intentional.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

Forks moved quietly against plates. The refrigerator hummed from the kitchen. Somewhere down the hall, the room sat full of unopened boxes and things neither of you knew how to name yet.

Robby shifted first. Not much. Just his thumb moving over the remote. His eyes stayed on his plate for a second longer, like he was deciding something ordinary. Then he lifted the remote and turned the TV on.

The screen bloomed to life, filling the quiet with color. Low volume. Barely more than a murmur. A woman in an expensive kitchen pointed at another woman like the fate of the world rested on whether someone had been invited to brunch.

You glanced at the TV. Then at him. He didn’t look embarrassed exactly. But he didn’t look proud either. His jaw shifted once, like he was waiting for you to say something.

You looked back at the screen and held your fork a little tighter than necessary.

“I noticed something,” you said carefully.

Robby’s eyes moved to you. Not all the way. Just enough.

“What?”

You kept your gaze on the TV because it felt safer there. “You always have something on.”

His thumb stilled on the remote.

“The TV,” you added softly. “Or music. The radio sometimes.”

He didn’t answer.

You wished immediately that you had found a better way to say it.

“I don’t mean that like I was keeping track,” you said. “I just… noticed.”

Robby looked back at the screen.

The TV light moved over his face, catching the tiredness around his eyes, the hard line of his mouth, the part of him that was sitting beside you and the part that was somewhere else entirely.

He drew in a slow breath. Let it out through his nose.

“Yeah,” he said.

One word. Careful. You didn’t push.

Your fork rested against the edge of your plate. Your food had gone warm instead of hot, but you couldn’t quite make yourself take another bite.

Robby’s hand shifted around the remote. He turned it once in his palm, then set it down between you on the couch cushion. Like he didn’t trust himself to hold it.

“It gets…” He stopped.

His eyes stayed forward.

The woman on TV laughed too loudly at something no one in the room seemed to find funny.

Robby swallowed.

“It gets too quiet sometimes,” he said finally.

The words were so simple. So plain. But they changed the room anyway.

You looked at him then. Not quickly. Not sharply. Just enough to let him know you were listening.

Robby didn’t look back.

“When it’s quiet,” he said, slower now, like every word had to be pulled out and checked before he gave it to you, “my head gets loud.”

Your chest tightened. You didn’t say anything. You were afraid if you spoke too fast, he would take it back.

He shifted his plate from one hand to the other, then set it carefully on the coffee table. The small sound of ceramic against wood seemed too loud.

He leaned back, but not like he was relaxed. More like he needed the couch behind him.

“The noise helps,” he said.

His voice was lower now. A little rougher.

“Gives me something else to listen to.”

You looked at the TV again. At the bright kitchen. At the expensive clothes. At people arguing about something that probably did not matter and somehow mattered enormously to them.

You understood it differently now. Not the show. 

The need for it. The need for anything that could stand between a person and their own thoughts.

Your fingers loosened around your fork. You thought about your own head. How quiet could turn mean if you gave it enough room. How fear knew your voice well enough to imitate truth. How sometimes the worst things you heard were the things no one else said out loud.

You didn’t know what Robby’s thoughts sounded like. You wouldn’t pretend you did. But you could imagine they weren’t gentle. Not if he needed the TV this loud, this often, this automatically. Not if silence made him reach for noise before he even thought about it.

You set your plate down too. Slowly. Carefully. Not because you were finished. Because this felt like something you should have both hands for.

“Michael,” you said softly.

His name changed something. It always did.

His eyes moved to you then. Fully this time.

You held his gaze for as long as you could, then looked down at your hands.

“I get that,” you said.

He didn’t answer.

You rubbed your thumb over the side of your palm, trying to find the right words before they became too much.

“I mean, not…” You shook your head once. “Not exactly. I’m not saying I know what it sounds like for you.”

His face stayed still. But his attention sharpened.

You felt it. You kept going carefully.

“I just know quiet can get mean.”

Robby’s expression changed. Barely. But enough. His eyes dropped for a second, then came back to you.

You let out a breath.

“And sometimes,” you said, voice smaller now, “it helps to have something else in the room.”

The TV murmured between you. Not interrupting. Not covering. Just there.

Robby looked at you for a long moment. He looked like he wanted to say something. He didn’t. Maybe he didn’t know how. Maybe neither of you did.

So you gave him something smaller. Something easier to hold.

“If it ever gets too loud,” you said, and stopped because the sentence felt bigger once it was in the air.

Robby didn’t move. Didn’t blink away.

You swallowed.

“I can help make it quieter.”

His eyes stayed on yours. Still. Too still.

You hurried, but softly, afraid of making it sound like a promise you had no right to make.

“Not fix it,” you said. “I don’t mean fix it. I just mean…”

You looked toward the TV, then back down at your hands.

“I can sit with you.”

The words were almost nothing. They felt like everything.

“Or we can talk,” you added. “Or not talk.”

Your mouth twitched faintly, nervous now, needing somewhere for the weight to go.

“Or watch Housewives.”

Robby’s gaze finally broke. It dropped to the TV. For the first time, his mouth moved. Not a smile. Not yet. But something close enough to feel like one.

“It’s not what you think it is.”

You glanced at him, careful but a little amused. “Michael.”

His eyes flicked back to you.

“You have it on enough that I’m starting to think it’s exactly what I think it is.”

This time, the almost-smile stayed.

“It’s background noise.”

“Mm.”

“It is.”

“I didn’t argue.”

“You made a sound.”

“I made a very neutral sound.”

He glanced at you, and for once there wasn’t as much guardedness in it. Still there. Just not as sharp.

“You’re enjoying this,” he said.

“A little.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, quiet and reluctant. 

On the screen, someone gasped loud enough to make both of you look over.

You frowned. “Wait. Why is she mad?”

Robby exhaled through his nose, almost laughing. “You don’t have the context.”

“Then give me the context.”

He looked at you again. Longer this time. Like he was still deciding what to do with the fact that you had offered to sit inside his noise with him.

Then he shifted back against the couch, plate balanced in his lap, voice low and careful.

“Alright,” he said. “But you can’t take it back now.”

You nodded once, settling back a little deeper into your side of the couch, plate in your lap, eyes moving to the screen like you were actually ready to learn.

“Start from the beginning.”

Robby huffed quietly under his breath, but it wasn’t annoyed.

Not really.

“Okay,” he said. “So she didn’t invite her on purpose—”

You leaned forward slightly, immediately invested.

“—but she’s saying it was an oversight, which it wasn’t—”

“That feels intentional,” you said.

“It was.”

“I knew it. That bitch.”

Robby shook his head, but there was something softer in it now. “You’re not supposed to pick sides this fast.”

“You didn’t say there were rules.”

“There are always rules.”

“Then you should’ve explained them first, Michael.”

His name slipped out without hesitation this time. Not careful. Not second-guessed.

Robby stopped for just long enough to feel it. Then kept going.

“Alright. New rule. No forming strong opinions in the first five minutes.”

“Too late.”

“I can see that.”

You both looked back at the TV. Your shoulders weren’t pulled in as tight anymore. His weren’t either. The space between you hadn’t changed. But it didn’t feel like distance the same way it had before.

It felt intentional. Like something being held instead of avoided.

The TV kept talking. You asked questions. Robby answered them, quieter than he probably would have with anyone else, like he was still aware of how close this moment sat to something fragile.

Every now and then, you laughed. Not loud. Not forced. Just enough. And every time you did, something in his chest eased before he could stop it.

You didn’t notice. Or maybe you did. You didn’t say anything about it either way.

The episode moved on. Voices rose and fell. Arguments built and dissolved into something else. And underneath it, something quieter settled in the room.

Not silence. Not tension.

Something in between. Something shared.

You leaned back eventually, plate empty, eyes still on the screen but softer now.

You weren’t really watching anymore. You were listening.

To the TV. To him. To the way the house sounded with both of you in it.

Different.

You didn’t say that out loud. You weren’t ready to.

Robby glanced at you once. Then again, a second longer. Like he was checking. Not what you were doing. That you were still there.

You were. 

You didn’t move away.

On the screen, someone started yelling again.

You tilted your head slightly. “She’s wrong, right?”

Robby huffed out a quiet breath. “Completely.”

“Knew it.”

You settled back, a little more comfortable in your corner of the couch.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The TV filled the space. But it wasn’t doing all the work anymore.

Robby didn’t turn it up. Didn’t reach for the remote. Didn’t feel the need to. That was new.

He sat there, listening to the noise, to the show, to your quiet presence beside him, and realized the room didn’t feel like something he had to manage anymore.

It just existed.

And so did you.

Not passing through. Not temporary in the way he had told himself to expect. Just there.

Close enough that he could hear your breathing when the TV dipped quieter between scenes. Close enough that he didn’t feel the need to fill every second of silence before it started.

He didn’t know what this was yet. Didn’t try to name it. Didn’t want to rush it into something it wasn’t ready to be. But for the first time, the thought didn’t come with pressure.

Just something steadier.

Quieter.

If this was what it felt like to not be alone in his own head, he wasn’t in a hurry to break it.

You kept your eyes on the screen, but you weren’t really watching anymore. You were listening. To the voices. To the way they filled the room without crowding it. To the way the quiet in between didn’t feel as sharp as it had before.

And to him.

Not what he was saying.

Just… him.

The way he shifted sometimes. The way his voice lowered when he explained something. The way he didn’t reach for the remote again.

You noticed that. You didn’t comment on it. You just let it sit there. Like something you didn’t want to scare off. Your hand rested loosely in your lap, thumb moving once over your palm without you thinking about it.

The house felt different.

You had said that earlier. You meant it more now. Not because of the furniture. Not because of the room.

Because of this.

This noise. This shared space. This small, careful understanding neither of you had pushed too far.

You didn’t know what it would turn into. You didn’t try to.

For once, you didn’t feel the need to decide the ending before you let something begin.

You just sat there. And let it be enough.

For now.

Tags: @kitkat1690 @little-mini-me-world @marisol4k @shashasimba1996 @karlawithacapitalk @robinavitchswhore @borbalalikesdocs @3-smi @dizzybee03 @cerberus101@celestialsonglines @mewmew222 @baelorandmaekarinparis @tpwklizzie @floralsightings @joelmillerswifey @rufles2 @maskfiend @adoringanakin @mynameisbaby9 @graciiiaciii @menolderthan39 @anyasthoughts @findthebeautyinbreakdowns @twizzlelutz @redhooduwu @rithifriesstuff @lou-la-lou @pinkpantheris @tpwklizzie @kathrinemelissa @spooky-librarian-ghost @lillly-ofthevalley @yournamesnob @thegirlwhowaited5everok @perkyjackon @generation-zero @snovvv @1dhoe93 @optimistictacosaladcloud @proudlyvastlake @pinksabotageveil @love4lando @thebitchsaid @laughsandlivia @hollowrose12 @confusedwhitegirl10 @realwhoreforfictionalmen @lou-la-lou @buckystwilight @allenajade-ite @xoxabs88xox @bellatopo25 @mscreativity

[optimisticplb]

What Happens in Vegas Never Stays in Vegas

Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch x Reader

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

Summary: After a drunken Vegas wedding, Robby disappears by morning, leaving you with nothing but a ring and a mistake that was supposed to stay in Vegas. But when a pregnancy and state paperwork force you to track down the husband who vanished, Robby learns the truth and this time, walking away isn’t so easy.

WC: 8K

Tags: Drunken Vegas Wedding, Runaway Husband, Unexpected Pregnancy, Forced Reunion, Second Chance Romance, Robby Wants to Stay, Romantic Comedy vibes with some Angst, No use of Y/N

You woke up before Robby left.

You knew that before you opened your eyes.

The house had a different kind of quiet when he was still in it. Not loud. Just… occupied. Water running briefly in the bathroom. A cabinet opening in the kitchen. The low hum of the coffee maker. Footsteps moving down the hall, steady and unhurried. Small sounds. Ordinary sounds. The kind that should not have felt as familiar as they already did.

But they did.

And because they did, you stayed where you were for one long second with your eyes closed, pretending you weren’t awake enough to notice them.

That lasted until his footsteps passed the bedroom door.

Your eyes opened to the wrong ceiling.

Still wrong. Still unfamiliar. Still his.

What little light made it through the curtains was still more night than morning, faint and gray-blue and barely there. It left the room softer around the edges, which felt unfair. A phone charger trailed off the nightstand, the cord dipping toward the floor. An old empty glass of water sat beside the lamp. On the dresser, a pair of headphones rested in a loose coil, and a laundry basket sat off to the side with clothes folded over the edge like he’d meant to deal with them and hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Little pieces of him everywhere.

Nothing dramatic. Just enough to make it impossible to forget that this was not some empty room you had borrowed for the night.

You lay there for another second, staring at the ceiling, letting the weight of that settle over you again.

Then you pushed yourself up slowly.

Your body still ached in all the dull, familiar places. Neck. Shoulders. Lower back. The heaviness in your legs from too much driving and too much stress. But not the way it had yesterday. Sleep had helped.

Which was inconvenient.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment, gathering yourself, tugging the hem of your shirt down without thinking about it.

No version of this looked normal in the morning.

Not the room. Not the bed. Not the fact that somewhere in the kitchen was the man who had gotten drunk and married you in Vegas, left you in a hotel room, and was now making coffee before work like any of this belonged in an ordinary life.

You stood and opened the bedroom door.

Robby was in the kitchen in black scrubs, a zip-up hoodie pulled on over them like he hadn’t bothered with anything more than necessary. One hand wrapped around a coffee mug, the other resting lightly against the counter. His hair was still damp from the shower, and there was a faint tiredness to him, nothing dramatic, just the kind that settled in around the eyes when sleep never quite lasted long enough. He looked up the second he heard you, like some part of him had already been listening for that.

For a second, neither of you said anything.

The light through the kitchen window was still more night than morning, faint and gray-blue and not yet touched by the sun. It made the whole thing feel too soft. Too calm. Him in scrubs. You barefoot in the hallway. The smell of coffee in the air. It made the moment feel dangerously close to normal, and that unsettled you more than if it had felt awkward.

You leaned your shoulder lightly against the doorframe, more for the support than anything else.

“Morning,” you said, a little quieter than you meant to.

He nodded once, then glanced toward the clock on the microwave before looking back at you.

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You shook your head. “No, it’s okay.”

Your voice came out softer, rougher with sleep.

“My sleep’s been off lately anyway.”

He watched you for a second, like he was weighing that.

“Are you feeling okay?” he asked.

The question was simple. Careful.

You gave a small nod. “Yeah. Just… tired, I think.”

Another pause.

“Your bed is…” You stopped, then tried again. “Really comfortable.”

The corner of his mouth moved, barely.

“Yeah,” he said. “Glad you like it.”

You nodded once, like that settled it.

His gaze lingered a second longer, then shifted toward the counter behind him.

“There’s medicine in the cabinet by the fridge,” he said. “Top shelf. Pain relievers. Allergy meds. Zofran. Whatever you need.”

You followed his glance without turning your head all the way.

“Okay.”

“Just—” He stopped himself, then tried again, quieter. “You don’t have to wait it out if you don’t feel good.”

You nodded again, small and quick, like you’d heard him even if you didn’t quite know what to do with it yet.

“Okay. Thanks.”

It came out soft. Careful.

He took another sip of coffee, then set the mug down. “I’ve got to head in.”

“Okay.”

Your voice came out soft again. Careful.

He reached to the side of the counter, picked up a key, and slid it toward you.

You looked at it, then at him.

“You don’t have to—”

“I do.”

Quiet. Steady.

You stepped closer and took it, your fingers brushing briefly against his before you pulled back.

“If you go out,” he said, “the front door sticks a little. You have to pull it when you lock it.”

“Okay.”

He glanced back at the counter, then reached for his wallet, pulling out a card and setting it on the counter between you.

“There’s food in the fridge,” he added. “But if you need anything—just use that.”

You looked down at it.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.”

Same tone. Just as steady.

You nodded, looking down at the key in your hand and the card next to you.

“Okay.”

The word felt small.

“I’ll try not to take up too much space,” you added, almost under your breath.

You wished you hadn’t said it the second it was out.

Robby’s face shifted, something softer and more serious all at once.

“You’re allowed to take up space.”

You nodded, even if you didn’t quite believe it yet.

“I know,” you said. “I just… need a minute to get used to it.”

Robby held your gaze for a second longer, like he was deciding whether to say more.

He didn’t.

“Okay,” he said instead. Quiet. Not dismissive. Just… letting it be what it was.

You nodded again, more out of habit than anything, and looked back down at the key in your hand, turning it once between your fingers before closing your hand around it.

“I’ve got to go,” he added after a beat. “I should be back a little after seven. Maybe eight if it gets busy.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

He shifted, grabbing his bag from the stool by the counter and his helmet from where it rested nearby. The movement broke whatever stillness had settled between you, folding the moment back into something more practical.

At the door, he paused again. Not long. Just enough.

“Text me if you need anything. My number’s on the fridge,” he said.

You nodded without looking up this time. “Okay.”

He hesitated, like he was deciding whether to add more.

“If something comes up and you can’t get a hold of me,” he added, a little quieter, “call Jack. He’s a friend. His number’s under mine.”

That made you glance up.

“Okay,” you said again, softer this time.

It wasn’t quite a promise, but it was close enough.

He seemed to take it that way. Gave a small nod, then reached for the door.

“Have a good day,” he added, almost like it came out before he could think about it.

That caught you a little off guard.

Your eyes flicked up to him.

“You too,” you said, softer than you meant.

A small pause.

Then, like he couldn’t quite help himself, “Don’t forget to eat something.”

A quiet breath slipped out of you, something close to a laugh but not quite.

“Okay.”

His mouth shifted faintly, like he might say something else and decided against it.

Then he stepped outside.

The door opened. Closed. His footsteps crossed the porch, steady and familiar already in a way that felt strange.

A second later, the low, unmistakable rumble of his motorcycle came to life in the drive, familiar in a way that didn’t quite belong to him, deep and rough enough to carry through the walls and floor and settle somewhere low in your chest before you could stop it.

You stood there, listening as it idled for a moment. Then the sound shifted, throttle, movement, and faded as he pulled away. And then nothing.

The house settled around you in a different kind of quiet, bigger, emptier. The kind that made every small sound stand out, the hum of the fridge, the faint tick in the wall, the air shifting through the vents.

You stayed where you were for another second, then another, your fingers still wrapped around the key.

Seven.

Your mind landed on it before you meant it to.

You had a time now. A shape to the day. A point where it would stop feeling like this.

Your hand drifted almost absently to your stomach, palm resting there through the soft fabric of your shirt.

“Well,” you murmured.

A small pause.

“I guess it’s just you and me today.”

The words came out quieter than you expected.

Your thumb brushed once, lightly.

“Try to keep the party to yourself, okay?” you murmured.

A small pause.

“…we’re not doing all that today.”

Your mouth twitched faintly, something almost like a smile before it faded again.

Then you dropped your hand and pushed yourself away from the counter.

“Okay,” you said softly, like you were agreeing to something you hadn’t quite decided yet.

The room didn’t answer. The fridge hummed behind you.

You crossed the kitchen and opened it. Cold air brushed your legs. Eggs. Jelly. Milk. Butter. Creamer. Bread. A few leftover containers tucked neatly to the side. 

You stood there for a second, just looking.

Your eyes moved over it again.

“You could use groceries,” you said quietly. “Maybe I could pick some up.”

The thought lingered a second longer than you expected. Then you closed the fridge and stepped back.

“Breakfast,” you reminded yourself, softer now.

You reached for a mug without thinking. The one you grabbed had a small chip along the rim, worn smooth around the handle.

You noticed it, but kept it.

Bread into the toaster. Plate on the counter. Butter out of the fridge.

You leaned back against the counter while you waited, letting your gaze drift around the room again.

The mug in the sink. The dish towel on the oven handle. The bowl by the door where he’d dropped his keys and whatever else had been in his pockets.

The toaster popped.

You finished up without thinking too hard about it, then stood there for a second with everything in your hands.

Your eyes flicked toward the living room.

You hesitated.

Just a second.

Then shifted your grip and started that way anyway.

The couch sat along the wall, the window off to the side letting in soft morning light. The blanket was tangled over one arm and part of it spilled onto the cushion, like he’d kicked it off this morning and only half put it back before leaving. One pillow was crooked, slightly flattened, and the remote rested beside it like the last thing he’d touched before getting up. A stack of mail sat on the side table next to a medical journal, one page bent slightly where it had been marked instead of bookmarked. A pen rested across it, forgotten. A half-empty glass of water sat nearby, close enough to suggest it had been reached for in the dark. A jacket hung over the back of another chair.

Everything in its place. Almost. Everything his.

The couch looked just messy enough to tell on him.

You noticed.

And immediately felt a little bad.

He’d really slept there.

You didn’t say anything.

You stepped forward and sat down carefully on the edge of the cushion. The couch dipped when you sat, and you immediately adjusted like you’d somehow done it wrong.

You hadn’t. But you shifted anyway. Just in case.

You set the plate down and kept the mug, staring at it for a second before taking a sip.

Your eyes flicked back to the blanket.

Then away again.

“…don’t make this weird,” you muttered.

Which, at this point, felt like a losing battle.

You leaned back a little, stopped, then tried again like it was something you had to ease into.

There.

Close enough.

You grabbed the remote and turned the TV on.

It opened straight into some grainy war documentary, complete with dramatic music and a very serious British narrator.

You just stared at it.

Then at the remote.

Then back at the TV.

“Okay, grandpa.”

You backed out before the man on screen could keep explaining tanks to you.

The home screen popped up, all neat rows of apps and subscription logos.

Netflix. Hulu. Prime. Max. ESPN. YouTube.

And then Continue Watching.

You hovered for a second.

“You are absolutely invading this man’s privacy,” you informed yourself.

You clicked anyway.

Documentary. Documentary. Baseball highlights. Action movie. Another documentary.

Your mouth twitched.

“…you are so predictable.”

Then you saw it.

Bright colors. Dramatic faces. Someone mid-argument in a kitchen that probably cost more than his entire house.

You blinked.

Scrolled back up.

There it was.

Some version of Real Housewives.

You stared at it.

“No.”

You leaned closer.

“No, because why are you watching this.”

You glanced back at the rest of the row.

War. Sports. Explosions.

Then back at the Housewives chaos frozen mid-fight.

“…this feels like a dirty little secret.”

You sat back slowly, still staring at the screen.

“Do you watch this after work,” you murmured, half to yourself, half to the empty room, “or is this like… a bad day thing? …or a good day thing.”

That somehow made it worse.

Or better.

You weren’t sure.

You stared at it a second longer.

Then, against your better judgment…

You clicked it.

The volume came on a little louder than expected. Voices layered over each other immediately, sharp and fast and absolutely committed to whatever argument you had just dropped into the middle of.

You fumbled for the remote and turned it down.

“…okay.”

A woman on the screen pointed at someone across a marble island like it was a matter of principle.

Another one cut her off mid-sentence.

Someone else laughed in a way that was definitely not friendly.

You blinked.

“…wow.”

You shifted a little further back into the couch without thinking about it, mug still in your hands.

This was… a lot.

And also…

You watched another thirty seconds.

Then another.

“…this is terrible,” you muttered.

You didn’t turn it off.

“…she’s lying.”

You leaned forward a little, like that would somehow help you understand the situation better.

It didn’t.

But you stayed there anyway, eyes on the screen, following along just enough to pretend you knew what was happening.

“…no, because that didn’t even answer the question,” you added under your breath.

You took a sip of coffee, not looking away.

This was absolutely not what you expected to find on his TV.

Which, somehow, made it worse. Or better. Still unclear.

You glanced at the row of paused shows at the top of the screen for a second.

Then back at the argument still unfolding.

“…this is what you unwind with,” you murmured.

Another woman stormed out of the room dramatically.

You blinked.

“…respect.”

Your mouth twitched faintly before you could stop it.

You leaned back a little more this time, settling into the couch without catching yourself.

The blanket brushed your arm again.

You didn’t move it.

Didn’t even really notice.

You shifted again, this time without thinking about it, pulling your legs up just slightly, angling yourself into the corner of the couch like you might actually stay there for a while.

The blanket slid a little more with the movement, bunching near your hip.

You hesitated.

Then reached for it.

Just enough to pull it over your lap. Not fully. Not like you were settling in.

Just… there.

“Okay,” you murmured, quieter now.

The TV kept going, voices overlapping, someone insisting they weren’t yelling while very clearly yelling.

You took another sip of coffee.

Set the mug down on the table this time instead of keeping it in your hands.

Your elbow found the back of the couch. Your shoulder followed.

At some point, without really deciding to, you stopped sitting like a guest.

It happened slowly. An inch at a time.

Your weight shifted. Your back settled. Your legs tucked a little more comfortably beneath you.

The cushion dipped differently when you moved, less careful, more… natural.

You didn’t catch yourself this time.

“…this is so bad,” you muttered.

You didn’t look away.

Someone on the screen threw a glass down, not hard enough to break, just hard enough to make a point.

You blinked.

“…okay, that was dramatic…I respect it.”

Your mouth curved faintly, something small and unguarded.

You leaned your head back against the couch, eyes still on the screen, letting the noise fill the space instead of the quiet from before.

It felt easier like this.

Less like you had to think about where you were.

Less like you had to think about him.

Or the bed.

Or the couch.

Or the fact that you were sitting in his living room, wrapped in his blanket, watching something he’d left half-finished like you belonged there.

You didn’t think about that.

You just watched.

Another minute passed.

Then another.

You shifted again, absently tugging the blanket a little higher over your lap, settling deeper into the corner of the couch.

And then…Your stomach turned. Not enough to make you move right away. Just enough to interrupt.

You stilled.

Eyes still on the screen.

“…no.”

You waited. Maybe it would pass. It didn’t.

The next wave came slower, heavier, enough to pull your attention fully away this time.

You sat forward a little, one hand already moving to your stomach.

“Don’t—”

It cut you off.

You pressed your lips together, breathing through your nose, trying to give it a second to settle.

It didn’t.

“…okay,” you muttered, quieter now.

You pushed the blanket off your lap, a little less careful this time, and reached for the remote to pause the show.

The screen froze mid-argument.

Someone mid-sentence. Someone else mid-eye-roll.

You stood too quickly.

Regretted it immediately.

“Great,” you breathed.

Your hand came back to your stomach as you turned toward the kitchen and then changed direction halfway there.

Bathroom.

Definitely bathroom.

You made it just in time.

You barely got the door shut before you dropped to your knees. One hand braced on the edge of the toilet, the other pressed to your stomach like it might help.

It didn’t.

The first wave hit hard and fast, knocking the breath out of you. You squeezed your eyes shut, shoulders tightening, riding it out because there wasn’t anything else to do.

“Okay—” you tried, and then lost the rest of it.

It came in another wave. Then another. Slower. Heavier. The kind that left you shaky by the time it finally eased off enough to let you breathe without bracing for the next one.

You stayed there anyway.

Head tipped forward. One hand still gripping the edge. Breathing slow through your nose, waiting.

Nothing.

Not gone. Just… quiet for now.

“…great,” you muttered, voice rough.

You flushed, then shifted back just enough to sit against the cabinet behind you, letting your head fall back for a second.

Everything felt off. Your stomach. Your head. That weak, hollow feeling that came after, like your body had just run a marathon you didn’t sign up for.

You pressed the back of your wrist to your mouth, then pushed yourself up slowly, careful this time.

The room tilted just enough to notice.

“Cool,” you breathed.

You turned the sink on and rinsed your mouth, cold water helping a little, not enough. You stayed there a second longer than necessary, staring at nothing, waiting to see if it was going to start again.

It didn’t.

Good enough.

“Okay,” you said quietly.

You meant it like a decision.

You wiped your mouth, stepped back into the hallway, and made your way to the kitchen with less confidence than you would have liked.

Cabinet by the fridge. Top shelf. 

You opened it.

Looked.

Pain relievers. Cold medicine. Allergy pills. Thermometer.

No Zofran.

You frowned and shifted things around, checking again like it might appear if you tried hard enough.

Still nothing.

“…seriously?”

Your stomach rolled again, not as bad, but enough to make you close your eyes and lean your hip against the counter.

“Okay, that’s not funny.”

You stayed like that for a second, breathing slowly, then reached for your phone.

You didn’t overthink the text.

You: you said zofran was in the cabinet? I don't see it.

Robby: Damn sorry. Check the nightstand drawer in my room.

You stared at the message.

“…cool. great. love that.”

You made your way down the hall, one hand still on your stomach.

You stepped into his room and crossed to the nightstand.

Your hand hovered.

“…this is how people end up knowing too much about each other.”

You opened the drawer anyway.

There it was.

Right on top.

You let out a quiet breath.

“…unbelievable.”

Your hand closed around the pack and then paused.

Because now that you were actually looking…

You blinked.

“…oh.”

A box of condoms.

Right next to a small travel-size bottle you absolutely did not need to examine any closer.

And…

You frowned slightly.

A folded piece of paper tucked toward the back.

You didn’t mean to. You really didn’t. But your eyes caught it anyway.

A phone number.

Just a name and a number. Nothing else.

You stared at it for exactly half a second. Then straightened immediately.

“Okay. Yep. That’s enough.”

You grabbed the Zofran and shut the drawer a little too fast.

“…we’re done here.”

You stood there for a second, staring at the closed drawer like it might undo what you’d just seen.

It did not.

“Not my business,” you muttered under your breath. “…definitely not my business.”

You turned and headed back toward the door, a little quicker this time, like distance might help. It didn’t really. But it helped enough.

Robby: You find it?

You glanced back at the closed drawer once. Then very deliberately away from it.

You: yeah.

You: also your nightstand is… a lot.

There was a pause.

Robby: I’m choosing not to ask what that means.

A small, tired smile pulled at your mouth as you stepped into the hallway.

You: that’s probably the right call.

Another buzz.

Robby: Did you take it?

You leaned against the wall, popping one into your hand.

You: about to. 

You: your kid’s not playing nice.

That got an answer almost immediately.

Robby: Already causing problems?

You huffed a quiet laugh.

You: just a normal morning for us.

Robby: Don’t worry. I’ll talk to them.

You smiled, softer this time, tucking the pill under your tongue. 

You: please do. they’re being rude.

Another buzz.

Robby: No respect. unbelievable.

That got a quiet laugh out of you.

Robby: I’ll grab more zofran on my way home.

You blinked at that.

Your grip on your phone tightened just slightly.

You: you don’t have to.

The reply came back quick.

Robby: I know.

Robby: Still going to.

A small pause.

Robby: Just in case.

You looked down at the message a second longer than you meant to.

Your hand drifted back to your stomach without thinking.

“…okay,” you murmured.

You: thanks.

The reply didn’t come.

You stood there another second, phone still in your hand, then let out a slow breath and locked it.

Your stomach still felt off. Not sharp anymore. Just… unsettled. That hollow, shaky feeling that made everything feel a little slower than it should.

Good enough.

You pressed your palm lightly to your stomach, thumb brushing absently over the fabric of your shirt.

“Alright,” you murmured. “That was unnecessary.”

A small pause.

“Very dramatic.”

You pushed yourself off the wall and made your way back to the living room, slower this time, like your body needed a second to catch up.

The TV was still paused mid-argument.

Of course it was.

You glanced at it, then at the couch, then at the blanket half-fallen where you’d shoved it off in a hurry.

“…we’re gonna try this again,” you muttered.

You sat down carefully, testing it.

Nothing immediately revolted.

Promising.

You pulled the blanket back over your legs, then a little higher this time, tucking it in closer without really thinking about it. Your body sank into the couch more easily now, less careful, more… tired.

That was the thing. You hadn’t really noticed it before. But it was there now.

Heavy. Slow. Settling in your shoulders, your legs, behind your eyes.

You leaned back, then shifted, then slid down just a little until your head rested against the arm of the couch instead of sitting upright.

Better.

Your hand drifted back to your stomach again, palm resting there, thumb moving in slow, absent circles.

“…you’re a lot,” you murmured quietly. “Your dad says he’s gonna talk to you, so maybe… listen to him?”

Your mouth twitched faintly.

It shouldn’t have made you smile.

But it did.

Just a little.

You picked up the remote and unpaused the TV.

The argument resumed instantly, voices layered, someone talking over someone else, a level of intensity that felt ridiculous compared to the quiet weight settling in your chest.

You turned the volume down. Just enough. Background noise. That helped. You watched for a minute. Maybe two. Not really following it. Just letting it fill the space.

Your phone sat beside you, dark now, but the last message lingered anyway.

‘I know. Still going to. Just in case.’

Your thumb stilled against your stomach.

That part… got you.

Quiet. Uncomplicated. No big deal made out of it.

Just… there.

You swallowed once, then shook your head lightly, like you could reset the thought before it settled too deep.

“…don’t get used to that,” you murmured to yourself.

A small breath out.

Because this wasn’t… It wasn’t permanent.

It wasn’t anything you could lean on like that.

It was a situation.

Temporary.

You adjusted the blanket a little higher anyway.

Your hand stayed where it was.

“…still nice, though,” you added under your breath.

Soft enough it didn’t really count.

The TV carried on. Someone stormed out dramatically. Someone else called after her.

You blinked at the screen, then let your eyes unfocus again.

Your body sank another inch into the cushions, muscles loosening one at a time.

Still a little nauseous.

Mostly just tired now.

Your hand moved once more, a slow, absent brush over your stomach.

“Seriously,” you murmured, voice softer now. “be nicer…we’re doing our best.”

Your breathing evened out gradually, the noise of the TV soft in the background, the house quiet around it.

The blanket was warm. The couch steady.

And before you could stop yourself from thinking too much about any of it, your eyes slipped closed.

The TV kept going.

The house stayed quiet.

And you fell asleep.

—

Robby should have left twenty minutes ago.

Maybe longer.

Long enough that the ambulance bay had emptied and filled again around him. Long enough for the last of day shift to scatter, for night shift to settle in proper, for the hospital parking lot to go from hot and bright to cooled off under the dark. Shen had the floor now. Sign-out was done. None of it was his anymore.

And still, he stood beside his bike with his helmet hanging from one hand and his keys in the other, staring at nothing.

The side doors hissed open behind him.

“Please tell me you’re not out here trying to have a spiritual moment with that damn thing.”

Dana.

Robby let out a breath through his nose and glanced over his shoulder.

She came down the ramp with her bag over one shoulder, tired in the way only the end of a hospital shift could make a person look, but still sharp-eyed enough to clock him immediately.

“Why’re you still out here, Cap?”

He glanced over. “I’m thinking.”

Dana made a face. “About anything helpful?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just dragged a hand over the back of his neck, gaze dropping for a second like he was trying to find a better version of that answer and coming up short.

She watched him for a second. Really looked this time.

She stopped a few feet away, looked from him to the bike and back again. “You’ve got a pregnant wife at home. Pretty sure this isn’t where you’re supposed to be right now.”

Robby let out a quiet breath through his nose. “I’m just taking a minute.”

Dana raised an eyebrow. “That’s a funny way of saying you’re avoiding going home.”

Robby looked back out toward the lot, rolling the helmet once in his hand like it might give him something to do other than answer.

That was enough.

Dana’s face softened.

He still didn’t say anything. Just shifted his weight, dragged his thumb along the strap of the helmet, then rubbed a hand over the back of his neck again like maybe he could work the tension loose if he kept at it long enough.

Dana let the silence sit.

That was the problem with people who’d known you forever. They didn’t rush to fill the quiet. They just stood there and let you wear yourself out trying not to say the thing.

Robby exhaled through his nose and looked down at the pavement.

“I’m not avoiding going home.”

“Mhm.”

He gave a small shake of his head, jaw tightening. “I’m not.”

Dana raised an eyebrow, watching him for another second.

Then she glanced at the bike, then back at him.

“You’ve been off the clock long enough that this is starting to look suspicious.”

Robby didn’t answer.

The helmet rolled once in his hand. His thumb dragged along the strap. Then his hand went back to the back of his neck again, rubbing there like he could unknot something if he kept at it long enough.

Dana gave him the silence for another moment before speaking again, her voice quieter now. Less teasing. More direct.

“What are you nervous about?”

Robby let out one short laugh, low and humorless enough that it barely counted.

“How much time do you have?”

She didn’t smile. Didn’t soften it. Just stayed there, waiting him out like she’d done a hundred times before.

Robby looked past her, out toward the road leading out of the lot. Toward home.

When he finally spoke, it came out quieter than he meant it to.

“I left her there alone all day.”

Dana didn’t jump in. Didn’t correct him. Just stayed where she was, shoulders loose, giving him room to hear himself.

Robby looked out toward the road again, jaw tight.

“She was fine when I left,” he said. “Then she wasn’t.”

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

“Then she was texting me telling me looking for meds and that my nightstand is…” He exhaled through his nose. “…a lot.”

That got the smallest shift out of Dana.

Not quite a smile. More like she had a thought and made the active choice not to say it.

Robby caught it anyway. “Don’t.”

Dana lifted both hands a little. “I’m not saying anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was,” she admitted. “But I’m being supportive.”

That got a short breath out of him. Not a laugh exactly. Just enough to break the edge of it.

Then the silence settled again.

Robby looked down at the pavement for a second, then back out at nothing.

“I don’t know what I’m walking into,” he said.

That one came out quieter. More honest than the rest of it had been.

Dana’s face changed a little at that. Softer now. More open.

He kept going before he could talk himself out of it.

“I don’t know if she had a terrible day. If she hates being there. If she spent the whole day uncomfortable in my house trying not to touch anything.” He swallowed once. “I don’t know if I’m going home to silence, or to her pretending she’s okay because she doesn’t want to make things harder, or to her telling me she made a mistake staying.”

His fingers tightened around the helmet strap.

“I don’t even know if she’s still there.”

Dana didn’t interrupt. Didn’t rush to reassure him. She just listened.

And somehow that made it easier to keep going.

“And if she is,” he said, voice low now, “I still don’t know what version of this I’m supposed to be. Helpful? Hands-off? Normal?” He let out a short, tired breath. “I know what I’m doing here. I know how to help here. This—”

He gestured vaguely. The lot. The road. Home. All of it.

“This feels like waiting to do the wrong thing in my own home.”

Dana watched him for a long second.

Then she stepped a little closer, not crowding him, just enough to make it clear he didn’t have to keep standing there alone in it.

“Okay,” she said, and her voice had lost most of its sharpness. “First of all, breathe.”

Robby glanced at her.

“I mean it,” she said. “You’re halfway to inventing a disaster before you’ve even opened your front door.”

He looked away again, but some of the fight had gone out of his shoulders.

Dana tipped her head. “You’re scared you’re going to walk in and find out she had a worse day than you knew how to help with.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

She nodded once, like that confirmed it.

“That makes sense,” she said. “It doesn’t make you useless. It just makes you nervous.”

Robby dragged a hand over his face. “Those don’t feel that different right now.”

Dana’s mouth tightened a little, not unkindly.

“Well, they are.”

She let that sit for a second.

Then, gentler, “You don’t need to have this solved before you go home, Robby. You just need to go home.”

He looked at her then. 

Dana held his gaze.

“If she had a bad day, then you deal with the day she had. Not the five worse versions you’ve already built in your head.” She paused, then added, “And if she didn’t, you don’t punish both of you by showing up like you’re walking into a firing squad.”

That got the faintest pull at the corner of his mouth.

Dana saw it and kept going.

“You are not going to do this perfectly,” she said. “Pregnant women don’t need perfection. They need steadiness. Food. Water. Medicine where they can find it. Somebody who doesn’t make them feel like a burden for needing any of it.”

His eyes dropped. Because that, at least, he understood.

Dana’s voice softened another notch.

“You know what helped when I was pregnant? Not grand gestures. Not people hovering. Just somebody making the day smaller.”

Robby stayed quiet.

Dana shrugged one shoulder. “Checking in. Picking up what I needed before I had to ask twice. Letting me feel miserable without acting like I was ruining the room.”

She let that settle too.

“You’ve already been doing that.”

He looked back at her.

Dana nodded. “Answering texts. Getting more Zofran before you leave.”

That pulled a real huff of laughter out of him this time.

She gave him a look. “At least this place is good for something useful.”

Robby shook his head, the edge of that laugh fading as quickly as it came. His thumb dragged along the helmet strap again, something to do with his hands.

“Yeah,” he said, quieter. “Guess so.”

The silence didn’t press the same way this time.

Dana didn’t fill it. She just stayed there, watching him, letting it settle into something steadier.

Robby looked out toward the road again. Toward home.

His jaw tightened slightly.

“I don’t know if I’m helping,” he admitted.

That one came out low. Almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Dana didn’t jump in. Didn’t correct him. She just let it sit for a second, then shifted her weight, leaning back lightly against the barrier.

“You showed up,” she said.

He glanced at her.

“That’s not nothing,” she added. “You answered her. You got her what she needed. You’re going back.”

Robby let out a slow breath through his nose, gaze dropping again.

“That’s the baseline.”

“Yeah,” Dana said. “And right now, baseline is good.”

He huffed quietly, not quite convinced.

Dana tipped her head. “You’re not going to walk in and fix everything in one night.”

“I know.”

“You’re also not going to ruin everything in one night.”

That got him to look at her again.

She held it there, steady.

“Most of this,” she said. “It’s just showing up the same way tomorrow.”

Robby looked away first.

His grip tightened on the helmet for a second, then loosened.

“Yeah,” he said.

Dana pushed off the barrier, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder.

“So,” she said, back to something lighter, “you can keep standing out here thinking yourself into a worse version of this…”

She nodded toward the lot.

“Or you can go home and see what actually happened.”

Robby looked at the bike. Then at her.

“And if it’s bad?”

Dana didn’t hesitate. “Then you deal with what’s actually bad. Not what you’ve been imagining out here.”

Robby nodded once, more to himself than anything. Then he lifted the helmet, settling it into place.

As he swung one leg over the bike, Dana called after him, “And for the record, if you want to live long enough to embarrass that child in public, you should retire this damn thing.”

Robby looked at her over his shoulder. “Goodnight, Dana.”

“Go home, Robby.”

He started the bike.

And this time, he actually left.

—

By the time he pulled into the drive, it was 8:45 and fully dark.

The porch light was on.

So was the kitchen light.

And her car was parked at the curb.

That stopped him before he even killed the engine.

Not because it meant anything dramatic. Just because it meant she was there. The house didn’t look empty. It didn’t look like a place somebody had bailed out of halfway through the day.

It looked… occupied.

He killed the bike, got off, and stood there a second longer than necessary with his helmet in his hand. Then he headed inside.

The first thing he noticed was the smell.

Not the usual detergent-and-clean-house smell that always sat low in the place. Something warmer under it. Butter maybe. Garlic. Something cooked. Something real.

He shut the door quietly behind him and let his keys fall into the bowl by the entry.

The house was silent.

No TV. No footsteps. No movement.

Just the hum of the fridge and the faint tick of the clock on the wall.

Then he saw the note.

It was stuck to the fridge under one of the old magnets he’d had forever and never thought twice about until right then.

He stepped closer and pulled it free.

Went grocery shopping. Made dinner. It’s in the fridge. Going to bed.

That was it.

No name. No explanation. No apology for touching his kitchen or making herself at home in it just enough to cook him dinner and leave proof she’d come back.

Robby read it once.

Then again.

Then once more, slower.

Something in his chest loosened so suddenly it almost hurt.

He opened the fridge.

And there it all was.

Not just dinner.

Groceries.

Actual groceries.

Cheese. Bacon. Juice. Fresh fruit, actual fruit, not the kind that came in a plastic cup. Ginger ale. A bag of salad shoved into the drawer like somebody had bought it with good intentions. Hummus. Pre-cut vegetables. Cottage cheese.

And chicken defrosting on the bottom shelf.

Because apparently she’d made dinner tonight and still thought about tomorrow.

Robby stared at that a second longer than everything else.

A few things were clearly for her.

A few things clearly weren’t.

Which somehow got him even more.

On the middle shelf sat a container with his name written across the lid in black marker.

Robby stared at it.

Then laughed under his breath, too tired for it to be much more than air.

“Okay,” he murmured.

He set the note on the counter and took the container out, but his eyes kept catching on the rest of the fridge.

She’d organized it.

Not in an aggressive way. Just enough to make more sense than it had that morning. The kind of adjustment somebody made absentmindedly while putting things away. The kind that said she’d stopped hovering in the space long enough to actually use it.

Then he checked his banking app.

Nothing from his card.

That hit harder than it should have.

He’d left it there for her to use.

Had she not wanted to? Or had she thought she wasn’t supposed to?

His mouth tightened slightly.

That, apparently, was a conversation for later.

He closed the fridge and looked around the kitchen.

The plant over the sink had been watered.

He could tell because this morning it had looked one inconvenience away from giving up on life, and now it looked mildly less offended by existence.

The dish towel hung a little straighter over the oven handle.

When he opened the pantry, the shelf with the crackers and cereal had been nudged into something more logical than the nonsense system he’d let evolve on its own.

He stared at it for a second.

Then shook his head once, smiling despite himself.

She had touched things.

Not much.

Just enough to leave fingerprints.

And after that morning, after the quiet, careful way she’d said she’d try not to take up too much space, he couldn’t help feeling relieved that she had.

Not taken over. Not settled in completely. Just… made herself present.

Enough to move a few things around. Enough to stop disappearing from every room she entered.

His eyes drifted toward the living room next.

The blanket on the couch had been straightened at some point, then clearly abandoned halfway through. One corner still hung off the side. The remotes had been grouped together in a line that made no sense unless somebody had tried to impose order on them out of sheer annoyance.

And the TV…

Robby picked up one of the remotes and turned it on.

Paused mid-fight.

Real Housewives of Salt Lake City.

He stared at the screen.

Then at the couch.

Then back at the frozen image of two women in full makeup arguing in a kitchen bigger than his entire first apartment.

“Fuck.”

He looked around the room again, at the blanket, the grouped remotes, the evidence of her day in his house.

Then back at the television.

“She is never letting me live this down.”

Because how exactly was he supposed to explain that it was mostly background noise? That there were a thousand seasons, and sometimes it was easier to let strangers yell in the background than lie awake in silence with his own head?

He could already hear her not believing him.

“Sure, Michael. Background noise. Very normal. Definitely not emotionally invested.”

Robby stared at the screen another second.

One of the women was mid-point, finger raised, face furious.

“…I’m not,” he muttered.

Which was not helping his case.

That laugh came easier. Tired, short, but real.

He turned the TV back off and went to the kitchen with the leftovers.

The microwave hummed a minute later, turning the container in slow circles while he stood there reading the note again.

Went grocery shopping. Made dinner it’s in the fridge. Going to bed.

No flourish.

No extra line.

No see you later.

Just the facts.

Which somehow made it more hers.

And maybe more dangerous than if she’d made a thing out of it.

Because there was no performance in it. No attempt to make him feel guilty or grateful or anything else.

She’d just… done it.

He scrubbed a hand over his mouth and leaned back against the counter while the microwave ran.

Dana’s voice came back to him, irritatingly clear.

“Be easy to come home to.”

He looked around the kitchen.

At the groceries. The plant. The reorganized pantry shelf. The note. The leftovers.

At the quiet evidence that she’d had a day here. A real day. She’d been sick. She’d gone out, bought groceries, come back, made dinner, and gone to bed.

And something about that made the nerves he’d carried all the way from the parking lot finally start to unwind.

Not all the way.

But enough.

Enough that another thought slipped in under them before he could stop it.

Maybe this didn’t have to be a disaster.

Maybe the two of them were still awkward and mismatched and doing this in the strangest possible order, but maybe that wasn’t the same thing as doomed.

He looked at the note again.

At the groceries in his fridge.

At the dinner turning in the microwave.

She hadn’t just stayed.

She’d come back.

She’d settled in, at least a little. Enough to buy groceries. Enough to cook. Enough to leave something behind for him besides tension and a legal document.

And maybe, he thought, careful with it, because it felt too easy to ruin by naming it too loudly, maybe she’d seen something in the day worth coming back to.

Not him, exactly.

Not yet.

But maybe this.

The space.

The possibility of it.

Maybe she thought, even a little, that this could be something they could get through. Something that might even be good for both of them if they stopped bracing against it long enough to let it be.

The microwave beeped.

He took the food out, peeled back the lid, and the smell hit stronger this time. Something simple and good and homemade in a way his kitchen had not smelled in a long time.

He ate standing at the counter at first.

Then gave up and sat on the stool by the island.

Halfway through, he got up again and grabbed the pharmacy bag from where he’d left it by the door.

He took the new box of Zofran out and set it in the cabinet by the fridge where it should have been in the first place.

Then he stood there a second, hand still on the cabinet door.

‘Just in case.’

The words from his own text came back to him, and something small shifted in his chest all over again.

He shut the cabinet and looked at the note on the counter.

Then grabbed a pen.

He flipped it over and wrote on the back in his blunt, slightly slanted handwriting.

Ate. It’s good. Thank you. Next time use my card. More Zofran in the cabinet. —M

He looked at it.

Then added, after half a second:

Housewives isn’t what it looks like.

That made him stop.

He stared at the line.

Then huffed a tired laugh, crossed it out, and stood there another second thinking better of himself.

Too much.

He stuck the note back on the fridge with the same magnet she’d used.

Not because she’d see it tonight.

Just because it felt like the sort of thing you did in a house where somebody had made you dinner and gone to bed before you got home.

He turned off the main kitchen light, leaving the small one over the sink on.

The house settled around him again.

Quiet.

Occupied.

Different.

When he looked once more toward the dark hallway, he didn’t feel nervous anymore.

Just tired.

And strangely, quietly relieved.

Then he crossed back into the living room, looked at the couch she’d clearly claimed for part of the day, the paused chaos on the TV still lingering in his head, and smiled to himself again.

“She’s never letting me live this down,” he muttered.

He picked up the remote again.

Hesitated for half a second, then hit play.

The argument resumed instantly, voices overlapping, someone already mid-sentence like nothing had been paused at all.

Robby shook his head, a quiet huff of a laugh under his breath.

“Yeah, alright.”

He reached for the blanket, folding it properly this time before settling it over the arm of the couch, the noise filling the room again without asking anything from him.

Then he turned back toward the kitchen to finish dinner, the sound of it following him like it always did.

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[optimisticplb]

What Happens in Vegas Never Stays in Vegas

Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch x Reader

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Summary: After a drunken Vegas wedding, Robby disappears by morning, leaving you with nothing but a ring and a mistake that was supposed to stay in Vegas. But when a pregnancy and state paperwork force you to track down the husband who vanished, Robby learns the truth and this time, walking away isn’t so easy.

WC: 15K

Tags: Tags: Drunken Vegas Wedding, Runaway Husband, Unexpected Pregnancy, Forced Reunion, Second Chance Romance, Robby Wants to Stay, Romantic Comedy vibes with some Angst, No use of Y/N, Duke being a mentor

Robby doesn’t go home right away. He tells himself it’s because he needs a minute to clear his head before walking back into that house. That’s true. It’s just not the whole truth. The whole truth is uglier.

Home means her. Means the key he handed over like it was something simple. Means the fact that she is there now, somewhere inside his house, with her bag by the door and her anger still in the walls and what he did sitting between them like something alive.

Pregnant.

The word still won’t settle. It hits in flashes instead. In the gaps between everything else. Her face in that room. Her voice when she said it. The way the air changed after.

“I’m pregnant.”

Like a hit he still hasn’t stopped taking.

He shuts his office door harder than he means to and braces both hands on the desk, head bowed, pulse still running too fast. The room is quieter than the floor outside, but not quiet enough. Phones somewhere down the hall. A monitor chirping. A laugh near the station, too loud, too thin. The department already knitting itself back together around the shape of what happened. That almost makes it worse.

Because out there, the story is spreading to the Nightshift. He can feel it. Not the real one. Not all of it. Just the scraps Dayshift had to build from.

Vegas. Wife. Pregnant. Sabbatical.

The rest will build itself by the next morning.

He drags a hand over the back of his neck. His skin feels too tight. His scrubs feel wrong. Everything about his own body feels wrong.

His pregnant wife.

Jesus Christ.

The thought lands hard enough to make him straighten just to get away from it.

Wife.

Not in the abstract anymore. Not as a certificate he left untouched in that hotel room. Not as something that happened under cheap chapel lights and too much liquor. Not as a mistake he could shove far enough away to stop hearing it.

His wife is in his house. 

His wife drove across the country alone. 

His wife had to ask the state for help. 

His wife had to Google him.

Robby shuts his eyes. For one second, just one, he lets the humiliation of that wash over him. Not his own. 

Hers.

“I had to Google my own husband.”

He swallows hard. That line keeps coming back. That and the way she looked when she said she’d been counting tips to make appointments. The way her voice sharpened around the word alone.

He had no answer for that. Still doesn’t.

The folder she shoved into his hands is sitting on the desk now, bent at one corner. He stares at it like it might tell him what the hell he’s supposed to do next. It doesn’t. He reaches for it anyway. The top pages are what he expected. Household information. Income. Spousal details. State forms. Blank spaces where his life should have been and wasn’t.

His jaw tightens as he flips through them. Then he hits the clinic paperwork.

A thin packet clipped together. Intake forms. Lab slips. Visit summaries from some small women’s clinic outside Vegas. Not a hospital system. Not a real OB practice with continuity and resources and maternal-fetal backup and decent imaging on site. Just enough care to get by. Just enough to confirm a pregnancy, estimate dates, run the basics, keep somebody moving forward if better options were out of reach.

His stomach drops harder. He scans without meaning to. Positive test confirmation. Estimated gestational age. Prenatal vitamins recommended. Follow-up in four weeks. Bloodwork ordered through an outside lab.

He knows exactly what kind of place this is. Understaffed. Overbooked. The kind of clinic people use because it’s what they can afford, what they can get into, what they can reach. And she’s been doing this there while he’s been here, with great health insurance, attending pay, every possible referral he could’ve made if he’d actually been in her life enough to matter.

Robby stares at the page too long. She should have had better care than this. Not because the clinic is bad. Because she should not have been piecing together the bare minimum while carrying his child.

His hand tightens on the paperwork. He could sign them.

That’s the part that keeps sitting there. Simple. Clean. Practical. Give her what she asked for. Make this easier on her. Easier on both of them. Stop complicating a life he already made harder. Let her go back to Vegas with what she came for and tell himself that this time, at least, he didn’t make it worse.

It should feel like the right thing. Maybe it is the right thing. So why the hell can’t he do it?

Robby stares at the paperwork. Really stares this time. Like if he looks at the forms long enough, his hand will just move. His name will go down where it needs to. The decision will make itself.

It doesn’t.

Something in his chest goes tight instead. Not sharp. Not panic exactly. Just pressure. Deep and ugly and impossible to ignore. 

He leans back in the chair and exhales slowly through his nose. This should be easy. Not easy-easy. Nothing about this is easy. But the next step should be.

She wants the forms signed. She wants distance. She wants him out. He can give her that. So why does the thought of doing exactly what she asked feel so much like standing in that hotel room all over again and walking away before the hard part starts?

His jaw tightens.

No.

Maybe that’s not fair. Maybe this is different. Maybe this is him finally doing the decent thing instead of the selfish one. Maybe signing the paperwork, giving her space, and staying out of her way is what a better man would do.

That thought sits there for half a second. Then something in him shoves back hard enough to make him look away from the page. He doesn’t have a name for it. Only that the pressure in his chest gets worse every time he tries to settle on it. Like his body is rejecting the decision before his mind can dress it up into something reasonable.

He drags a hand over the back of his neck. He needs to talk to somebody. Not because he can’t think. Because he can, and that’s the problem. He can make a case for signing the forms. Make it sound decent. Respectful. Practical. Line up every reason it would be easier on her if he just gave her what she came for and stopped making himself part of the problem. And right now, he doesn’t trust his own head enough to know if that’s true, or if it’s just fear in better language.

His eyes drop back to the paperwork. He needs something outside of this. Something that doesn’t sound like him. The answer comes almost immediately after. Not clean. Not fully thought through. Just something in him reaching for outside of this office before he does the easy thing and calls it right.

Robby’s mouth tightens.

Maybe he needs to hear somebody else say it. Maybe he needs somebody to look at this whole mess and tell him signing the papers is the cleanest option. That giving her space is the least selfish move he has left. That letting her go back to Vegas is better than making her stay in a house with a man she doesn’t trust. Maybe if somebody else says it, he can stop fighting whatever the hell this is in his chest and just do it.

The thought should feel like relief. It doesn’t. Still, he grabs onto it anyway. Because if he sits here much longer, he’s either going to sign the papers just to stop looking at them, or go home and make this worse.

There’s a knock against the frame before he can get any farther with that thought. He looks up too slowly.

Jack is standing there, one hand braced against the doorframe, surprise flickering across his face before it settles into something flatter. More watchful.

Not because Robby looks bad, though he does. Because Robby is in his office at all. Robby is almost never in here unless he absolutely has to be. He lives out on the floor, at the hub, in trauma bays, half-standing over charts, moving too much and sitting still too little. A closed office door with Robby behind it is unusual enough on its own.

A closed office door with Robby looking like this? That’s worse.

“You heading out?” Jack asks.

Robby lets out a breath through his nose. “Yeah.”

Jack’s eyes flick to the folder on the desk, then back to his face. 

“You being in here is weird,” he says evenly. “You looking like that while you’re in here is worse.”

Robby huffs one humorless laugh. “Good to know I’m subtle.”

“Never been your thing.”

Jack doesn’t come in. The office is too small for whatever this is, and the look on his face says he knows that too.

“The floor’s handled,” he says. “Dana’s got handoff. Ellis is handling the board. Nobody’s dying if you leave ten minutes early.”

“Comforting.”

Jack’s mouth shifts like that almost earns a smile, but not quite. Then he looks at Robby a little more directly.

“Don’t worry about out there. I’ve told everyone they needed to mind their damn business.”

That lands heavier than it should. Not because Robby thinks Jack can stop the gossip. He can’t. Nobody can now. But because Jack heard enough to know today went bad in a way that matters.

Robby glances back down at the paperwork. “Appreciate it.”

Jack waits. Long enough for the silence to turn into an opening. Robby doesn’t take it. Jack notices that too. Of course he does. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask what happened. Doesn’t ask if this is about the woman who came looking for him. Doesn’t go digging where Robby is clearly not ready to let him.

Instead, he says, quieter, “You going home?”

The word hits wrong immediately. 

Home.

Robby doesn’t answer fast enough, and that’s answer enough.

Jack takes that in without comment. 

“Alright,” he says. “Then at least go somewhere you can think straight before you do.”

He pushes off the frame. Stops. Looks back once.

“And Robby?”

Robby lifts his head.

Jack’s voice stays even. “Whatever’s waiting for you there… don’t make her carry it alone tonight.”

Robby goes still.

Jack doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t soften it. Just lets the words sit there exactly as heavy as they are. Then he leaves.

The quiet after is worse.

Robby sits there another minute. Maybe two. Long enough for the fluorescent lights overhead to start feeling like pressure. Long enough for the clinic paperwork to stop looking medical and start looking accusatory.

Estimated gestational age. Prenatal follow-up. Patient advised to return. 

Patient. 

Like she’s just some chart. Some stranger. Not the woman who had to piece her care together in a small clinic because he made sure he was absent enough to be useless.

Spouse information.

He almost laughs again. His entire life reduced to blank lines because he never left her anything else. And still, the forms are there. Simple. Concrete. A path she already asked for.

He could sign them. He could go home, hand them back, tell himself he was respecting what she wanted. Tell himself he was making it easier. Cleaner. Less uncomfortable. He could call that mercy. He knows enough to know it would probably sound noble if he said it right.

That’s what makes it worse. Because under all of that, under the decency, the practicality, the respect, is the same cowardice in a different suit.

He stands abruptly, grabs the folder, then stops. 

Not home. Not yet.

Because if he goes home now, he’s going to walk in guilty and half-cocked and start trying to fix things he doesn’t understand well enough to fix. He’ll say something wrong. Push where he shouldn’t. Back off where he shouldn’t. Do exactly what he already did in Vegas, make a decision inside his own panic and call it the best he could do.

No.

He snatches his keys off the desk, scoops up the folder, and heads out before he can second-guess it.

The department feels different when he steps back onto the floor. Not stopped. Never stopped. But aware. He can feel eyes flicking up and then away. A conversation cutting off too fast near the station. The charged little vacuum that forms after something public and ugly has already happened and nobody knows yet how much they’re allowed to say.

He keeps moving. Doesn’t give anyone anything. But he feels it. The nurses’ station is quieter than it should be for this point in the evening. Al-Hashimi is saying something to a resident. Shen’s is at the board. Two nurses are charting with the kind of focus that looks a little too deliberate to be real. Nobody stops him. Nobody says a word.

Then Al-Hashimi looks up from the desk. And somehow that’s worse. Because there’s no curiosity in it. No gossip. No barely-hidden judgment. Just one long, steady look that says she saw exactly what kind of woman had to come down here and claim him out loud, and exactly what kind of man that made him look like.

Robby’s jaw tightens. He gives her a small nod as he passes anyway. She returns it. Nothing more. That almost sits heavier than if she’d called him an asshole to his face.

Outside, evening has settled in hard enough that the air feels cooler than it should. Damp. Pittsburgh dusk hanging low over the lot, ambulance bay lights throwing harsh white across the pavement. He doesn’t remember the walk all the way to the bike. Just the weight of the folder in one hand, the helmet hanging from the bars, the metallic click when he unlocks it.

His motorcycle waits exactly where he left it, dark and familiar and uselessly steady. Usually the bike helps. Usually riding strips the noise down to something manageable. Engine under him. Wind in his face. Enough speed to burn off whatever he doesn’t want to think about.

Tonight it just feels exposed. Appropriate, maybe.

He shoves the folder into the saddlebag more carefully than it deserves, then stands there for one second with one hand braced on the seat and his head tipped down.

Pregnant.

The word is back.

He tries, just for a second, to picture her in his house right now. Shoes off by the door, maybe. Standing in his kitchen. Looking at his things. Looking at the life he came back to while she… what? Counted bills? Worked sick? Sat in a cheap clinic waiting room with fluorescent lights and intake forms and nobody with enough history to care beyond the next appointment?

His grip tightens on the seat.

Jesus Christ.

He let that happen. Not directly. Not knowingly. But he let it happen all the same by making himself absent enough for it to be possible.

He straightens, drags the helmet on, swings a leg over the bike, and fires it up. The engine roars to life beneath him, louder than the thoughts for half a second. He pulls out of the lot with the kind of focus that only comes when every other option is starting to feel like cowardice.

The city is settling into evening around him by then. Streetlights blinking on one by one. Traffic bunching and thinning in waves. Restaurant windows glowing warm. People heading home. Ordinary lives moving around him in every direction while his own feels like it split open and never quite closed again.

He rides mostly on instinct. His body knows the route even when his head won’t stop replaying the last few hours.

“I had to ask the state for help.”

“I had to Google my own husband.”

“I’m pregnant.”

Then, layered over all of it now, the clinic paperwork in his hands. Minimal prenatal care. Patchwork care. Just enough. Not because that was what she deserved. Because it was what she could get without him.

The bike takes a turn a little sharper than usual. He corrects automatically. His shoulders are locked so tight they ache by the time he turns onto the street.

The mechanic shop is still lit. Not wide open anymore, but not dark either. The garage bay is half-shut. A long bar of warm light cuts across the pavement beneath it. Music plays low from somewhere inside, too muffled to make out. Familiar. Grounding in a way he doesn’t deserve.

He parks on the edge of the lot and kills the engine. Silence rushes in too fast after the motor cuts. For a second, he just sits there staring at the strip of light under the bay door. Then he gets off the bike, grabs the folder from the saddlebag, and heads inside.

The smell hits first: oil, metal, old rubber, engine heat still hanging in the air. The kind of place that smells like work and tells the truth about itself. No performance. No polish for the sake of it. Just labor. Tools. Time. Things either fixed or left broken.

Duke’s near the back workbench, wiping his hands on a rag while he looks over something spread out under the hanging light.

He glances up at the sound of the door. Then stills. Not dramatically. Just enough. His eyes go over Robby once, quick and practiced, and whatever he sees there makes him straighten slow.

“You look like hell.”

Robby lets the door swing shut behind him. 

“Yeah,” he says, voice rougher than he meant it to be. “I know.”

Duke studies him for another beat, then tosses the rag onto the bench. 

“That bad?”

Robby looks down at the folder in his hands. 

Then back up.

“Worse.”

Duke studies him for a beat, then jerks his chin toward the side of the building. 

“Come on.”

Robby follows him without a word.

The evening air hits cooler out back. The heat from the day is still trapped in the brick and the concrete, but the edge has gone out of it. Around the side of the shop, two old metal chairs sit against the wall beside a rusted ashtray stand nobody’s bothered to empty. The sounds from inside dull behind them, muffled music, the low mechanical hum of a place that never really goes quiet.

Duke drops into one chair with a grunt and nods toward the other. 

“Sit down.”

Robby does. The folder stays in his hands. His fingers are tight around the edge of it, thumb rubbing once against the corner, then again. His other hand comes up to the back of his neck, presses hard, drops, then comes right back like it doesn’t know where else to go.

For a second, neither of them says anything. Duke doesn’t rush him. He just leans back in the chair and waits. Robby stares out at the lot. At nothing. His mouth opens. Closes.

Then—

“I got married in Vegas.”

The words land flat between them.

Duke doesn’t react.

Robby lets out a rough breath through his nose and keeps going before he loses his nerve.

“A few months ago. During my trip. I was there. She was there. We met. We were drunk and—” his hand drags over the back of his neck again “—we did something stupid.”

Duke’s voice stays even, “Sounds like it.”

Robby nods once. “Yeah.”

A beat. Then, quieter—

“I left the next morning. I didn’t wake her up. I didn’t say goodbye. Just left.”

That one sits there.

Duke doesn’t soften it by repeating it back. Doesn’t make a face. Doesn’t give Robby anything to push against. He just lets the silence hold it in place until Robby has to keep talking.

“She found me today.”

Duke’s head turns slightly. “She found you?”

“At work.”

“Mm.”

“She showed up during my shift. Announced she was my wife.”

That gets a little more out of him. Not much. Just enough.

“Public?”

Robby laughs once under his breath. It has no humor in it. 

“Yeah.”

Duke nods like that tracks.

Robby looks down at the folder in his lap. “She’s pregnant.”

That changes the air. Not dramatically. Duke doesn’t jerk or swear or sit bolt upright. He just stills in a way that feels complete.

“How far?”

“About three months.”

Another pause.

Then Duke asks, “Yours?”

Robby looks up sharply, but Duke doesn’t blink.

“Had to ask.”

Robby swallows hard. “Yeah. Mine.”

They sit in that for a second. Robby’s fingers tighten around the folder again.

“She needed my information,” he says. “For government financial help. Personal information. Income. All of it. She couldn’t get the help she needed without it because legally I still count.”

Duke’s eyes drop to the folder. “That what all this is?”

Robby nods and hands it over.

Duke flips through it slower than Robby did. Not because he’s reading every line. Because he’s reading the shape of it. Thin packet. Thin care. Thin margins. He closes it and hands it back.

“That all she came for?”

Robby nods once.

“Paperwork. Information.” His thumb presses hard into the back of his neck again. “She wants to go back to Vegas.”

Duke watches him. “And?”

Robby laughs again. Smaller this time. More tired.

“I convinced her to go to my house instead of leaving right away.”

Duke says nothing.

Robby keeps his eyes on the folder.

“She drove all that way. She was exhausted. Hadn’t eaten. She was going to head back immediately. I told her to go there, shower, sleep.” A breath. “We argued back and forth about it until finally she said yes because she didn’t really have a better option.”

That one gets him harder than the rest. Duke can hear it in the way the last sentence comes out flatter.

“She there now?”

Robby nods. “Yeah.”

The lot is quiet for a second. Just distant traffic and the faint hum from inside the shop.

Then Duke asks, “And you came here instead of going home?”

Robby drags his hand down over his mouth. “I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do.”

Duke tips his head once, like “go on”.

Robby looks back down at the folder.

“She wants the forms signed. Wants to go back home. Be done with me.” He exhales through his nose. “And part of me thinks maybe I should just do it.”

Duke’s brows shift a fraction.

Robby keeps talking.

“It’d be easier on her.” He rubs the back of his neck harder. “Cleaner. She doesn’t trust me. She’s pissed off. She has every right to hate me.” His mouth tightens. “And if she wants out, maybe the least selfish thing I can do is sign whatever she needs and let her go.”

Duke leans back in his chair. “Let her go?”

Robby nods once. “I figured I could send her money. Like child support or something.”

The words come out quick, like he’s been holding onto them.

Duke says nothing, so Robby keeps filling the space.

“I make enough. I can send her money every month. Cover what she needs. Appointments. Bills. Whatever.” He shrugs once, helpless and irritated with himself for sounding helpless. “She wouldn’t have to deal with me. I could still help.”

Duke is quiet long enough that Robby finally looks over at him, his face flat.

“Oh,” he says. “You really thought that one through. Father of the year here.”

Robby’s jaw tightens. “I’m trying to figure out what makes this easier on her.”

“No,” Duke says. “You’re trying to figure out how to stay involved without having to stand there and be the man who caused it.”

Robby looks away first.

Duke doesn’t let him sit in that for long.

“You think mailing checks makes you a father?”

Robby’s head turns back. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

Robby’s fingers clamp tighter on the folder.

Duke leans forward, forearms on his knees.

“You let her leave now,” he says, voice low and blunt, “you are never seeing that girl again.”

The words hit so hard Robby doesn’t answer.

Duke keeps going.

“And you are damn sure never knowing that kid.”

Robby swallows hard.

“That’s not—”

“That is exactly what that is.”

Silence.

The night feels closer somehow. The brick wall at their backs still warm. The air thinner than it was a minute ago.

Duke watches him.

“You think she’s driving back to Vegas pregnant, hurt, proud as hell, and giving you another easy shot after that?” He shakes his head once. “No.”

Robby’s hand comes back to the back of his neck. “She hates me.”

Duke’s voice doesn’t move an inch. “She’s allowed to.”

Robby looks over at him.

Duke meets his eyes.

“She is allowed to hate you. She is allowed to be angry. She is allowed to not trust a damn thing that comes out of your mouth right now.” He pauses. “You know what you don’t get to do?”

Robby says nothing.

“Let her suffer because hating you makes this uncomfortable.”

That one settles in deep. Robby looks down at the folder again.

Duke nods toward it.

“She’s still married to you,” he says. “Like it or not, those papers don’t mean shit by themselves if she turns around and files and your income still counts against her. The government’s not gonna go, ‘Well, emotionally this felt resolved.’” He snorts once. “She’s still tied to you.”

Robby knows. That’s the worst part. He already knows.

Duke sees it on his face and presses anyway.

“So don’t sit here and sell me some bullshit story about how signing a few forms and wiring money makes this noble. It doesn’t. It makes it clean for you.”

Robby’s jaw works once. “I’m not trying to run.”

Duke looks at him for a long second. “Aren’t you?”

Robby doesn’t answer. Because he can’t. Because the answer is sitting there between them in the shape of everything he’s been trying to call decency.

Duke sits back again.

“What kind of man do you want your kid to know?”

That one gets him to look up.

Duke doesn’t blink.

“The one who walked away?”

A beat.

“Or the one who stepped the hell up when it got hard?”

Robby’s throat tightens.

Duke’s voice stays level. That somehow makes it worse.

“Because if you let her leave now, if you tell yourself you were respecting her wishes while she drives back across the country carrying your kid by herself, then no.” He shakes his head once. “You would not be a man for that. You’d be a coward with a bank account.”

That one lands ugly and clean.

Robby drops his gaze. His thumb digs into the back of his neck hard enough to hurt.

“So what the hell am I supposed to do?”

Duke lets the silence sit for a moment.

“You need to fight.”

Robby looks up again. “What?”

Duke jerks his chin once. “You heard me. Fight for her to stay.”

Robby’s mouth tightens. “She doesn’t want me there.”

“Maybe not, but that doesn’t matter.”

“It does.”

Duke leans forward again.

“What matters is that your wife is in your house right now because she ran out of better options, and you are sitting back here trying to decide whether to be useful from a distance.”

The words hit one after another.

Duke points at him. “Don’t let her pride or your cowardice let both of you fail.”

Robby stares at him.

Duke doesn’t soften it.

“You want to know what you’re supposed to do?” he asks. “Go home. Feed her. Listen. Tell the truth. Tell her you were wrong. Tell her you ran. Tell her you don’t want to do it again.” He pauses. “And fight.”

Robby exhales slowly, but the pressure in his chest doesn’t ease. It just feels more honest now. Less tangled. More painful.

“I don’t know how.”

Duke nods once. “Good.”

Robby frowns.

Duke shrugs. “Means you stopped pretending this has an easy version.”

He looks out at the lot for a second, then back at Robby.

“You are not gonna fix this tonight,” he says. “You are not gonna erase Vegas, or erase leaving, or erase the fact that she had to do this alone.” A beat. “What you can do is show her that the man she needed finally showed up.”

Robby looks away fast.

Duke lets him.

“She can hate you and still need you to be better.”

The words go through him slow.

Then Duke adds, flat and final, “So be better.”

Robby sits there with that. The folder in his lap. The ache in his shoulders. The smell of oil and warm brick and old cigarettes. The full, sickening shape of what letting her go would actually mean. Not mercy. Not respect. Loss. Permanent, stupid, deserved loss.

He drags a hand over his face. “I was hoping you’d tell me to sign them.”

Duke huffs once. “I know.”

Robby lets out one rough breath.

Duke stands.

Conversation over, apparently.

Robby stays seated another second, staring at the folder like it changed in his hands.

It didn’t.

He did.

Duke waits by the chair.

“Well?”

Robby looks up.

Duke jerks his chin toward the lot.

“You gonna sit there all night, or are you gonna go fight for your wife and kid?”

That gets him to his feet. Slowly. The folder comes with him. It doesn’t feel lighter. But it feels clearer.

Duke watches him for one more second.

“Buy food on the way home,” he says. “Real food. Not vending machine bullshit.”

Despite everything, something in Robby’s chest almost catches into a laugh.

Almost.

“Yeah,” he says.

Duke nods once. “Good. Now go home and be a man.”

That one stays with him.

Robby grips the folder tighter, heads back around the building toward the bike, and doesn’t stop moving.

—

You wake up slowly. Not wrong. Not panicked. Not dragged up out of sleep by nausea or a mental checklist or the sharp, ugly jolt of remembering your life too fast. Just… awake.

For one long, strange second, nothing is wrong at all. You’re warm. Comfortably warm, the kind that sinks all the way down into your bones. The blanket is heavy enough to feel safe without being suffocating. The pillow under your cheek is soft. The mattress doesn’t sag or fight your back before you’re even conscious enough to resent it.

You stay where you are, eyes still closed, body loose with the leftover weight of real sleep. Real sleep. Not half-sleep. Not the kind where your brain keeps one eye open even when the rest of you gives out. Not the kind that leaves you more tired somehow. This was sleep. Deep enough that your body feels heavy in a good way. Quiet. Rested. You can’t remember the last time you woke up and didn’t feel behind immediately.

The thought lingers. Then the silence does.

Not silence exactly. A low hum somewhere. Air moving through vents. The faint creak of a house settling. But none of it feels harsh. None of it comes with neighbors through thin walls or traffic scraping past outside or your own thoughts already sprinting ahead of you.

You breathe in. Laundry detergent. Something clean underneath it. Faintly woodsy. Warm. Not your sheets.

Your eyes open.

The ceiling is wrong. Not bad. Just unfamiliar. Your whole body goes still before your brain fully catches up, that quiet animal moment where something in you notices first.

This isn’t your room.

The truth settles in slowly. The light is different here. Softer. Late enough that it’s gone gold where it slips past the curtains. The walls aren’t yours. The lamp on the nightstand isn’t yours. The furniture isn’t yours.

And the bed—

You know this bed. Not well. Not enough for it to mean anything dangerous. Just enough to know it isn’t yours.

Michael’s.

The name comes easier in your head than it should.

You’re in Michael’s house. In Michael’s bed. In Pittsburgh.

Your hand slides over the sheet beside you before you can stop it. Cool. Empty. No body heat left there. No sign he’s been in it since you passed out face-first hours ago, too exhausted to care what came next.

You stare at the ceiling a second longer, waiting maybe for the stress to hit. For your chest to tighten. For the anger from earlier to come rushing back, sharp and useful.

It doesn’t. Not right away.

You don’t feel good. Not exactly. But the edge is gone, blunted by sleep and distance and the simple fact that nothing in this room is actively hurting you. For one unguarded minute, you just feel still. And that unsettles you more than panic would have.

You push yourself up slowly, the blanket sliding into your lap. Your body protests in a dozen dull little places. Shoulders. Lower back. Neck. All the usual damage from too much driving and too much tension and not enough anything. But even that feels less sharp than it should.

You rub a hand over your face and sit there blinking yourself fully into the room. The bed is neatly made on one side and not on the other. A navy comforter. Clean sheets. One pillow knocked crooked from where you must have dragged it under your head in your sleep. Your overnight bag sits near the dresser where you left it.

And then your eyes drift. A dark T-shirt over the back of a chair. A watch on the nightstand. A book with a receipt tucked partway into it. A pair of glasses folded beside it. Not staged. Not polished. Just… his.

Michael’s room. Michael’s life. You’re sitting in the middle of it.

And for the first time, really, the fact of him starts to shift. Not the man you got blackout drunk with. Not the man who left. Not the man you tracked down online. Not the one you’ve been angry at for months. Just Michael. Sober. Ordinary. The kind of person who reads before bed and forgets where he left his place.

You look at the book again. The glasses. The watch. Small things. Boring things. The kind people leave out when they expect to come back to them.

Something in your chest shifts with it. Because the version of him you carried here was easier. Easier to hate. Easier to flatten. Easier to hold at a distance.

But this is just a room. A person who lives in it.

And the anger you’ve been holding onto doesn’t sit here as neatly as it did in your car. It’s still there. It just isn’t the only thing in the room anymore.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed and pause when your feet hit the floor. The house is quiet. Not empty quiet. Occupied quiet. There’s a difference.

You listen. For a second, nothing.

Then—

a cabinet door.

Soft. Somewhere outside the room.

A drawer. Something set down on a counter. Movement. Not much. Just enough to remind you he’s here.

You glance toward the door, suddenly more aware of yourself. The T-shirt. Sleep shorts. Bare legs. Hair probably a mess. Face still warm from sleep. And the fact that whatever clarity you thought you had coming here is about to get tested the second you walk out that door.

Then something else reaches you. Not sound this time. Smell. Soy sauce. Rice. Something warm and savory curling through the quiet.

Chinese food.

You blink once. And against your will, something almost like disbelief tugs at the corner of your mouth. Of course. Of course this is what your life looks like now. You slept in his bed and woke up to dinner in his kitchen like any of this is normal.

The absurdity of it is enough to make you move.

You stand slowly, smoothing your hands down the front of your shirt on reflex. Your body still feels heavy with sleep, but looser now. Less wound tight. Less held together by the anger that got you here.

That absence sits strangely in your chest. You don’t know what replaces it yet. But the cabinet already opened. The food is already out. And he is already in the next room.

Whatever happens next, you don’t get to avoid it anymore.

The bedroom door opens with almost no sound. The hallway beyond it is dimmer than the room was, evening light stretched thin and gold across the floorboards. The house feels lived-in around you in small, irritatingly ordinary ways. A framed print on the wall. A pair of shoes near the edge of the hall. A jacket slung over the back of a chair farther down.

Just his.

You follow the smell into the kitchen.

And there he is.

Robby’s standing at the counter with his back half-turned to you, one hand braced against the edge while the other digs through a white plastic takeout bag. He’s changed out of his scrubs. Dark T-shirt. Sweatpants. Hair a little flattened in the back like he scrubbed a hand through it too many times on the drive home. He looks tired in a way that isn’t subtle. Not dramatic. Just twelve-hour-shift tired. The kind that sits in the shoulders and behind the eyes and makes every movement a fraction slower than it should be.

There are containers spread across the counter already. Rice. Soup. Dumplings. A carton flipped open beside a stack of paper napkins. Two sets of chopsticks still in plastic. A bottle of water near one plate. A beer near the other.

He notices you before you say anything. Not because he turns. Because something in him stills first. Then he looks over his shoulder and sees you standing there in the hallway, sleep-warm and uncertain and suddenly much too aware that this is his house and you are in it.

For a second, neither of you says anything. The whole thing is so weirdly intimate and so deeply wrong for the two of you that it almost circles around into funny.

Almost.

His eyes flick over your face once, quick and careful, like he’s checking for something without wanting you to catch him doing it.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks.

His voice is rougher than usual. Tired. Quiet.

You lean one shoulder against the frame and fold your arms, more because you don’t know what else to do with them than because you need the barrier.

“Yeah,” you say. “Your bed is annoyingly comfortable.”

His mouth shifts. Not quite a smile.

“I’m glad.”

A beat.

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“That was probably smart.”

That gets the faintest breath of something out of him. Not a laugh exactly. More the shape of one.

“Yeah,” he says. “That was my read on it too.”

You glance at the counter. At the containers. At the sheer amount of food he seems to have brought home.

“You got Chinese?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s… a lot of Chinese.”

He glances at the spread like maybe he’s only just seeing it through your eyes now.

“I wasn’t sure what sounded safe.”

That catches you a little. You look back at him.

He shrugs once, awkwardly. “So I covered possibilities.”

Your eyes move over the containers again. Plain rice. Soup. Dumplings. Lo mein. Something in orange sauce. Fortune cookies shoved off to one side like an afterthought.

“You bought enough for six people.”

“I panicked.”

That gets a quiet, unwilling twitch at the corner of your mouth before you can stop it. Robby notices and looks away first.

You push off the doorway and step fully into the kitchen. It smells warm and salty and lived-in. Soy sauce. Ginger. The faint stale trace of coffee from earlier. A dish towel slung over the oven handle. Mail on one end of the counter. A half-dead plant in the window over the sink that looks like it’s surviving mostly out of spite.

It should feel invasive, being here. It doesn’t. Not enough, anyway. That bothers you more than if it did.

“There’s a lot of it,” you say again, quieter now.

Robby rubs a hand once over the back of his neck, tired enough that the gesture looks more automatic than nervous.

“I didn’t know what you’d want.”

That lands differently. Simple. Matter-of-fact. Not dressed up as something bigger than it is. Still, it gets under your skin in a way you don’t love.

Because he’s trying. Not elegantly. Not especially well. But trying. And that’s harder to be furious at than the version of him you had in your head on the drive here.

He glances back at you when you don’t answer right away. 

“You hungry?”

The question is careful. Not loaded. Not pushing. Just there.

And the honest answer, embarrassingly enough, is yes.

Your stomach has gone from hollow to actively irritated in the last two minutes, probably because the smell of hot food reminded your body it’s allowed to want things when they’re available.

You exhale through your nose. “A little.”

Robby nods once like that’s enough to work with. “Okay.”

He reaches for one of the containers and flips the lid all the way back. Soup. Then another. Rice. He moves around the counter with the tired efficiency of someone who has spent all day making decisions and doesn’t have the energy to make this one more complicated than it needs to be.

There’s something weirdly grounding about watching him do something so ordinary. No big emotional moment. No heavy conversation yet. Just takeout containers and tired hands and the quiet fact of him being here when you woke up.

He slides a bowl toward you. “Soup first might be safer, if you haven’t eaten in a while.”

The old instinct rises immediately, sharp and automatic.

‘I can decide that myself.’

But the words don’t make it out.

Because he isn’t talking down to you. He isn’t trying to take over. He’s just… paying attention. And for the first time since you got here, your pride doesn’t rise fast enough to turn it into a fight.

You step closer and look down at the open containers. “This is weird.”

Robby nods once. “Yeah.”

“That’s it?”

He shrugs. “I don’t have a better word for it.”

You stare at him. Then laugh. Quick. Unplanned.

Robby stills for a second at the sound, then glances down at the food.

“I was hoping the dumplings might help.”

You huff softly. “That’s optimistic.”

“I’ve had worse plans.”

The quiet that follows is different. Not hostile. Not easy either. Just… possible, in the most uncomfortable way.

You look down at the bowl in front of you. At the soup. The rice. The stupid amount of food he brought because he clearly had no idea what would make you sick and what wouldn’t and apparently decided the safest move was to buy half the menu.

Your throat tightens a little around that. You don’t let it turn into anything.

Not yet.

Instead, you pull the bowl a little closer and say, quieter this time, “Thank you.”

Robby’s hands still for a second on the counter. Not dramatically. Just enough to tell you the words landed. He doesn’t look at you right away. Keeps his attention on the beer bottle in his hand like maybe it needs adjusting. Like maybe if he gives himself one more second, his face will be easier to manage.

When he finally does look up, his expression is careful enough to hurt a little.

“Yeah,” he says. “Of course.”

The silence after that stretches a beat too long. You shift your weight. He shifts his. There’s a chair across from you, and he is very pointedly not taking it.

“You can sit,” you say before you think too hard about it.

His brows lift slightly, like he wasn’t expecting the offer. Or like he’s not sure it is one.

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you got hit by your day.”

That gets the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Accurate.”

You take another sip of soup because looking at him for too long right now feels like a bad idea.

“So sit.”

For a second, he just looks at you, like he’s checking whether you mean it, whether this is a trap, whether he’s about to do the wrong thing in his own kitchen somehow.

Then he sets the beer down, drags out the chair across from you, and drops into it with the careful heaviness of someone whose body is feeling every hour he’s been upright.

He exhales once through his nose. Long. Tired. The sound of it changes the room. Makes it feel smaller somehow. Less like a standoff, more like what it is: two exhausted people in a kitchen trying to figure out how the hell they got here.

You look down at your spoon again. “Long shift?”

Robby gives a quiet huff. “Twelve hours.”

“Bad?”

He rolls one shoulder, then winces a little like even that cost him. “Could’ve been worse.”

Silence stretches a second too long.

You stir your soup even though it doesn’t need it. Across from you, Robby shifts like he’s about to say something, then thinks better of it.

You take another sip. “So which kind of day was today?”

Robby drags a hand over the back of his neck, then drops it. Picks up his beer. Doesn’t drink. Sets it back down.

“The kind where I had to avoid answering questions about my ‘pregnant, one-night-stand, Vegas wife’ for fourteen hours.”

That pulls a quiet laugh out of you. You can’t help it. It slips free and hangs there between you, surprising enough that you almost clamp down on it after the fact.

Robby hears it and lets out the smallest breath through his nose.

“Yeah,” he says. “Exactly.”

You stir your soup once, slow, mostly so you have something to do with your hand. Then you say it because you want it clear.

“I’m not sorry I said it.”

“I know.”

You look up at him. He meets your eyes. Doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t do anything except sit there and take it, which somehow makes it harder to hold the line than if he’d argued.

“I’m not asking you to be.”

You nod once. “Good.”

The word comes out flatter than you mean it to. You take another sip of soup, then glance at him again.

“I’d love to hear what they had to say, though.”

That gets the faintest shift in him. Not quite tension. Not quite amusement. Something awkward and tired caught in the middle.

“Trust me,” he says, “they had a lot to say.”

“I just wanted to let them know why you were busy,” you say, and the innocence in your voice is so deliberate it almost embarrasses you the second it’s out.

Robby gives you a long look. “You really know how to make an exit, don’t you?”

You take another sip of soup, trying for unfazed and not entirely sure you pull it off. 

“I like people to be informed.”

He picks up his beer this time and actually drinks from it, eyes still on you over the rim.

“That’s a very generous way to describe what happened.”

“I was being courteous.”

“You were detonating a device and walking away.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it. Small. Sharp. Real enough that you feel it hit the room on the way out.

Robby’s mouth twitches at the sound, tired enough that it barely counts as a smile, but it’s there.

You look back down at your bowl too fast, like maybe that will hide the fact that it happened. 

“I did not detonate anything.”

“No?”

“No.”

He leans back a fraction in the chair, studying you with that dry, exhausted look of his.

“You announced that you were leaving and referred to yourself as my ‘pregnant, one-night-stand, Vegas wife’ in front of half my department.”

You glance up. “That’s not an announcement. That’s context.”

“That’s not context.”

“That is absolutely context.”

Robby huffs softly through his nose and looks down at his plate, like maybe the lo mein is somehow less ridiculous than this conversation.

“Sure.”

You shift your weight against the counter. The edge of the laminate presses into the back of your thigh.

“I just wanted them to understand the situation.”

“Oh, they understood.”

You lift a brow. “Good.”

“My charge nurse took one look at me and asked if I needed to hide in triage before I embarrassed myself further.”

That gets a short laugh out of you.

Another pause.

He picks at the edge of his takeout container with his thumb, not looking at you when he adds, “And the two gossip queens of the department spent the rest of the shift looking at me, whispering in a language I don’t understand, like I was the entertainment for the day.”

You blink. “That’s terrible.”

He gives you a look.

You take another bite of soup. “For you.”

That gets him. Just barely. A soft, unwilling twitch of his mouth, gone quick.

“Pretty sure there’s a betting pool now.”

Your spoon pauses halfway to your mouth. “On what?”

Robby looks down at the counter for a second, then back up. “Us.”

You blink. “Us?”

“You, me, whether we got matching tattoos, whether Elvis actually married us, whether you’re having a boy or a girl, whether it was a dare.” His mouth shifts faintly, something like disbelief at his own life moving through it. “Stupid stuff like that.”

That pulls another small laugh out of you. You can’t help it.

Robby hears it and looks away first this time, dragging a hand over the back of his neck like he needs something to do with himself.

The room goes quiet again after that. Still too careful. Still full of too much. Still one wrong word away from going sharp again.

But open.

You pick up your spoon again.

“So,” you say, not looking at him, “what were the odds on Elvis?”

Robby huffs softly through his nose. “Disturbingly high.”

That gets you one more time. Quiet. Quick. Real.

And across from you, tired and stiff and still too careful with every movement, Robby’s mouth twitches again before he looks back down at his plate like the expression escaped without permission.

The moment almost goes easy. Almost.

You set your spoon down a little too carefully. The sound is small. Still enough to change the room.

Across from you, Robby looks up. Not fast. Not startled. More like he felt the shift before you said anything.

You keep your eyes on the bowl. “I still need you to fill out the paperwork.”

The quiet that follows is different now. Less awkward. More deliberate.

Robby doesn’t answer right away. His fingers shift once near the neck of the beer bottle, then stop. “What paperwork?”

You look up at him. The question sits there between you, too neutral to be real. “Don’t do that.”

His expression tightens slightly. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, you are.”

You set the bowl down fully this time, freeing your hands.

“The paperwork. The stuff I brought. Whatever you need to fill out and sign so I can submit it to the state and get the help I need.”

Robby holds your gaze for a second, then looks down at the table, then back at you. “You want to do that right now?”

You let out a short breath through your nose. “You think I drove across the country for fun?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“No. You’re just stalling.”

His jaw shifts. He leans back a fraction in the chair, one hand coming up to the back of his neck. Not defensive. Not yet. Just buying himself a second. And that, more than anything, tells you this conversation isn’t going to stay simple.

Robby rubs the back of his neck once, slower this time, then drops his hand. “You’re not going to qualify.”

You frown. “What?”

“My income,” he says. “Once they run it, you won’t qualify for anything.”

For a second, you just stare at him, because that was not the answer you were bracing for.

“That’s not how that works.”

“It is.”

“No.”

His eyes stay on yours. Calm. Tired. Annoyingly certain. “You’re legally married to me on paper,” he says. “That counts.”

Your jaw tightens. “Then we get divorced.”

The words come out fast. Too fast. Like if you get them into the room before anything else can grow around them, maybe they’ll still feel simple.

Robby goes very still. “That’s not fast.”

You blink. “What?”

“A divorce,” he says, voice level, almost too level, “that’s not fast.”

You stare at him. “Well, it’s faster than this.”

“That depends what this is.”

The answer is so calm it almost makes you angrier than if he’d snapped. You straighten fully, arms folding tight across your chest.

“This,” you say, “is me trying to fix a problem.”

“I know.”

“No,” you say. “I don’t think you do.”

His hand comes back up to the back of his neck. More tired than nervous now. More habit than tell. 

“I know divorce doesn’t happen tomorrow,” he says. “And I know my income is still attached to you until it does.” 

You watch him as he keeps going. 

“That means going back to Vegas doesn’t solve the part you came here to solve.”

You laugh once, sharp and disbelieving. “So what’s your answer?”

Robby doesn’t look away. “You stay.”

The simplicity of it knocks the air sideways.

You just stare at him. “Excuse me?”

“You stay here.”

He says it the same way the second time. No softer. No bigger. Just as plain and impossible as it was the first.

“You stay here and let me help you.”

The kitchen goes very still.

You let out a short, disbelieving breath. “You really think it’s that simple?”

“No,” he says. “But I think it’s the least stupid option in front of us.”

You look at him for a long second. 

“The least stupid option?” you repeat.

“Yeah.”

“That’s your pitch?”

“It’s the honest one.”

You laugh again. Quiet. Sharp. 

“Wow.”

He doesn’t flinch from that either. “I’m not trying to sell you something,” he says. “I’m trying to tell you what makes sense.”

“You mean what makes sense to you.”

“No,” he says. “I mean what makes sense if you stop pretending the paperwork fixes this tomorrow.”

Your arms tighten. “I’m not pretending anything.”

“Yes, you are.”

The room goes tighter around that. Not loud. Not yet.

“You’re acting like I sign a form, you drive back to Vegas, and somehow that solves the part that matters right now,” he says. “It doesn’t.”

Your head turns back to him, sharper now. “It lets me put my life back together.”

“No,” he says. “It gets you back to a state where my income still keeps you from qualifying for aid, where you’re still paying out of pocket, and where you’re still doing this by yourself because divorce takes longer than either of us would like.”

The quiet after that feels bigger than the kitchen, because he’s right in the most irritating possible way: practically.

“So what?” you ask. “I stay here because the system is stupid?”

Robby exhales through his nose. “You stay here because going back doesn’t fix anything.”

Your head tilts slightly. “And staying here does what exactly?”

Robby doesn’t hesitate. “It gives you a situation that actually works.”

You let out a short breath, not quite a laugh. “For who?”

“For you.”

“For you,” you correct immediately. “This works for you.”

His jaw tightens. “It works for both of us.”

You shake your head once. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Robby leans back a fraction in the chair, then forward again, like he can’t decide which version of himself is less likely to make this worse. 

“I’m not deciding it for you,” he says. “I’m telling you what it is.”

You let out a short, sharp breath. “God—” you shake your head, a small, incredulous laugh slipping out. “That’s somehow worse.”

His hand drags back through his hair. “Jesus Christ.”

“No, go ahead,” you say, one hand lifting in a quick, dismissive wave. “Explain my life to me. That’s been going great so far.”

His jaw shifts. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“It’s exactly what you’re doing.”

You push off the table, shoulders tight. “You don’t get to sit there and tell me what works for me after leaving me in Vegas without a word.”

Robby’s eyes stay on yours. “I know I left.”

“Yeah, and you keep saying that like it does something,” you shoot back. “Like it fixes anything.”

“I’m not saying it fixes anything.”

“Then stop using it like a shield.”

He looks down for half a second, then back up, something more worn than careful in his face now. “I’m not shielding anything,” he says. “I’m trying to get you to stop acting like going back solves this.”

“It solves enough.”

“No,” he says. “It gets you back to the same shit you were already drowning in, except now my income is tied to yours, you still won’t qualify, and you’re still pregnant.”

The last word sits heavier than the rest.

Your face hardens. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Talk like I don’t know what the hell is happening to me.”

His brow pulls tight. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you sound like.”

Robby exhales, dragging a hand hard over the back of his neck. “I’m not saying you don’t know what’s happening,” he says. “I’m saying you’re acting like pride is a plan.”

You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Oh, fuck you!”

His mouth tightens, but he doesn’t back off. “You’d rather drag yourself back to Vegas and make this harder than stand here and admit I might actually be useful to you.”

You shake your head, hand cutting through the air again. “Useful,” you repeat, a short, bitter laugh following it. “God, you really hear yourself and just keep going anyway.”

“Because I’m right.”

Your fingers curl against your arms, grip tightening without you noticing. “No,” you say, quieter now, sharper for it. “You don’t get to call it pride because I don’t trust you.”

Robby goes still. The room tightens.

“There it is,” he says, lower now.

“It is that,” you snap, a frustrated breath leaving you. “What the fuck do you expect?”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It is when the person offering help is the same person who disappeared.”

The words hang there.

Robby takes them. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t soften. When he finally speaks, his voice is flatter. More tired. More certain.

“You don’t have to trust me!”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t,” he says. “Be pissed at me. Stay pissed at me. I’m not asking you to feel better about me right now.” A beat. “But I’m not letting the mother of my child go back and struggle through this because trusting me feels worse than being scared!”

Your head jerks back. “Wow!”

“I’m serious.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” you say, a short, tense laugh slipping out. “That’s kind of the problem.”

“No, the problem is you’ve been doing this alone for so long that now you’d rather keep doing it alone than owe anyone anything.”

The anger spikes, hot and immediate.

“Don’t— don’t do that,” you say, shaking your head, one hand lifting again. “Don’t sit there and act like you know me.”

His hand goes through his hair again, rougher. “Jesus Christ, I know enough!”

“No, you don’t!”

“I know you drove across the fucking country pregnant because you didn’t have another option!” he counters. “I know you’re going to clinics you shouldn’t have to go to. I know you left paperwork in my hands because you’re trying to hold this together by yourself and it’s not working.”

You go still. Completely still. Because none of that is wrong. And that pisses you off more than anything else he’s said.

You let out a breath through your nose, shaking your head once like you can physically knock the truth out of it. “That doesn’t mean you get to step in and fix it.”

“I’m not fixing it,” he says. “I’m trying to helping.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“It’s not.”

“It is when it’s you,” you fire back, a frustrated laugh slipping out. “Do you not get that?”

Robby’s jaw tightens. “I get that you don’t trust me,” he says. “I get why.”

“Good,” you snap. “Then maybe stop acting like I should just— what— say yes and play house with you?”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“It sure as hell sounds like it.”

A beat.

Then, quieter, but still sharp, “I don’t need you to save me, okay? I’ve been handling my own shit just fine.”

The words come out too fast. Too defensive. You hear it. So does he.

Robby leans forward slightly, voice lower now, steadier. “No,” he says. “You’ve been surviving.”

You let out a short, frustrated laugh, dragging a hand over your face. “Same thing.”

“It’s not.”

“Yeah? Well it’s been working so fucking far.”

“Has it?” he asks. “Or has it worked just enough to get you here?”

That knocks the breath sideways. You hate him a little for it.

Your hand presses flat against the counter, grounding yourself. “And what if I don’t want this?” you ask. “What if I don’t want your help, your house, your— whatever the fuck this is?”

Robby doesn’t hesitate. “Then hate it.”

You blink.

He leans forward a little more, eyes locked on yours. “Be angry. Don’t forgive me. Fight with me every damn day if that’s what you need.” His voice drops. “But I’m not letting you and my child struggle through this because saying yes bruises your fucking pride.”

That one hits deep. And for once, you don’t have something immediate to throw back.

For a second, the kitchen goes completely still.

You stare at him.

He stares back.

And the worst part, the part that makes something hot and ugly twist up in your chest, is that he looks like he means it. Not in some big dramatic way. Not like he’s trying to sell you on anything.

Just… certain.

You hate certain.

A short, broken laugh slips out of you. “Yeah,” you say. “You mean it now.”

Robby’s brow tightens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shake your head, looking away before you can stop yourself. “It means this is easy right now.”

His jaw shifts. “This isn’t easy.”

“No,” you say, looking back at him, sharper now. “It’s not hard yet.”

That changes the room. You can feel it.

Your arms fold tighter across your chest, like you’re trying to hold yourself together with your own body.

“This is still new,” you say. “It’s still a situation. A problem. Something urgent and dramatic and immediate.” A short, ugly laugh slips out. “It’s still the part where you get to feel like you’re doing the right thing.”

Robby doesn’t interrupt.

“But what happens when it isn’t that anymore?” you ask. “What happens when it’s just life?”

Your hand comes up, sharp and frustrated, then drops again when it doesn’t know where to go.

“What happens when this house doesn’t feel temporary anymore? When it’s appointments and bills and no sleep and a baby screaming at three in the morning and nothing about any of it is romantic or urgent or clean?” Your voice tightens. “What happens then?”

Robby watches you carefully. Too carefully.

“What happens when you get tired?” you ask.

He opens his mouth.

You don’t let him answer.

“What happens when you decide this is too much? When you remember you didn’t ask for any of this either and suddenly it’s easier to leave than stay?” The words are coming faster now, sharper, like you’re cutting yourself open with them on the way out. “What happens when being a father stops feeling important and starts feeling hard?”

“That’s not—”

“You don’t know that!” you shoot back.

He goes quiet.

You shake your head, a short, humorless laugh breaking loose. “You didn’t know you were leaving in Vegas until you did.”

You take a step away from the table, then another, not going anywhere, just moving because if you stay still you’re going to crack open right there in his kitchen.

“You don’t get to say you’re staying like that means something to me,” you say. “You don’t get to look me in the eye and act like I’m supposed to build anything around that.”

“I’m not asking you to—”

“Yes, you are,” you snap. “That’s exactly what you’re asking.”

He stands then. Not fast. Not threatening. Just enough to make the room feel smaller.

“I’m asking you to let me help.”

“And I’m asking you how the hell I’m supposed to trust that,” you fire back.

His face tightens. “You don’t have to trust it tonight.”

You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Oh, fuck that.”

His jaw shifts. “I mean it.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head hard now. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to leave me in Vegas without a word and then come back talking like trust is some gradual inconvenience we’ll work through.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“It’s exactly what you’re saying.”

Your throat is tight now. Burning. And you know if you don’t stop, this is the part where it gets real.

You don’t stop.

“I can survive you leaving,” you say, and your voice breaks just enough on survive to make you hate yourself instantly.

Robby goes completely still.

You look away because if you keep looking at him, you won’t get it out.

“I already did.”

The words come out quieter. Worse. You press your palm hard into the counter.

“But I am not doing that to my child.”

Silence. Dead silence.

You can hear the refrigerator humming. The faint tick of something cooling near the stove. Your own pulse beating too hard in your ears.

When Robby speaks, his voice is lower than before. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You shake your head immediately, tears of anger threatening now, which only makes you angrier. “You do not get to promise that.”

His face tightens. “I’m not promising—”

“Yes, you are.” You look at him again, and now there’s nothing between the two of you but the worst part of it. “And you haven’t earned the right.”

Robby doesn’t move. Doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t try to soften it.

“You don’t get to play house with me for six months and then decide it’s too hard,” you say. “You don’t get to get bored or scared or trapped and walk out when it stops being dramatic enough to hold your attention.” Your voice drops, rough and furious. “You don’t get to be temporary for my child.”

Robby’s hand comes up to the back of his neck, but he doesn’t look away. “I know.”

“No,” you say, and now the tears are there, not falling, just burning, making your whole face feel too hot. “I really don’t think you do.”

A beat.

Then, quieter. More awful because it is quieter.

“Because the truth is, I don’t know what to do with someone who says he wants to stay after he already proved he can leave.”

That one changes him.

Not dramatically. Not enough to save you from having said it. But something in his face goes raw. For the first time all night, he doesn’t look like he has the next answer ready.

He just looks hurt. And guilty. And there.

His voice, when it comes, is rougher. “I know that’s what I gave you.”

You don’t answer.

He takes a breath. Then another. “I know that all you’ve seen from me is that when things got real, I ran.”

You close your eyes for half a second. Because hearing him say it out loud is somehow worse than throwing it at him.

When you open them again, he’s still looking at you.

Still here.

“I can’t fix that tonight,” he says. “I know I can’t.” His jaw tightens once. “But I’m still here.”

The words are small. Not enough. Nowhere near enough. But they hurt anyway.

You look down, your hand still flat on the table like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Then, because the truth is ugly and you’re too tired to keep dressing it up—

“If I let you be part of this,” you say, voice shaking now despite everything you’re doing to stop it, “and you leave again…” You swallow hard. “I’ll get over it.”

Robby doesn’t move.

You finally look up at him. “But I will never forgive you if you do that to my child.”

The room goes so quiet it feels like standing inside a held breath.

Robby’s face changes. Not just guilt now. Something deeper. Something almost shattered. And when he answers, there’s no fight left in him at all.

“I know.”

Not defensive. Not trying to win. Just true. And somehow that hurts most of all.

The kitchen goes silent. You can hear the refrigerator hum. The tick of something cooling near the stove.

Robby doesn’t move.

Then, quietly—

“I know you’re not afraid for you.”

That pulls your eyes back to him. He swallows once.

“You’re afraid I’ll make them feel the way I made you feel.”

The room changes. Not louder. Just deeper.

You don’t answer.

He doesn’t wait for one. “I know I haven’t earned the right to ask you not to think that.” A beat. “I’m asking anyway.”

You stare at him. Then laugh, and the sound comes out wrong. Thin. Frayed. Almost embarrassed.

“You don’t get to ask me that.”

His expression shifts. “I know.”

Your hand presses flat to the counter. “I’m trying so hard not to be stupid about this,” you say. “Do you get that?”

The question catches him off guard, but you keep going.

“I’m trying not to make a choice that feels good for five minutes and ruins something bigger later.” A beat. “And you standing there saying you want in doesn’t make you safe. It just makes this harder.”

Robby takes that without moving. “I know.”

You shake your head. “That’s the problem. You keep saying that like it helps.”

He lets out a breath through his nose. “It doesn’t help,” he says. “It just happens to be true.”

That almost gets you. Almost.

“I’m not asking you to feel safe with me tonight.”

A beat.

“I’m asking you not to shut me out before I get the chance to earn it.”

That’s the one that makes your throat tighten, because it’s exactly what you didn’t want him to say.

You let out a breath, shaky enough to piss you off. “You’re asking me to risk it.”

Robby doesn’t move. “I’m asking you to give me the chance to prove it’s not a risk.”

You laugh, short and bitter. “Everything about you right now is a risk.”

His jaw tightens. “I know.”

You look away, then back at him, your fingers curling harder against the edge of the counter.

“I don’t get to be wrong about you,” you say.

Robby’s expression shifts. “You’re not—”

“Yes, I am,” you cut in. “Because if I’m wrong about you leaving, fine. That’s on me. If I’m wrong about you staying, my child pays for it.”

Silence. Heavy. Real.

Robby doesn’t interrupt. He just stands there and takes it. Then, quietly—

“Then don’t trust me.”

You blink.

His eyes stay on yours. “Just let me be there anyway.”

You stare at him. Then laugh once, quiet and bitter. “You really think that’s enough?”

Robby’s expression tightens. “No.”

That catches you, but he keeps going.

“I don’t think anything I say tonight is enough.”

The room goes still.

“I think I have to earn it,” he says. “And I think the only way I do that is by staying long enough for you to stop wondering if I will.”

That one gets through. You hate that it does. You look away, jaw tight. “That’s not enough.”

“I know.”

“It’s not even close.”

“I know.”

You press your hand harder into the table. “Then why does it feel like you think it is?”

Robby shakes his head. “I don’t,” he says. “I think what I can offer right now matters more.”

You glance back at him. “Like what?”

Robby leans forward slightly. “Like this actually working,” he says. “Insurance. Better prenatal care. A real OB instead of whatever clinic you could get into because it was cheap enough. Tests done on time. Appointments you don’t have to dread because of the bill after. A house you can stay in without paying for it. Food you don’t have to budget down to the dollar. A bed. A bathroom. Space to breathe.” 

He swallows once. 

“You keep Vegas. Your apartment stays yours. I’ll cover it. Your job, your things, your whole way back stays intact. You are not trapped here.” His eyes stay on yours. “You’d just have more than the bare minimum while this gets figured out.”

You stare at him longer than you mean to. Then look away, because something in your chest is starting to feel too tight.

“That doesn’t make it okay,” you say.

“I know.”

“It doesn’t fix anything.”

“I know.”

A beat.

“But it fixes right now,” he says.

Your eyes flick back to his. Because that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Right now.

Right now is where all the practical things live. The things you can’t argue with cleanly.

You press your hand harder into the table. “And what happens when right now is over?”

Robby doesn’t answer immediately. That alone makes something twist under your ribs, because there it is. The part no one can promise.

“When it’s not urgent anymore,” you say. “When it’s just my life in your house and our child in the next room and me still not knowing what the hell we’re supposed to be doing.”

His jaw shifts once. “You don’t have to know that tonight.”

“No,” you snap. “But I do need to know I’m not waking up in some situation I can’t get out of.”

That changes his face. Not softer. Set.

“You are not trapped.”

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “That’s easy for you to say.”

“No,” he says. “It’s not.”

You stare at him. At the calm in his voice. At the way he’s standing there like any of this can still be managed with enough patience and enough careful words. It makes your skin feel too tight.

“Do you hear yourself?” you ask, sharper now. “You disappear for months, I show up pregnant, and now suddenly you want to play house like that fixes anything?”

He flinches.

You push back from the table so fast the chair scrapes hard against the floor. “No.” You shake your head once. “No, I can’t do this.”

You turn away before he can answer, one hand already up at your forehead, pressing hard like maybe you can stop the room from spinning if you just push hard enough.

Because for one awful second, you almost said yes. You almost let yourself imagine it. A house. A bed. A kitchen with food in it. Not having to count every dollar before you make a decision.

And that’s the dangerous part.

Need. Not him. Need.

“I cannot be this stupid,” you say, voice low and shaking now. “I cannot be the woman who gets cornered by one disaster and lets it turn into another one.”

Behind you, his chair moves. You tense immediately.

Then his voice comes, closer now. Low. Controlled. Firmer than before, “This is not another disaster.”

You turn back so fast it almost hurts. “Oh, you don’t get to say that.”

He’s standing now. Not too close. But not hanging back either. For the first time since this started, he looks like a man who has decided something and is not stepping away from it.

“No,” he says. “I get to say I already made one disaster out of this, and I’m not doing it again.”

That stops you. Only for a second. Then your anger surges back up to cover it.

“You don’t get to decide what this is for me.”

“You’re right,” he says. “I don’t.”

A beat.

“But I do get to tell you I’m done standing here pretending the right thing is letting you walk out because that would make this easier on both of us.”

Your whole face hardens. “You think this is about easy?”

“I think that’s exactly what this is about,” he says, and now there’s something in his voice that wasn’t there before. Not anger. Not quite. Conviction. “I think you’re scared, and I think you have every reason to be. And I think if I stand here and let you leave because it’s cleaner or quieter or less complicated, then I’m doing the same thing I already did in Vegas.”

That lands hard enough to knock the next breath out of you. He keeps going before you can recover.

“I left once.” The words come flat. Clean. No defense in them. “I am not doing it again.”

Your throat tightens. You hate that that hits. You hate him a little for saying it out loud.

“I don’t know you,” you say, but it comes out thinner now. Less sharp than you want it to. “Not really. I know what you did. I know how fast you left. I know I had to come find you because you made yourself impossible to reach. And now I’m supposed to stay here and trust that this version of you is real?”

He takes that hit but doesn’t back off. “You don’t have to trust me yet.” You blink, but his eyes stay on yours. “But you are not getting back in that car and driving to Vegas like that’s the better option.”

Your chest goes tight. “You do not get to tell me what I’m doing.”

“No,” he says. “I’m telling you what I’m doing.”

That catches you off guard.

His jaw shifts once. “I’m not standing here while you walk out because both of us are scared of what happens if you stay.”

The room goes very still.

You fold your arms harder over your chest, but it does nothing to stop the shaking under your skin.

“You think this is fear?”

“I know it is.”

That makes you laugh, broken and furious. “Oh, that’s rich.”

He doesn’t flinch.

“You’re scared I’ll fail you again,” he says. “You’re scared I’ll wake up tomorrow and this’ll all disappear. You’re scared if you need anything from me, I’ll make you regret it.”

Each one lands. Because they’re true. Because hearing him say them makes you feel seen in a way you do not want right now.

“And I’m scared too,” he says.

That wasn’t what you expected.

You look at him. Really look at him. His face is tight. Tired. No easy softness in it. No smooth charm. Just a man standing there with his hands at his sides like he’s making himself stay still through force.

“I’m scared that if I let you walk out right now,” he says, “I am never getting a chance to fix any of this.”

You look away first. Your voice comes out low. “Maybe you don’t deserve one.”

“Maybe I don’t,” he says.

Immediate. No argument. No defense. That makes you look back.

He takes one step closer. Still not crowding. Still giving you room. But there is nothing uncertain in him now.

“But that doesn’t change the fact that you are pregnant with my child, standing in my kitchen, trying to decide whether surviving by yourself is somehow safer than letting me help.” His voice roughens just slightly. “And I’m telling you I’m not letting pride make this decision for us.”

Your breath catches. You hate the word us. You hate how right it feels.

“I’m not talking about pride,” you say.

“Yes, you are.”

The words hit like a slap. Your eyes flash.

“No, I’m talking about not being stupid.”

“You’re talking about leaving before you have to find out whether I mean it.”

That knocks you back a step more effectively than if he’d raised his voice.

Your throat works around nothing.

He sees it and keeps going.

“I know exactly what I did,” he says. “I know what I made you carry. I know you have every reason to hate me for it.” His jaw tightens. “Hate me. Fine. Be angry. Fine. But don’t stand there and tell me the smartest thing either of us can do is let you drag yourself back across the country because staying here would mean needing me.”

The room is so quiet now it almost rings.

Your eyes sting. You are furious enough to shake. And underneath that, more exhausted than you even want to name.

“I can’t do this if you think this fixes it,” you say finally.

His expression doesn’t move. “I don’t.”

“I can’t do this if you think I’m suddenly okay.”

“I don’t.”

“And I can’t do this if tomorrow you wake up and decide this was guilt and panic and obligation and not actually—”

Your voice catches. You stop.

Humiliated.

He answers before you have to force the rest out. “It’s not guilt.”

You hold his gaze. The air between you feels thin. “Then what is it?”

His jaw shifts once. “It’s me fighting for what’s right instead of what’s easy.”

That one goes through you slowly. No room left to hide from it.

He takes one more step. Close enough now that you can feel the heat of him, the steadiness of him, the fact that he is not backing down.

“I should have fought sooner,” he says. “I didn’t. That’s on me.” A beat. “But I’m fighting now.”

Your breath leaves you unevenly.

He doesn’t look away. “I want you to stay.”

The words are simple. No decoration. No excuse wrapped around them. Just true.

“I want to help you. I want to help with the baby. I want to do this the right way, even if I already did everything else wrong.”

Your chest hurts. Actually hurts. Because this is what you wanted him to say. And also exactly what you didn’t want to need.

He sees the break in your face and softens only a fraction. Just enough to keep you from running.

“You can be angry at me in every room of this house,” he says. “You can hate me through dinner and breakfast and the next damn week. But please just stay.”

The word lands and stays there. Heavy. Certain. A plea. A decision. A fight.

Not controlling. Not passive. Real.

Your body feels suddenly too heavy for your bones. The fight in you is still there. It’s just not endless anymore. It’s expensive. It hurts.

And worst of all, it’s losing to exhaustion and truth and the awful fact that some part of you needed him to finally say stay like he meant it.

You drag a hand over your face. “God.”

He says nothing. Just waits. And somehow that’s what does it. Not the logic. Not the offers. Not the practical things. The fact that for once, he is not stepping back first.

You let out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, but breaks instead. “This is such a mess.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

A beat passes. Then another.

You stay where you are. Still standing. Still angry. Still here. And when you finally speak again, your voice is quieter, worn at the edges.

“So what happens now?”

Robby doesn’t answer right away. His hand comes up to the back of his neck, rubbing once like he’s buying himself a second to think. His gaze drops toward the floor, then shifts toward the hallway, then back to you.

“I’ve got an office,” he says finally.

You blink. “An office?”

“Yeah.” A small breath. “It’s… not really a room right now. More like storage.” He glances past you like he can see it. “But I can clear it out. Turn it into something you can actually stay in.”

The words settle quietly between you. Not an offer dressed up as something bigger. Not a solution that fixes everything.

Just… something.

You nod, a little. “…okay.”

It feels like a small thing to say. It isn’t.

Robby nods back once, like he understands that.

“It might take me a couple days,” he adds. “I’d have to do it on my day off. Move everything out, get a bed in there. Make it… decent.”

“That’s fine.”

And it is. You don’t need perfect. You just need something that doesn’t disappear the second you look away from it.

A beat passes.

You glance toward the living room. “I can just take the couch until then.”

Robby shakes his head, not sharp, just immediate. “I’ll take the couch.”

You look back at him. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

The way he says it isn’t defensive. Just… certain.

You hesitate. “I don’t mind the couch.”

“I know,” he says again. “But I’d rather you didn’t.”

There’s no edge to it. No argument. Just preference.

You study him for a second, trying to figure out if this is guilt. Or obligation. Or just… him.

“I usually end up out there anyway,” he adds, quieter. “Falling asleep on the couch, I mean.”

That shifts something. Not big. Just enough to make this feel a little less like a sacrifice and a little more like something he’s already used to.

You glance toward the hallway, then back at him. “…so where would I be?”

Robby’s jaw shifts slightly. “The bedroom.”

You still. Not tense. Just… aware.

“That’s your room.”

“Yeah.”

You look at him, unsure. “I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that.”

He nods slowly. “Yeah.”

A beat.

“It’s my space,” he says. “I get why that’s… not easy.”

Your eyes lift to his.

He doesn’t look away. “I’m not asking you to be okay with it,” he adds. “Just—” a small pause “—to get through a couple nights.”

That lands. Not as pressure. As honesty.

You hold his gaze for a second longer than you mean to, then look away. And somehow that’s enough to keep you from walking.

“…it’s just for a couple days,” you say.

“Yeah.”

“Until the office is ready.”

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

“…okay.”

The word comes out small. Careful.

Robby nods once. “Okay.”

Neither of you moves right away. Because now that the decision is made, there’s nothing left to hide behind. No more arguing. No more deflecting. Just the reality of what you’ve agreed to.

You glance toward the hallway, then back at him.

“One day at a time,” you say.

It comes out quieter than you mean it to. Not comfort. Not even really a plan. Just the only shape this can take without crushing you under it.

Robby nods once. “One day at a time.”

The words settle between you, heavier than they should, because now they mean something different. Not until this gets easier. Not until one of you changes your mind.

Just this:

tomorrow exists.

And the day after that.

And neither of you gets to run before it gets there.

You swallow once. Your arms loosen at your sides, not because you feel better, but because you don’t have the energy to hold yourself together that hard anymore.

Robby notices, but doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t try to soften what this is. He just stands there, looking almost as tired as you feel. And somehow that makes it worse.

Because there’s no relief on his face. No victory. Just the same wary understanding settling over him too.

Like he knows exactly what you know:

this is not a truce.

Not a pause. Not a temporary arrangement until one of you finds a cleaner exit. It’s both of you standing in the middle of the damage and admitting there isn’t another road around it.

You look down at the floor. Then back up.

“This doesn’t fix anything,” you say.

Your voice is soft now. Worn thin. But you need it said.

He nods immediately. “I know.”

“And I’m still angry.”

“I know.”

“And I still don’t know what the hell this is supposed to look like.”

His jaw shifts once. “Me either.”

That lands harder than you expect. Because it would be easier if he acted certain. If he had a plan. If he could hand you something finished and sensible and impossible to fall through. Instead, he’s just here. Staying. The same as you. And somehow that makes this feel more real than anything else tonight.

You nod once, small, almost to yourself.

The silence that follows is awkward in a new way. Not hostile. Not sharp. Just full of everything neither of you knows how to say without making it heavier.

Your eyes catch on the hallway again. His room. The office you haven’t seen. The couch he’s already claimed for himself. All of it waiting there like something already decided.

Your throat tightens, because that’s the truth, isn’t it? Not every detail. Not every conversation. But the part that matters.

You are here. He is here. There is a child coming whether either of you is ready or not.

And neither of you gets to run from that now.

The realization lands low and hard. Not dramatic. Just final.

Robby shifts his weight slightly. “If you want,” he says quietly, “I can show you where everything is.”

The words are careful. Not crowding. Not giving you a way out. Just offering the next step because there has to be one.

You nod before you can think too hard about it. “Okay.”

Even that feels bigger than it should.

He steps back first, making room.

You move toward the hallway slowly, aware of him beside and behind you without really looking at him. The house still feels strange. Still too intimate. But less like somewhere you can escape from and more like somewhere you are going to have to learn in pieces.

That thought scares you. More than you want to admit.

One day at a time.

You hold onto it again.

At the mouth of the hallway, you stop. Not because you mean to. Because suddenly this feels real in a way the kitchen didn’t. His room. His house. His life. And you standing at the edge of it, too exhausted to keep fighting and too scared not to understand what agreeing to stay actually means.

Robby stops too. Not close enough to crowd. Just near enough that you can feel him there.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

Then you ask, because you need to hear him say it plainly, “So that’s it?”

His eyes lift to yours.

You force the rest out anyway. “We just… figure this out now.”

It isn’t really a question.

But he answers it like one.

“Yeah.”

No hesitation. No careful softening.

Just yes.

The simplicity of it goes through you harder than anything else has. Because there it is. No more pretending one signature or one drive or one bad night is going to untangle what already exists between you.

This is it.

Not forgiven. Not healed. Not even understood.

Just real.

You look away first. Your voice comes out quieter than before. “One day at a time.”

This time it sounds less like a compromise. More like surrender.

Robby nods once. “One day at a time.”

And that’s all either of you has. No promises big enough to trust. No language clean enough to make this simple. Just two frightened, stubborn people standing in the hallway of a house neither of them knows how to share yet, understanding in the same terrible second that whatever comes next—

it comes here.

With both of you.

You nod once. Then finally make yourself move. Toward the room. Toward the night. Toward the life neither of you gets to run from now.

And behind you, he stays.

Tags: @kitkat1690 @little-mini-me-world @marisol4k @shashasimba1996 @karlawithacapitalk @robinavitchswhore @borbalalikesdocs @3-smi @dizzybee03 @cerberus101@celestialsonglines @mewmew222 @baelorandmaekarinparis @tpwklizzie @floralsightings @joelmillerswifey @rufles2 @maskfiend @adoringanakin @mynameisbaby9 @graciiiaciii @menolderthan39 @anyasthoughts @findthebeautyinbreakdowns @twizzlelutz @redhooduwu @rithifriesstuff @lou-la-lou @pinkpantheris @tpwklizzie @kathrinemelissa @spooky-librarian-ghost @lillly-ofthevalley @yournamesnob @thegirlwhowaited5everok @perkyjackon @generation-zero @snovvv @1dhoe93 @optimistictacosaladcloud @proudlyvastlake @pinksabotageveil @love4lando @thebitchsaid

[artibeus-lituratus]

night vision - chapter 2

michael robinavitch x f!reader

Chapter summary: Your first day in a long time on the day shift is… unusual, at best, and fucking awful, at worst. Tags: the pitt spoilers, female reader-insert; jewish!reader (no physical descriptions other than wearing glasses), age gap (reader's in her mid-20's/early 30s), slow burn, angst, fluff, smoking, eventual smut (minors do not interact), reader did not outgrow her goth phase, shameless self-insert, cursing, not beta-read, english is not my first language Wordcount: 2852 (look! someone learned how to use google docs) Previous / Next

Around 1 p.m, your head was about to burst.

You pressed your fingers against the bridge of your nose in an attempt to soothe the pain behind your eyes, the type of headache that comes with deep lack of sleep.

You wrapped up another patient’s chart before leaving the iPad in its docking station, sighing while looking at the board. With your hands on your waist, you quickly stretched your back; even if you still had six hours to go, it was a bit fulfilling seeing the triage getting emptier by the hour.

Once again, you walked to the hub, Dana greeting you with a short smile and tired eyes.

“Mrs. Evans.”

“Y’know, even if you don’t need to call me that, it’s kinda sweet. Shows some respect for a change.” You smiled back at her before spreading your hands on the counter. 

“Any ambulances on the way?” “Not that I’m aware of.” “Great. I’m gonna take a break before I pass out from low blood sugar.” “You diabetic or something?”, she queried.

“No, just really hungry,” you replied before making your way to the doctor’s lounge. The closed door provided some peace from the buzz outside, and once more you softly pressed your fingers against your closed eyelids, minding your eyeliner. With another sigh, you grabbed your Red Bull can from the fridge and left the ED through the ambulance bay’s doors.

Robby approached the hub the same time you left Dana, repeating the same motion of dumping the tablet on top of the counter.

“You know her from somewhere, Dana?” “Why do you ask?”, the chief nurse eyed Robby with a raised eyebrow.

He shrugged, “she just seemed too friendly.” “God forbid a doctor is friendly towards a nurse, huh, Robby?” Michael sighed, ready to drop it, but Dana finally answered him, taking pity on her coworker. “Her mother treated my sister’s dog a few years ago. She would help around the vet clinic before going to med school, I think. And believe it or not, that dog’s still alive.”

“Her mom’s a vet?” “Yep. And a pretty good one too.” Robby raised his eyebrows for a second, finally taking a look at the patient’s board, and Whitaker beat him to his own comment, grabbing the iPad Robby had just dropped. “Am I going insane or the patient board’s… getting shorter?”

The med student looked as confused as Robby, and even if your name did not appear next to a great number of patients, he could see from the hub that the triage room looked emptier.

Dana laughed again. “Apparently, shit gets done on the night shift.”

Resting your back against the cool wall of the ambulance bay, you took your last sip from your Red Bull can and unlocked your phone, finally reading Shen’s and Ellis’ texts.

“where are you girl” “please dont tell us you turned into a cloud of bats and flew into the moon” “cmon this is not funny” “thats it im calling 911”

You nodded your head while laughing. Although your job took a heavy toll, you were glad for the friends you made in the Pitt. You were about to shoot them a text just for kicks - if you were awake at 1 p.m, they should be too - when a sudden voice boomed from the drive lane.

“Hey! You a doc?” You raised your face to the source of the voice, and when you were about to answer, a body dropped from a beat up van.

Holy shit.

You quickly shoved your phone inside your scrub pocket and made your way to the passed out kid, bleeding out in the middle of the ambulance bay. The driver hit the gas and didn't spare a single glance back.

“I need a gurney here!” But alas, you were alone.

Fuck it, you thought as you placed the kid on your shoulders in a fireman’s carry, the way Abbot taught you a few years ago, and scurried inside the ED once again.

“I need some help here!” “What the f–” “Someone just dropped this boy on the ambulance bay, looks like multiple GSWs,” you unceremoniously placed the kid on the first empty gurney you saw, getting hounded by Robby and a scrawny med student you’ve never seen before. The three of you pushed the gurney into a room, followed by a couple of nurses. Stethoscope quickly placed in your ears after putting on gloves, you waited until Perlah finished cutting off the boy’s clothes to take his vitals, not caring how your scrubs were now drenched in blood.

“I can’t hear his right lung. Do you see any exit wounds?” “I’m counting three entry wounds, two in the chest, one in the shoulder,” Robby answered while helping the crew turn the patient sideways. “Only two exit wounds.”

“Sats are seventy-eight, pulse is forty-seven, weak. BP is ninety-six/sixty-two,” Perlah read the blaring monitor while you made your way to the right side of the patient. 

“Need an x-ray and a chest tube. Ten-blade and a twenty-eight french, please,” you asked another nurse while preparing the patient’s ribs. With the scalpel in hand, you placed the chest tube like you’ve done a hundred times before, but the harsh pair of eyes watching your every movement were a new detail.

Your hands didn’t shake.

You couldn’t let them shake.

“One gram of ceftriaxone. You there.” Whitaker did a double take when you called him, and the only thing he could see was your eyes behind your glasses, the rest of your face hidden by the patient’s chest.

“Go through his pockets, see if you can find a driver’s license.” Wide-eyed, Dennis went through the pile of ripped clothes and quickly found the boy’s wallet.

“Sats are coming up… eighty-three, eighty-four…”, Perlah stated once more.

“Adam Jenkins, type A-positive… Jesus Christ, this boy’s barely sixteen.” “Need four bags of A-positive, CBC, coagulation panel, electrolytes, tox screen and someone to page Surgery, please.”

“They’re already on their way,” Robby answered and handed you the lead apron. You put them on with a nod while the radiology team entered the room. 

You, Whitaker and Robby stood in front of the portable x-ray screen, with crossed arms and frowns on your faces, although you seemed to keep your wits about you, much like the attending at your right. The med student was already breaking a sweat.

“Bullet’s lodged in his spleen,” Dennis quipped while you removed the heavy blue apron, finally noticing the bloody mess you were in. “Didn’t know they allowed butchers in the ED, doctor Robby.” You heard Yolanda García’s voice before you saw her, and your face turned into your default blank-sheet expression, internally rolling your eyes.

And I didn’t know they let horses be surgeons, and yet, here we are…

“What?” Garcia shot daggers at you while assessing the patient, and Whitaker was trying his hardest not to burst into laughter.

Fuck, did I say that out loud? “Yeah, you did,” your youngest coworker replied.

“And I didn’t know you could walk in the sun, Nosferatu. It didn’t take long to find an asshole just like Langdon to cover for him, huh?”

“That’s enough. What do you have?” Robby intervened. You kept your facial expression as passive as you could, but he knew you were either angry, embarrassed, or both.

García locked the gurney’s side rails in order to push you away from it, already taking Adam to the OR.

“This kid’s spleen is mush, no thanks to you. We’re taking him upstairs before he can die in your hands,” the surgeon harshly remarked before leaving the room. With a huff, you threw your gloves into the trash, placing your hands in your waist.

Langdon being mentioned by Yolanda left a sour taste in Robby’s mouth, especially when he caught a glimpse of a red ribbon loosely tied around your left wrist.

The same wrist where Frank wore the bracelet his kid made for him.

Robby turned to you, and before he could reprimand you for your ill-mannered remark, you were already leaving the trauma room, sporting an annoyed expression for the first time in your shift.

“I gotta change my scrubs.”

Freshly dressed in new scrubs, you made your way to the triage, letting the other residents kill themselves for the gory traumas.

Santos, sitting in front of one of the computers in the ED, followed you with her eyes and got Whitaker’s attention with a psst.

That also caught Collins’ attention.

“So, what do you think of the new girl?” “She scares me. Called doctor Garcia a horse.” “What?” Heather couldn’t help but laugh while eavesdropping. “What new girl?” Santos gave a quick and short nod towards your direction, and Heather discreetly followed it with her eyes.

“She’s no new girl, I’m afraid. Just a night shift senior resident.”

“Garcia said something about covering for Langdon?” Whitaker frowned and shook his face, clearly confused.

And that made Trinity wrap up her patient’s charts as fast as she could, shrugging while getting up from her seat like it was on fire.

And even if Dennis looked even more confused, Heather’s eyebrow quirked up. 

Blissfully unaware of the conversation behind you, you nearly collided with another person while passing through the curtain area. You instinctively held their shoulders in order to avoid a bloody nose from a headbutt, and they immediately started apologizing.

“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you–” “It’s okay. Are you okay, though?” Mel adjusted her clothes while you took a step back, putting some distance between the two of you. You took a good look at her, not recognizing another person working in the ED.

“Y-yeah. I don’t know you.”

“Yeah, I usually work the night shift. Are you new around here?” “Yeah. Oh, I’m sorry, my name’s Mel King.” You shook her hand and gave your own name, and her mere presence seemed to make your day better. “I’m a second-year resident, started here a few days ago.” “Nice to meet you, doctor King. You need any help? Kinda looked like you were running for your life.”

Once Mel assessed your face for any traces of judgement (and found none), she sighed, nodding in response.

“It’s this kid. He’s got a big cut on his arm, but he keeps on trying to bite me every time I get near it.”

You held your hand in front of her and Mel gave you the little bastard’s chart. With a quick once-over, you raised your eyebrows with a slightly mischievous smile, and slid back the curtains.

-

Time seemed to move faster in the triage. Thankfully, most of the cases were simple, ranging from domestic accidents to stomach bugs, with the occasional fractured wrist or STI along the way. 

You made your last prescription of the day at 8 p.m, heading to the hub for the last time today with a tired smile and your second can of Red Bull empty in your left hand. 

“I am out of here,” you stated with a groan, massaging your right temple with the tip of your fingers, trying once more to relieve your headache.

“Tired?” Dana queried with a knowing look. You replied with a silent nod, sighing before making your way to the locker room. “See you tomorrow, Mrs. Evans.” “See you tomorrow, kid. Get some rest.” “You too.” Your headache seemed to improve a little bit after seeing Jack Abbot enter the ED through the dispatch doors. You greeted him with a quick hug, allowing the air to completely leave your lungs for a moment.

“How was it?”

“What do you think? It’s the day shift, Jack.”

“Can’t be that awful, kid.”

Your face disagreed and he didn’t give you much time to complain before asking,

“How did you get here?” “I drove.” You answered at the same time Robby made his way towards Jack, the same way you did. He hugged your mentor and acknowledged you with a nod. He looked knackered as well, one hand holding his backpack strap, the other rubbing his nape. “Hey, Robby. You drove here?” “Try not to look so surprised. I can’t exactly go back home walking at 8 p.m,” you answered him nonchalantly.

Robby stood quietly between you and Jack, and Abbot turned to the other attending with a plea, “do you mind walking her–” “There’s no need, Jack. I parked across the street.” “You sure?” “Yeah, yeah, it’s okay.” You gave Robby a tight smile, doing your best not to be alone with that man. Tired as you were, you couldn’t trust your mouth not to embarrass yourself again. Jack shrugged and Robby didn’t seem bothered after you declined his company any further.

Or so he told himself. “Text me when you get home.” “Got it. Good night, Jack. Doctor Robinavitch.” You said your goodbyes and once you were out of the ED, both of them followed you with their eyes.

“How was it?” Jack now inquired Robby, and Michael shrugged once more. “She called a surgeon a horse.” “What?” Jack reacted the same way Collins did, his trademark smirk making its way between his lips. “Who, Walsh?” “No. Garcia.” “Oh, now I know her ears burned the whole day.” “She’s…” Robby took a beat to answer, hiding his closed fist inside the pocket of his grey hoodie, “good, Jack. You did a good job.” Even if Abbot wasn’t the biggest gossip in the Pitt, he wasn’t exactly deaf. Word got around quickly about Frank’s medical leave, and while the sordid details weren’t exactly common knowledge, Jack could see how Michael was beating himself up over Langdon’s drug abuse. How he failed to see it before an intern did, on her first day nonetheless. And Robby didn’t need to verbally say anything: his eyes were doing all the work for his mouth. His gaze was heavy, and Jack didn’t miss the slight anger Robby stared at you with. He didn’t know if Robby was angry at you, at Frank or at himself, though. Probably all of the above. “How are you holding up?” Michael shrugged again. “Ask me again in a month.”

“You gotta know it wasn’t your fault, brother.” Another pause. “I’ll accept that sometime.”

Jack nodded in response, and with a light slap on Robby’s shoulder, he made his way to the locker room. “Have a good night, Robby.” “See you later, Jack.” - The moment you crossed the dispatch doors, you ripped the nicotine patch glued to your arm, crumpling it in your hands before throwing it away in a trashcan. You quickly made your way to your car, and after turning the ignition on, you fished one cigarette from the pack inside the glove compartment. You shifted gears and stepped on the gas, finally making your way home. Cigarette finally lit and resting against your lips, you took a huge puff, exhaling the smoke through your nose. The nicotine felt like a balm to you after the fuck ass day you just had, and the words Jack told you all those years ago rang clearly in your head, what he said the day he noticed how your scrubs were smelling of cigarettes after a quick break. “You wanna kill yourself with this shit? Fine. But don’t smoke while you’re on the clock. There’s nothing worse for a patient than catching a whiff of that crap. It’s embarrassing.” You turned the radio on, and the guitar notes of Baby, I’m Gonna Leave You by Led Zeppelin made you feel a little better, the surprise of a loved song playing on the radio ringing through you like lightning. “God, I fucking love this song,” you whispered to yourself while you turned the volume up, loud enough to keep you awake, but respectful towards the patients around the hospital. 

You started to decompress, leaving both hands on the wheel while driving, leaving your cerebellum with the easy task of getting you home. That meant you didn’t see Robby following you with his gaze, passing through him without a care in the world. He felt the world move in slow motion for a few seconds, the way you looked somberly peaceful with your hair following the soft night breeze, the yellow street lights casting a decadent glow on you while the cigarette smoke surrounded and coiled around you like a snake, the scene something straight out of his fantasies he had when he was younger, especially with John Bonham's loud drums following you. Completely in your element when it’s night time, like your beauty couldn’t be fully comprehended under the sun. And in the same way he got entrapped in that fleeting waking dream, reality brought him back from his silent gawking once you took a left, disappearing once again from his sight. Coming back to his senses felt like a slap to his face, akin to whiplash, and the moment ingrained in his mind fought off the irrational anger you made him feel.

You were going to work every day alongside him from now on for the next month, however, Robby would do anything in his power to keep you as far as he could from him.

He wouldn’t give in.

He couldn’t.

taglist: @andabuttonnose @thinemineours @beebeechaos @darksparklesficrecs @introvertathome @miss-me-jack dividers: @wethairjoel (bat divider) @cafekitsune (moon/stars divider)

[drjohncarters]

Find A New Place To Be From - Series Masterlist

pairing: dr robby x reader

summary: you sign a 13-week contract at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center for your latest position as a travel nurse. complicated reaches a whole new level when you quickly fall for your new boss Dr. Robinavitch

warnings: will be at the beginning of each chapter! broadly: smut, language, medical innaccuracies, and descriptions of injury

notes: my inbox is always open for requests or to chat! this list will be updated as parts are released, I hope you enjoy! If you want to be tagged, the link is below :)

masterlist request tag list ao3

Week One, Part One

Week One, Part Two

Week Two

Week Three

Week Four *

Week Five

Week Six *

Week Seven

Week Eight, Part One

Week Eight, Part Two

Week Nine

Week Ten, Part One

Week Ten, Part Two

Week Eleven, Part One

Week Eleven, Part Two

Week Twelve

Week Thirteen

[optimisticplb]

What Happens in Vegas Never Stays in Vegas

Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch x Reader

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Summary: After a drunken Vegas wedding, Robby disappears by morning, leaving you with nothing but a ring and a mistake that was supposed to stay in Vegas. But when a pregnancy and state paperwork force you to track down the husband who vanished, Robby learns the truth and this time, walking away isn’t so easy.

WC: 10K

Tags: Drunken Vegas Wedding, Runaway Husband, Unexpected Pregnancy, Forced Reunion, Second Chance Romance, Robby Wants to Stay, Romantic Comedy vibes with some Angst, No use of Y/N

Robby doesn’t answer right away.

Not because he doesn’t have one.

Because for the first time since he turned around and saw you, he looks like he understands exactly how bad this can get for him if he says the wrong thing next.

The ED keeps moving around you, but not quite the same now. Not for the people closest to him.

A monitor chirps somewhere down the hall. A cart rattles past. Shoes squeak across the polished floor. Voices stay clipped and clinical, the whole department carrying on because this place does not stop for anybody.

But the pocket of air around the two of you has changed.

The nurses’ station feels it first.

One nurse looks up from her screen, brows pulling together. Another turns halfway in her chair, not even pretending to keep her focus on the chart in front of her. Two farther down the counter lean toward each other, voices dropping, but not enough.

Someone leans back slightly, like that makes the listening less obvious.

It doesn’t.

“—wife?”

“I didn’t know Dr. Robby was married.”

They’re listening now.

Not the whole department. Just the cluster nearest him. The ones close enough to catch your tone, see his face, and feel the shape of this before either of you says another word.

Robby’s jaw tightens once.

Then he says, quietly, “Come with me.”

You almost smile. Not because any of this is funny. Because the nerve of him standing there, looking stunned that the woman he married and ditched would eventually show up in his life again, is almost enough to make you laugh in his face.

Instead, you tilt your head slightly and keep your voice high enough that the people nearest him get every syllable.

“Why?” you ask raising your voice. “You surprised?”

His eyes stay on yours.

You take one half-step closer.

“Didn’t think you’d ever see your wife again after abandoning her naked in a Vegas hotel room the morning after you married her?”

That does it. And this time, it doesn’t just hit him. It hits the department.

Someone freezes, hand still resting on the keyboard, cursor blinking on a half-finished chart. Another turns outright now, chair squeaking as she pivots. Two farther down the desk look up at the same time and don’t look back down.

“Oh—”

“Wait—what?”

“Jesus—are you serious?”

The words slip out before anyone can stop them.

A third person leans in, voice low but urgent. “He married her there?”

“No, she said after—”

“He left her there?”

“Shh…”

The whispers stack, overlapping, no longer contained.

And it doesn’t stay at the desk.

A resident walking past slows, chart half-raised, eyes flicking between you and Robby. Another stops at the edge of the station, not even pretending anymore. Someone coming down the hall hesitates mid-step, attention caught.

“Wait—wasn’t he on sabbatical?” someone says, just loud enough.

“Sabbatical,” another confirms.

A beat.

Then—

“Oh my god.”

“That’s what he did on his sabbatical?”

“A Vegas wedding?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“That’s insane.”

“He just left her there?”

“With no clothes?”

“No shit—”

“I’m serious, she literally just said—”

A quiet, disbelieving laugh. “That is so fucked up.”

It spreads fast.

Messy. Loud. Alive.

Not the whole story, but close enough to the truth.

The sabbatical.

Vegas.

A wife no one knew about.

A story forming in real time.

And you can see it settle, the way curiosity sharpens into something harsher. The way eyes linger longer now. The way people stop pretending they’re not watching.

Judgment.

Open. Unfiltered.

Someone exhales under his breath, shaking his head. “Oh fuck.”

No one moves on. They hover. They listen. They watch. Because now it’s not just interesting. Now it’s something they’ll repeat.

And Robby—

Robby feels it.

His shoulders go tight. His hand drags over the back of his neck, fingers pressing in like he can physically hold himself together against the noise building around him.

He doesn’t look at them. He can’t. But he knows exactly what they’re saying.

The space around you isn’t private anymore. It isn’t even contained to the station. It’s bleeding into the floor.

Robby spirals.

Not outwardly. Not dramatically.

That’s what makes it satisfying.

It’s in the quick rise of color high in his face. In the jump of his jaw. In the way his eyes flick once toward the station and back to you, like he can feel every person who just heard enough to judge him.

The flash of panic is brief.

But it’s there.

And that, more than anything, makes the drive worth it.

“Come with me,” he says again.

Lower this time.

Urgent.

The words come too fast. Not calm. Not controlled. Just stripped down enough that the fear under them shows.

You don’t move.

You let him stand there in it for one more beat. Let everyone keep looking. Let the story finish taking shape without another word from you.

Then he says it again.

Quieter.

Rougher.

“Please.”

There it is.

That crack.

Not fear of you exactly. Fear of this. Of more words getting loose in the middle of his department. Of losing control of something already slipping out of his hands.

He steps closer then, not crowding, not grabbing. Just near enough that the urgency feels physical.

“Please,” he says again, voice low enough to almost disappear under the hum of the floor. “Just—come with me.”

That almost makes you laugh.

Of course now he’s begging.

Now, when they’re all listening. Now, when they’ve already heard enough to build the rest. Now, when you’re suddenly real in a way you never had to be before.

You could make it worse.

Stay right here.

Say something sharper.

The thought crosses your mind and passes.

Not because he gets to decide where this goes. Because the public part has already done what it needed to do.

The hit landed. There were witnesses. He felt it.

And standing here while strangers build the rest of the story out of scraps would be its own kind of humiliation.

So when you move, it’s without hurry. Completely on your terms.

You don’t answer him. You don’t reassure him. You just step past him.

Close enough to catch the clean hospital smell of him under stale coffee, antiseptic, and too many hours awake. Close enough that memory rises, hot and useless, and has to be shoved down before it softens into anything but anger.

Behind you, he turns immediately, moving with you now, opening a path toward the nearest room with a door just off the floor.

Not far.

Not hidden.

Just the closest place to get you out of view before anyone else hears something worse.

The rush in him is easy to feel now; the clipped speed of his steps, the way his attention splits between you and the open floor behind you.

He’s not trying to win this moment.

He’s trying to survive it.

You let him hurry you those few feet.

The public part is done.

The real damage can happen somewhere no one else gets the easy version of it.

Even so, he doesn’t get to forget how little control he actually has.

Your arm stays stiff when his hand lands briefly at your elbow to guide you around a passing cart. Not rough. Not lingering. Just quick and gone the second it isn’t necessary.

You don’t look at him. You look over your shoulder instead. Everyone is staring now.

No subtlety left.

Someone looks openly entertained, already filing this away for later. Another glances away the second your eyes catch hers, guilty and fascinated all at once. A third still holds a chart but isn’t reading a single word.

And by now, even the ones who didn’t hear the whole exchange know enough from everyone else’s faces to know—

Robby is in trouble.

Let them wonder. Let him walk back out to that later.

He gets you into the room and shuts the door quickly behind you.

The click is sharp.

Immediate.

All at once, the noise of the ED drops to a muffled blur outside the walls. Still there, just dulled now. Monitors softened. Voices flattened. The fluorescent lights overhead are suddenly louder than they should be.

The room is small. Too bright. One exam chair. A rolling stool shoved near the counter. Paperwork clipped to a board on the wall. The ordinary, neutral shape of a place where difficult things get said every day.

Robby drops your arm immediately. Like the second the door is shut, he knows better than to keep touching you.

You step away from him on instinct anyway, pulse still hammering from the floor outside, adrenaline still hot under your skin.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

He looks wrecked.

Not dramatic. Not messy. Just held together so tightly it’s obvious how close he is to losing his grip on it. Not the calm doctor everyone out there knows as Robby.

Just Michael.

The man who married you in Vegas.

The man who left.

And outside that door, people are already talking. He knows it. You can see it in the tight set of his mouth, in the glance he throws toward the door before forcing himself to look back at you.

His hand comes up to the back of his neck almost immediately.

He rubs hard, eyes dropping, then lifting, then dropping again like he can’t make himself hold your gaze for more than a second.

“Listen,” he says, voice rougher than it should be. “I know how that looked after everything happened.”

You let out a short laugh.

“How that looked?”

His jaw tightens.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“No?” you ask. “Then go ahead. Explain to me how waking up married and abandoned was supposed to look.”

His hand drags down over his mouth, then back to his neck again.

“I thought—” he starts.

Stops.

Breathes in.

Starts again.

“I thought maybe if I left, that would be it.”

You just stare at him.

He feels it. His shoulders pull tighter. His eyes slip away again.

“It was Vegas,” he says too quickly. “It happened fast. We were drunk. I just thought—”

He lets out a short, sharp laugh under his breath, the kind that sounds like he’s overwhelmed enough to hate every word coming out of his own mouth.

“—maybe it didn’t count.”

For a second, you just look at him.

Then you laugh. Not because it’s funny. Because it’s unbelievable.

“It didn’t count?”

Robby’s fingers dig harder into the back of his neck.

“That’s not—”

“No, say it again,” you cut in. “I want to make sure I heard you right.”

Your voice stays low. Controlled.

“Because last time I checked, Vegas is still in the United States, Michael.”

His jaw tightens.

“I didn’t mean legally—”

“Oh, good,” you snap. “So you knew it counted. You just decided to run anyway.”

He laughs again, quick, strained, wrong for the room. Not because he thinks any of this is funny. Because he doesn’t know what to do with how badly he’s screwing this up. It only makes your expression go colder.

“I’m trying to explain what I thought—”

“No,” you say. “You’re trying to make being a coward sound like confusion.”

That shuts him up.

His hand drops, then comes right back up like he doesn’t know what else to do with himself.

You step closer.

He doesn’t move.

“What exactly was the plan?” you ask. “You thought we’d just stay married forever because it happened in Vegas? You thought I’d never want a divorce? You thought you’d never want one?”

His gaze flicks away again. Still can’t hold it.

“Or was I just supposed to live my life legally tied to someone who decided I was too inconvenient to deal with?”

“That’s not what I—”

“Then what?” you cut in, sharper now. “What the fuck did you think was going to happen?”

Silence.

He doesn’t have an answer.

You stare at him for one hard second.

“It counted,” you say, each word clean. “You just didn’t want it to.”

His jaw works. His eyes drop again.

“You got scared,” you continue, voice steady and vicious. “And instead of acting like a fucking man, you ran.”

“That’s not—”

“It is exactly what it is.”

The room goes still around it.

“You are a fucking coward, Michael.”

You see that hit.

“You didn’t just run from me,” you say. “You left me holding everything. The ring. The paperwork. The embarrassment. Every humiliating second of being the only one stuck with something you were too weak to deal with.”

He swallows hard.

“I didn’t mean to humiliate you.”

The words come out quiet. Frayed.

You hold his gaze this time. Don’t let him look away.

“But you did.”

For a beat, he just stands there, looking like he wants to fix it and knowing he can’t. He drags a hand over the back of his neck again, breath uneven now, eyes flicking anywhere but you.

“If this is about paperwork or something,” he says, too quick, too careful, “I can sign whatever you need. It doesn’t have to be—”

He breaks off. A strained, helpless laugh slips out under his breath. His hand presses harder into his neck.

“—this big of a thing.”

You just stare at him.

Then you let out a small, disbelieving laugh.

“Unbelievable.”

You shift the folder in your hand and step in just enough to make him look at you.

“You really thought you could just walk away and that would be it?”

“That’s not what I—”

“No,” you snap, louder now. “No, apparently that is exactly what you thought.”

He flinches.

“You thought this was just about fucking paperwork?” you demand. “You thought I drove across the fucking country because this was some easy little problem you could sign your name on and make go away?”

Robby’s hand comes back up to his neck, rubbing harder now, eyes breaking away from yours like he can’t hold all of this and answer at the same time.

“I’m not saying that—”

“You are!”

Your voice bounces off the too-bright walls. For the first time since you walked in, it fills the room.

“You are saying that!”

He lets out that same strained, overwhelmed laugh again, one hand still at his neck, the other lifting slightly like he doesn’t even know what he’s trying to do with it.

“I’m trying to understand—”

“Then understand this.”

The folder bends in your grip.

“This is not some stupid mistake I get to laugh off because it happened in Vegas. This is my life.”

You don’t stop.

“My actual fucking life, Michael.”

His eyes flick up at his name.

“You got to leave,” you say, the words coming faster now. “You got to disappear and go back to your job and your house and your normal life like none of this ever happened.”

His face shifts.

You don’t let up.

“I didn’t.”

The room goes still.

“I got sick. I got scared. I got bills and paperwork and questions I couldn’t answer, and every single part of that happened whether you decided it counted or not.”

Robby opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. His hand drops, then comes right back up, pressing hard into the back of his neck like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“I didn’t know,” he says.

And that—

That makes you laugh right in his face.

“Exactly.”

You step closer. Not enough to touch him. Enough that he has to stand there and take it.

“You didn’t know because you ran.”

His eyes drop again.

“You don’t get to stand here now and act like this is something simple,” you say, voice lower but no less sharp. “You don’t get to make this smaller because you’re finally the one who has to look at it.”

He swallows hard.

You shift the folder in your hand.

Then you look him dead in the eye.

“You want to know how big of a thing it is?”

A beat.

“I’m pregnant.”

He goes completely still.

You watch the shock move through him in real time.

The blankness. The hit. The way every thought in his head seems to stop at once.

“I’m glad one of us can pretend it didn’t fucking count.”

That lands hard. You don’t let him recover.

“So congratulations,” you say. “You got to run.”

You tilt your head slightly, watching him unravel.

“I got to stay and clean up what you left behind.”

The words hang there.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

Then, quieter—

“But sure,” you finish, “tell me again how it’s not that big of a thing.”

Robby doesn’t move.

For one awful second, he just stands there, hand still at the back of his neck, staring at you like the ground dropped out from under him and he still hasn’t caught up.

His mouth opens.

Nothing comes out.

Then his eyes flick down.

Fast. Instinctive. Not even to your stomach, not really, just lower, toward you, toward the word pregnant hanging in the air between you like something visible now. Something with shape. Weight.

When he looks back up, his face has gone strangely blank.

Not calm.

Worse.

Shock has sanded everything off him for half a beat.

“What?”

The word comes out rough. Thin around the edges.

You almost laugh. Not because it’s funny. Because of course that’s all he has.

You tighten your grip on the folder.

“What part lost you?” you ask. “The pregnant part, or the part where your choices didn’t magically stop existing because you left Vegas?”

Robby blinks hard, like he’s trying to force his brain back into sequence. His hand comes up again, dragging over the back of his neck, eyes skidding away from yours before he makes himself look back.

“You’re serious.”

It isn’t a question. That makes it worse.

Your expression hardens. “Do I look like I drove across the country for a fucking joke?”

He swallows. Looks at you. Looks away. A sharp, disbelieving laugh slips out under his breath, not because he doesn’t believe you, but because he does, and now he has to stand there and understand what that means.

“How far along?”

You just stare at him.

“Three months.”

This time the hit is visible.

His jaw tightens so hard you see it. His eyes close for the briefest second, like he’s doing the math whether he wants to or not. Vegas. Three months. You. Here. Now.

When he opens them again, there’s no room left for denial.

He takes one slow breath through his nose. His hand drops from his neck, then comes right back up, rubbing harder now like maybe he can work his way out of this physically.

“Have you seen a doctor?”

A short, incredulous laugh breaks out of you.

“Wow.”

He frowns. “What?”

“You really think I made it this far without figuring that part out?”

Your voice is louder now. Faster.

“I’ve been handling it,” you say. “Appointments, tests, paperwork, bills—everything that fucking comes with it—”

Your grip tightens around the folder.

“Every single fucking part of it.”

A breath. Too sharp. Too quick.

“Alone.”

Robby doesn’t answer. That’s worse. No interruption. No correction. No defense. Just him standing there, taking it.

And that—

That makes something in you snap tighter instead of easing.

“You don’t get to stand there like that,” you say, voice thinner now but no less sharp. “You don’t get to go quiet now.”

He still doesn’t interrupt.

“I needed to know what I was supposed to do,” you say, but it’s already too loud, already slipping. “I needed insurance. I needed answers. I needed literally anything that didn’t involve me guessing my way through this alone.”

Robby doesn’t speak.

“I had to sit there,” you snap, voice climbing fast, “and answer questions about my husband like that was normal. Like that was something I should just have.”

Your laugh cracks out, sharp, ugly.

“And I had nothing.”

His face shifts but you don’t let him breathe.

“I had to fucking Google you,” you say, and now it’s vicious. “Do you understand that? I had to search for my own husband like you were some random fucking man I made up because I couldn’t answer basic questions.”

He flinches as you step closer.

“I found your profile. Your job. Your salary—” You shake your head, a disbelieving, furious laugh breaking through. “—which was really great to look at while I was fucking counting tips trying to figure out if I could afford my next appointment.”

That one lands.

“You were here,” you say, louder now, voice starting to shake under the force of it. “Comfortable. Stable. Living your life like nothing happened—while I was working sick.”

Your hand tightens around the folder.

“I was throwing up in a bathroom between shifts,” you snap. “I was exhausted, I was barely making it through work, and I still had to smile through it because if I don’t work, I don’t get fucking paid.”

Robby’s jaw tightens. His hand goes to the back of his neck again. That nervous tick. That tell.

You hate it.

“And then you stand there,” you say, voice rising into something almost a shout, “and ask me if I’ve seen a damn doctor?”

The room feels like it snaps.

“You think I haven’t been handling this?” you demand. “You think I’ve just been sitting around doing nothing?”

He opens his mouth—

Too slow.

You cut him off.

“Of course I’ve seen a fucking doctor!” you snap, the words loud enough to echo off the walls. “I’ve been going to every appointment they told me to go to whether I can afford it or not because I don’t get to ignore this.”

Your chest is heaving now.

“I don’t get to decide it’s inconvenient and walk away,” you continue, voice breaking and furious all at once. “I don’t get to pretend it didn’t happen. I go. Every time. I pay for it. Every time. And then I get to sit there and figure out how I’m supposed to afford the next one.”

He goes still.

You don’t.

“And then I had to sit in a government office,” you say, louder again, sharper, angrier, “and ask for help.”

That one hits different. You see it. You step closer.

“I had to ask the fucking government for help, Michael,” you repeat, like you want it carved into him.

His eyes drop.

“Look at me, damn it!” you snap.

He does. Too slow. Too late.

“And they asked me about my husband,” you say, each word deliberate, cutting. “Income. Job. Address. Basic things. Easy things. Things I should know.”

You take another step in.

“I had nothing.”

Silence.

“I had to sit there and tell them I have a husband I couldn’t even find,” you say, voice shaking hard now but no quieter. “Do you know how that sounds? Do you know how humiliating that is?”

He doesn’t answer. He can’t.

“Like I’m stupid,” you spit. “Like I’m irresponsible. Like I made some reckless decision and now I’m standing there begging strangers to fix it.”

Your laugh breaks again, mean and bitter.

“Meanwhile, you’re here. Living your life. Going on your little fucking sabbatical, coming back like nothing happened—”

His face tightens at that.

You want that.

“—and I’m dealing with it!” you shout. “Every single damn day!”

That echoes.

Neither of you moves.

“I didn’t get to pretend,” you say, still loud, still shaking. “I didn’t get distance. I didn’t get to ‘figure myself out.’ I got sick. I got scared. I got bills. I got responsibility whether I wanted it or not.”

Robby swallows hard.

“I know—”

“No, you don’t!” you cut him off, loud enough it almost hurts your throat. “You don’t get to fucking say that. You don’t get to stand there now and act like you understand what this has been like!”

He goes quiet again.

“You know now,” you say, stepping closer, forcing him to stay there with you. “Now that I dragged it across the country. Now that I stood in front of your coworkers and said it out loud. Now that you can’t ignore it anymore.”

Your voice drops, low and shaking.

“I didn’t get a break,” you say. “I didn’t get a choice. I got consequences.”

That word hits hard.

“And I handled them,” you add, sharper again. “Alone.”

You lift the folder between you and shove it into his chest.

“I’m not here because I need you,” you say. “I’m here because the state needs you.”

Your eyes don’t leave his.

“But don’t stand there and act like I haven’t been fucking responsible,” you add, voice cutting again. “Don’t stand there and ask me questions like I haven’t been the one carrying all of this while you were off living your best fucking life.”

A beat.

Robby looks down at the folder in his hands. His fingers aren’t steady anymore.

He looks—

Not like a doctor. Not like someone in control. Just a man who finally understands exactly how badly he failed. And has absolutely nothing to say about it.

Robby just stands there.

The folder is still in his hands, bent slightly where your fingers shoved it into his chest. He looks down at it. Not reading. Not yet. Just staring at it like even that is too much all at once.

His jaw works once. Then again. His hand comes up to the back of his neck like it always does when he’s cornered, but this time it doesn’t seem to help. He rubs hard, eyes fixed on the papers, then lets out one of those sharp, broken laughs under his breath.

Not because anything is funny. Because he has no idea what to do with any of this and he knows it. It makes him look smaller somehow.

More pathetic.

When he finally looks up at you, there’s nothing defensive left in his face. No excuse. No weak attempt to explain it better. Just a man standing in a too-bright room with the consequences in his hands.

“I know,” he says quietly.

You almost laugh.

Of course he’d say that again.

But before you can cut him off, he shakes his head once. Small. Immediate.

“No,” he says, rougher now. “That’s not right.”

His eyes drop for half a second, then come back to yours. He makes himself hold it this time, even if it looks like it costs him.

“I don’t know,” he says.

That lands differently. Not because it fixes anything. Because it’s the first honest thing he’s said that isn’t trying to make himself smaller or cleaner or easier to forgive.

His fingers tighten on the folder.

“I didn’t know any of that,” he says. “I didn’t know what it looked like for you after. I didn’t know what you had to do. I didn’t know—”

His voice catches on the end of it. He laughs again, once, low and bitter at himself.

“Fuck.”

The word falls flat between you.

He looks down at the paperwork then, finally forcing himself to see it. His thumb catches on the top page. Household information. Income. Spouse. The whole ugly, bureaucratic shape of it.

And you watch the second it gets more real.

The second it stops being just your words and becomes paper and ink and things he can’t pretend not to understand.

His face tightens. He swallows hard.

Then says, quieter than before, “You had to ask the state for help.”

It isn’t a question.

The humiliation of hearing him say it out loud hits hot and immediate.

You cross your arms over your chest before he can see how much.

“Yeah,” you say. “That tends to happen when medical bills keep showing up and the person legally attached to you vanishes.”

He nods once. Like he deserves it. He does.

“I know,” he starts again, then stops himself with another short shake of his head. “No. I know that’s not the point.”

You stare at him. Because this is new.

Robby being quiet. Robby not reaching for the easiest defense in the room. Robby looking like he finally understands that every word out of his mouth has to go through what he already broke to get to you.

His eyes flick over your face, then lower again. Not avoiding this time. Taking inventory. The exhaustion. The swollen anger sitting right under your skin. The way you’re standing like your body is the only thing still holding you upright.

When he speaks again, his voice is low. Careful.

“You shouldn’t have had to do any of that alone.”

That almost gets you.

Almost.

You harden against it instantly.

“Well, I did.”

He nods. Again. No argument. No but. Just takes it. And somehow that makes it worse.

You laugh once, thin and furious. “What, no explanation? No new theory about how maybe this doesn’t count either?”

His face flinches, not outwardly, not much, but enough.

“I don’t have one,” he says.

The words come out quiet.

Wrecked.

And for one awful second, the room gets even stiller.

Because you wanted him ashamed. You wanted him embarrassed. You wanted him to feel every humiliating inch of what you’ve been carrying.

And now he does.

You can see it in the way he’s holding the folder like it weighs too much. In the way all the certainty has gone out of him.

He looks back down at the paperwork. Then up at you.

“You drove here alone?”

The question comes out low. Careful. Like he already knows the answer and hates it.

You stare at him. Because of all the things he could say now, somehow that one makes your exhaustion rise up the fastest.

“Yes,” you say. “I drove here alone.”

Robby closes his eyes. His hand goes to the back of his neck again. And this time when he laughs, it’s barely even a laugh. Just disbelief and self-loathing scraping together into sound.

He drags a hand down his face. Slow. Like he’s trying to physically reset himself and failing.

“From Vegas.”

It’s not really a question.

“Obviously.”

That almost gets another one of those sharp, frustrated laughs out of him, but he cuts it off before it fully forms. His jaw works instead.

“How long did that take you?”

You let out a breath through your nose. “Long enough.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“That’s the one you’re getting.”

His eyes flick up to yours. For a second, it looks like he’s going to push. Then he stops himself. Swallows it. Tries again.

“Have you eaten?”

You just stare at him.

Because of all the directions this conversation could take, this one feels almost insulting in how normal it sounds.

“No,” you say flatly. “I thought I’d skip meals and just add that to the list of bad decisions tied to you.”

His jaw tightens. But he doesn’t snap back. Doesn’t rise to it.

“Okay,” he says instead, quiet and controlled in a way that tells you he’s forcing it. “Okay.”

You hate that too.

He looks down at the folder in his hands again, then back at you, and this time he actually takes you in. Not just your face.

All of you.

The tension in your shoulders. The way you’re standing like you’re braced for another hit. The exhaustion under your eyes that no amount of anger is covering anymore.

Something in him shifts. Not softer. Worse. Certain.

“You’re not driving anywhere tonight.”

You blink once. Then narrow your eyes.

“That’s not your call.”

“I know,” he says immediately.

And he does. That’s the difference now.

“But you’re not.”

You let out a short, disbelieving breath. “You don’t get to disappear for three months and then start giving me directions like you’re in charge of anything.”

“I’m not in charge,” he says.

Still steady. Still controlled.

“I’m telling you that you just drove across the country, you haven’t eaten, and you’re pregnant.”

The word lands differently now. He doesn’t flinch from it this time.

“You’re exhausted.”

“I’m fine.”

He just looks at you. Not believing it. Not arguing yet. Just looking at you like he can see exactly how much that costs to say.

“I’m fine,” you repeat, sharper this time.

Robby rubs the back of his neck again, eyes slipping away for half a second before he makes himself look at you.

“No, you’re not. You’re tired.”

Your laugh comes out thin and mean. “Wow. Incredible diagnostic work.”

He takes that hit and keeps going.

“Go to my house.”

You actually bark out a laugh then. Full disbelief.

“Oh, absolutely not.”

“Listen—”

“No.” You shake your head immediately. “No. I am not going to your house.”

“You need somewhere to sleep.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“With what money?”

That stops you. Only for a second. But he sees it.

Your whole face hardens instantly. “You don’t know anything about my money.”

“No,” he says. “I know you drove here alone, you haven’t eaten, and you just told me you’re trying to get assistance because you need help paying your bills. I can do the math.”

The humiliation of that hits hot. Fast. You step toward him before you even think about it.

“Do not stand there and act like you know fucking anything about what I’ve had to scrape together to get here!”

“I’m not,” he says quickly, hand coming off his neck, palms open for half a second like he wishes he could take the sentence back and can’t. “I’m not. I’m saying you should not have to find a hotel right now.”

“I would rather sleep in my car.”

The second it’s out, both of you know you mean it.

Robby goes still. Then he laughs once. Sharp. Disbelieving. Not amused.

“Jesus Christ.”

You glare at him. “What?”

He rubs the back of his neck again, harder this time, then drags his hand over his mouth.

“That’s not happening.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“No,” he says, voice roughening now, “but I am not sending my pregnant wife out to sleep in a car after she drove here from Vegas.”

The word wife lands strange now. Not because it’s sweet. Because it’s real. Because he said it like it matters. You hate that too.

Your expression goes cold. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t start sounding like you give a shit now.”

That hits. He takes it anyway.

“I do give a shit.”

You laugh right in his face.

“That’s convenient.”

Robby’s jaw tightens. He looks away, laughs once under his breath again like he can’t believe he’s standing here trying to say this out loud, then looks back at you.

“I know how it sounds.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Then stop saying it.”

“I can’t.”

That one catches you off guard.

Just enough that he keeps going.

“You can hate me,” he says, voice low now, stripped down, none of the earlier defensiveness left in it. “You can be as pissed off as you want. You can tell me to go to hell the second I walk through the door later. But go to the house. Eat something. Shower. Sleep.”

You fold your arms over your chest like that can hold you up better than your body currently is.

“No.”

“Please.”

It comes fast. Immediate. Not polished. Not persuasive. Just desperate enough to be real.

You blink at him.

He steps closer. Not too close. Just enough.

“Please,” he says again. “I’m asking you.”

You stare at him.

He looks wrecked again. Not because of the fight this time. Because he knows exactly how little right he has to ask anything of you and he’s doing it anyway.

You shake your head once. “I’m not doing you the favor of making this easier.”

“It’s not for me.”

“Bullshit.”

“It isn’t.”

He runs a hand over the back of his neck again, then drops it, frustrated with himself, frustrated with the room, frustrated with the fact that every sentence sounds weaker than what he means.

“I don’t care if you scream at me later,” he says. “I don’t care if you leave the second I get home. I don’t care if you never forgive me for any of this. But right now, you need a bed.”

Your throat tightens around the stupidest possible thing:

a bed.

A real bed.

Sheets.

Silence.

No steering wheel digging into your palms. No trying to calculate the cheapest motel in a city you don’t know. No checking your bank balance and hating yourself for how little is there.

You say nothing.

Robby sees that too.

Of course he does.

He softens his voice, but not the point.

“Go there. Sleep. Eat whatever’s in the kitchen. Take a shower. We’ll talk about the rest when I’m done here.”

That lands differently than the paperwork. More dangerous somehow. Because it means this isn’t over. Because it means later still exists.

You shake your head again, but weaker this time.

“No.”

“Yes.”

You glare at him.

He doesn’t back off.

Not now.

“Please,” he says for the third time, and this one sounds the worst. “I’m begging you.”

That lands.

Because he is.

No ego left in it. No careful control. Just a man standing in front of the damage he caused, asking for one thing he has no right to ask for and knowing it.

You hate that it lands. You hate that your body is suddenly very aware of how tired it is. Your back hurts. Your head hurts.

Your stomach has that hollow, sour feeling that comes from too much stress and not enough food and too many hours upright.

And underneath all of it, buried deep enough to feel humiliating, is the simple miserable fact that a bed sounds so good you could cry.

You look away first. Toward the wall. The exam chair. Anywhere but him. And that’s when reality finally slides in clean:

you do not have the money to be proud all night.

Not really.

Maybe enough for some awful motel if you stretch.

Maybe not.

And even if you do, then what? Another expense. Another night of not sleeping. Another day of dragging yourself through this half-starved and furious.

Your hand comes up to rub at your forehead. You close your eyes for half a second.

Robby doesn’t say anything.

When you finally look at him again, your face is hard. Defensive. Humiliated enough to bite.

“This is not me giving you anything.”

“I know.”

“This is not me trusting you.”

“I know.”

“This is me being too exhausted to come up with a better option.”

His mouth pulls tight. “Okay.”

“And if you act like this gives you some kind of place in my life again, I will leave before you get through the front door.”

That one lands.

He nods once. “Okay.”

You stare at him a beat longer.

“Fine.”

The word tastes awful. Like defeat. Like necessity. Like the last resort it is.

Robby doesn’t look relieved.

Not exactly.

Just devastated in a different direction.

He nods once. Too quick. Then reaches into his pocket for his keys. A full ring this time. Car key. House key. A couple of worn tags that click softly together when they shift in his hand.

Normal. Annoyingly normal.

You hate that too.

He hesitates for half a second, just long enough for it to register that this part matters, then turns the ring in his fingers and works the house key free.

It takes a second.

Metal scraping lightly against metal. The small, precise movements of someone buying himself just a little more time before he has to hand it over.

Then it comes loose. One key.

He holds it out to you. You don’t take it immediately. The silence stretches.

Robby’s hand stays where it is, but you can see the tension in it. In his jaw. In the way he’s forcing himself not to rush you now that he finally got this far.

You stare at the key for another second, then finally snatch it out of his hand harder than you need to. The metal bites cold into your palm.

Robby closes his fingers around the rest of the ring automatically, like he needs something to hold onto now that that piece of it is gone.

He reaches for the counter, grabs a pen, and yanks a scrap of paper from a stack near the wall. His handwriting is quick, slanted, messier than you expected. He writes down the address, tears the sheet off, and hands it to you.

“Blue house,” he says. “Short driveway. Front door sticks a little—just push.”

The normalcy of that nearly makes your skin crawl.

You fold the paper once without looking at it and tuck it into your bag.

“There’s food in the fridge,” he adds. “Not much, but enough. Towels are in the bathroom closet.”

You let out a short, humorless breath. “You really settling into this fast.”

His eyes flick to yours.

“You said yes.”

“I said fine.”

Robby drags a hand over the back of his neck again. “Right.”

Then he stops. Looks at you once. And blinks like he’s forcing himself back into something functional.

“Wait.”

You don’t soften. “What.”

He’s already moving.

Turning back toward the counter instead of answering you right away, pulling open a drawer, grabbing a sealed bottle of water. Another drawer. Crackers. A third, small packet of acetaminophen.

Efficient.

Familiar.

You recognize it instantly.

You hate it.

He sets them down in a small line on the counter, glancing at you.

“Headache?” he asks.

You don’t even look at what he grabbed.

“I’m not your patient.”

“I know,” he says quickly. “It’s just—long drive. You should—”

“No.”

Flat.

Immediate.

He stops.

The word lands clean between you.

You still don’t look at the counter. Don’t look at the water. Don’t look at anything he’s offering.

“Don’t do that,” you add.

“Do what.”

“Act like you get to take care of me now.”

That hits.

You see it.

He swallows, nods once like he expected it.

“I don’t,” he says.

You finally glance at the counter.

At the water.

The crackers.

The medication.

All of it sitting there like something you might need.

You glance back at him.

“Doesn’t change the outcome.”

Robby exhales through his nose, gaze dropping.

“No,” he says. “It doesn’t.”

The quiet that follows is flat. Final.

You adjust your bag on your shoulder.

The key is still cold in your hand.

You don’t reach for anything on the counter.

Not the water.

Not the crackers.

Not the medication.

You leave all of it exactly where he put it.

Then you move.

No warning.

No “ready.”

No looking back to see if he’s following.

You walk past him, out of the room, and back onto the floor like he’s already behind you.

Even though he isn’t.

The hallway hits you all at once again.

Noise. Movement. Light.

And the attention.

The nurses’ station is still watching.

Not subtle anymore.

One nurse straightens when you appear. Another pretends to be mid-conversation but doesn’t say a word. A third is openly looking now, eyes flicking from you to the room you just came out of.

Let them.

You keep walking.

Shoulders set.

Face controlled.

Like nothing about this is shaking you even a little.

Behind you, the room stays open.

Robby still inside it.

Still standing there with the water and the crackers and the things you didn’t take.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of checking if he follows.

By the time you hit the center of the floor, the silence around the station tightens just enough.

You don’t slow down.

Don’t stop.

Don’t look at him.

“You can all relax,” you announce, clear and even as you pass the station. “Your doctor’s free again. His pregnant, one-night-stand, Vegas wife is leaving.”

It lands.

Clean. Immediate.

And the department reacts like a body taking a hit.

A nurse freezes mid-chart. Another drops her gaze too late. A med student standing near the station stills with his pen halfway lifted. Somebody by the board turns all the way around. A resident coming out of a patient room slows, then stops. Another glances over from the hall, caught by the change in the air more than the words themselves. Two techs near the supply cart go quiet. One of the attendings looks over, sharp and brief, then looks again.

Because it’s spreading now.

Fast.

Through everyone.

Residents. Med students. Techs. Doctors. Staff at the desk. People passing by who only caught the last piece of it and know from the silence after that they missed something bad.

Enough faces turn that it stops feeling like a scene and starts feeling like fallout.

You keep walking.

No pause. No hesitation. No second glance.

Because you already said everything you came here to say.

And whatever happens behind you—

Whatever expression crosses Robby’s face when he finally walks out of that room—

You don’t need to see it.

The automatic doors slide open and the afternoon air hits your face.

Cooler than inside.

Still not enough.

Your whole body feels wrung out. Not calmer. Not better. Just done in a way that feels temporary and dangerous.

The key presses into your palm as you cross the parking lot.

His house.

The thought still feels wrong in your head. Too intimate. Too absurd. Too much like stepping into another part of a life he never offered you and never expected you to see.

You hate that this is where it landed.

You hate that a bed sounds good enough to make you sick.

You hate that your choices narrowed down to this.

Still, you keep walking.

Because this isn’t forgiveness.

It isn’t trust.

It isn’t even peace.

It’s exhaustion.

It’s money you don’t have.

It’s a shower and four walls and a bed and one night without figuring out where else to put yourself.

That’s all.

That has to be all.

You dig the paper with the address back out of your bag when you get to your car, unfold it, stare at his handwriting for one beat too long, then shove it into the cup holder.

The key goes into the ignition after a second.

Your hand shakes once.

Just once.

Then stills.

You start the car.

And pull out without looking back at the hospital.

The drive feels different now.

Not quieter.

Just emptier.

The anger is still there, but it’s thinner without anyone in front of you to throw it at. No Michael. No nurses’ station. No room full of fluorescent light and consequences finally catching up.

Just you.

The road.

And the folded piece of paper in the cup holder with his address on it in that quick, slanted handwriting you hate for being so ordinary.

The key sits on the seat beside you.

One house key.

Nothing special.

Nothing that should feel as heavy as it does.

You follow the GPS. A left turn. A stop sign. Another street you don’t know.

Pittsburgh keeps moving around you like none of this matters. Cars at lights. People crossing the street with coffee in hand. Whole normal lives still happening in every direction.

It feels rude.

Your shoulders ache. Your lower back aches. There’s a dull headache building behind your eyes, and the hollow, sour feeling in your stomach has settled in deep enough to feel permanent.

You are so tired it feels physical.

Not dramatic.

Just used up.

A stoplight changes too fast and you brake harder than you mean to. The car jerks. Your stomach rolls.

You close your eyes for half a second.

Breathe in.

Out.

Then keep going.

You try not to think about what you just agreed to.

His house.

His shower.

His towels.

His bed.

His life.

That’s the part that won’t sit right.

Because while you were scraping together gas money and trying not to panic in government offices, he was here. Living somewhere with an address. Somewhere stable enough to hand over a key to like it was nothing.

The neighborhood gets quieter the farther in you go.

Not rich.

Just settled.

That somehow feels worse.

Tree-lined street. Porches. Trimmed lawns. Cars in driveways. The kind of block that looks lived in and taken care of. The kind of place that says stability without having to try.

Of course.

Of course he came back to this.

You drive past the number once because you don’t trust yourself to believe it.

Then slow.

Then back up.

There it is.

And your hands go still on the wheel.

The house isn’t huge.

That would’ve almost been easier.

Huge would’ve felt ridiculous. Easy to resent. Easy to turn into something ugly and impersonal in your head.

This just feels real.

Blue siding. Short driveway. Small front porch. Nothing flashy. Nothing trying too hard. Just solid. Kept up. Quiet in the kind of way that makes your chest tighten before you can stop it.

A home.

Not an apartment.

He has a home.

The thought lands hard enough that you have to look away for a second.

Because that’s the part that gets you. Not money. Not square footage. Not any of the stupid obvious things.

Just this.

The plain, ordinary fact of him having somewhere stable and safe to come back to. Somewhere with a front door and a kitchen and towels in a closet and food in the fridge and a lock his key fits. While you’ve been scraping together rent and gas and pride hard enough to leave bruises.

Your hand tightens around the wheel.

Then around the key.

You stay in the car for another second.

Then another.

The engine is still running. The AC is still going. You could sit here longer. You could leave. You could throw the key out the window and find the cheapest motel in the city and overdraw your account for one more night just to avoid this.

The thought dies as fast as it comes.

You don’t have the energy for pride tonight.

That might be the worst part.

You kill the engine.

Silence drops around you all at once.

Not real silence. Birds somewhere. A car door closing a few houses down. Wind moving through leaves. Neighborhood noise. Safe noise. Domestic noise.

It makes something in you feel suddenly, horribly fragile.

You grab your bag, the paper with his address, the key.

Sit there one more beat.

Then force yourself out of the car.

The air outside is cooler than the hospital was. Cleaner too. It smells like grass and pavement and somebody’s laundry vent carrying on the breeze.

That hurts in a way you weren’t prepared for.

Because of course even the street feels safe.

Of course it feels like people here sleep through the night and lock their doors and keep extra towels folded in a closet somewhere.

You shut your car door and stand there looking at the house like it might somehow soften if you stare at it long enough.

It doesn’t.

The walk up the driveway feels longer than it should.

Your body is starting to lose the fight now that there’s nothing left to punch at. Every step up the path makes the exhaustion more obvious. In the ache behind your eyes. In your back. In the strange floaty weakness in your limbs that comes after too much adrenaline and not enough food.

By the time you get to the porch, your hands are shaking just enough to piss you off.

You fit the key into the lock on the second try.

It sticks for half a second.

Then turns.

The door opens inward with that little resistance he warned you about, and there’s something so painfully normal about the whole motion that it knocks the air out of you more than it should.

You step inside.

And stop.

The quiet hits first.

Not empty.

Lived in.

That’s worse.

The house smells clean in that ordinary way no hotel ever does. Laundry detergent. Faint coffee. Something woodsy underneath it from the floors or the furniture or maybe just him, worked into the place over time. Nothing dramatic. Nothing staged.

Just… home.

You shut the door behind you and the click of the lock feels too loud in the stillness.

For one second, you just stand there.

Bag still on your shoulder. Key still in your hand. Shoes on the mat by the door that are definitely his. A dark jacket slung over the back of a chair in the next room. Mail stacked on the edge of a small table. A dish towel hanging off the oven handle in the kitchen you can see from here.

Everywhere you look, there’s proof.

Proof that he lives here.

Proof that while you were figuring out how to make gas money stretch across state lines and pretending nausea was fine and trying not to panic in government offices, he was coming back to this.

A house.

A life.

Your throat tightens so fast it almost feels physical.

“No,” you whisper to absolutely no one.

Like saying it out loud might stop what’s coming.

It doesn’t.

You take two steps farther inside and set your bag down by the door harder than you mean to. The sound echoes a little in the quiet house.

Still too quiet.

Still too warm.

Still too safe.

That’s what breaks something.

Not all at once.

Not dramatically.

Just a crack you feel moves through you from the inside out.

Your chest tightens. Your eyes burn. And suddenly the anger that carried you through the hospital feels like it burned itself out somewhere between the driveway and the front door, leaving behind everything it was covering.

The fear.

The humiliation.

The exhaustion.

You press the heel of your hand against your mouth and look away like there’s someone here you can still hide it from.

There isn’t.

Of course there isn’t.

That almost makes it worse.

You turn in a slow half-circle, taking in too much all at once. The couch with a blanket folded over one arm. Books on a side table. A framed print on the wall. A pair of shoes kicked off near the hall like he came home one day tired and never thought twice about it.

He never thought twice about any of it.

That thought hits mean and fast and somehow that’s the one that finally does it.

A sound catches in your throat.

Small. Broken. Humiliating.

You hate it instantly.

Your hand clamps harder over your mouth, shoulders locking, but it doesn’t stop the tears when they come. They do anyway. Hot and immediate and viciously unwelcome.

“Oh, fuck you,” you whisper, and it isn’t even clear anymore whether you mean him, yourself, the house, the whole goddamn situation.

The first sob is quiet.

That’s the worst kind.

The kind you feel more than hear.

You sit down too fast on the edge of the couch because suddenly your knees don’t feel reliable, one hand braced hard against the cushion beside you, the other still over your mouth like you can somehow contain this if you make yourself small enough.

It doesn’t work.

Nothing does.

For a minute it’s ugly and silent and completely unfixable. Shoulders shaking. Breath snagging. Tears coming harder the more you try to stop them. No audience now. No target. No one to weaponize any of this against.

Just you and the awful truth of it.

He has everything.

Not everything-everything. Not some perfect fantasy life. But enough. Enough stability to make your whole body ache looking at it. Enough comfort to feel like an insult. Enough ordinary safety that standing in the middle of it feels like being reminded, in real time, of everything you don’t have.

A bed that isn’t used.

Food he doesn’t have to calculate.

A place to be safely tired.

A place where he doesn’t have to worry could disappear in the morning.

You bend forward, elbows on your knees, face in your hands.

The crying gets worse before it gets better.

Because once it starts, everything else comes with it. The hotel room. The paperwork. The caseworker’s polite voice asking for your husband’s information. The drive. The fear. The nausea. The humiliation. The fact that you are here at all.

By the time it finally starts to ease, you feel wrung out all over again.

Your face is wet. Your nose is running. Your head hurts worse now than it did in the car.

You sit there breathing through it, staring at the floorboards between your shoes like they personally offended you.

“This is temporary,” you say out loud.

Your voice sounds wrecked.

You clear your throat and try again.

“Just for the night.”

Not good enough to comfort you, but enough to hold onto.

You swipe hard at your face with the heel of your hand and force yourself upright. The room swims just enough to warn you not to move too fast.

Fine.

Whatever.

You look down the short hallway and remember what he said.

Towels in the bathroom closet.

The normalcy of that still makes you want to scream.

But right now the only thing you want more than anger is hot water.

So you pick up your bag and head for the bathroom, moving through his house like you’re trespassing in something that should’ve never belonged to you even for a night.

The bathroom is neat. Not pristine. Just used. Toothbrush by the sink. Spare soap under the cabinet. An extra roll of toilet paper on the back of the tank. A navy towel folded in the closet exactly where he said it would be.

That almost gets you again.

You don’t let it.

You set your bag down, peel your clothes off with hands that still aren’t completely steady, and step into the shower before you can think too hard about the fact that this is his too.

The hot water hits your shoulders and you nearly groan.

It hurts at first.

Then it doesn’t.

Then it’s the only thing in the world that feels even remotely bearable.

You stand there too long without moving, forehead against the tile, letting the water pound at the back of your neck and wash hospital smell and car smell and sweat and road dust down the drain.

At some point you start crying again.

Quieter this time.

Less sharp.

Just tired enough that the tears come without much fight left in them.

The water hides the sound, which helps. Not that anyone’s here to hear it. Still.

You stay until the heat starts to feel like it’s holding you together by force.

When you finally get out, your skin is pink and your eyes are swollen and you look exactly like someone who drove across the country, got blindsided by her own life, and then cried in a stranger-husband’s shower.

You avoid the mirror after that.

You dry off. Pull on the cleanest, softest clothes in your bag. A worn T-shirt. Sleep shorts. Good enough.

By the time you step back into the hallway, damp-haired and exhausted, the hunger has come back meaner than before.

Not because you want food.

Because your body has decided it’s done negotiating.

The kitchen light is softer than the hospital was. Warmer. The fridge hums quietly when you open it.

There’s food.

Leftovers in containers. Eggs. Bread. A carton of milk. Fruit that isn’t rotting. Condiments lined up in the door. Basic, boring groceries that make your throat tighten all over again because this is what normal people have in their kitchens on a random weekday.

You settle for toast because it requires the least thought.

Two slices.

Butter.

That’s it.

You eat standing at the counter because sitting down feels too committed somehow, one hand wrapped around the edge of the laminate like you need the support. The first bite is hard to swallow. The second goes easier. By the third, your stomach stops feeling quite so hollow and furious.

You don’t finish the second piece.

You can’t.

But it’s something.

You rinse the plate immediately because leaving evidence of yourself in his sink feels somehow worse than everything else.

Then you stand there for one second too long, staring at the dark window over the sink and your own reflection ghosted faintly back at you.

You look exhausted.

Small.

Older than you did this morning.

You hate that too.

The couch is right there. The blanket folded over the arm. Soft-looking in a way that feels dangerous. But you remember him saying bed, and the thought of lying down flat is suddenly enough to make every muscle in your body ache in agreement.

You find the bedroom because of course it’s obvious. It smells like the rest of the house, only more so. Clean sheets. Laundry soap. Something distinctly him under all of it.

The sight of the bed almost undoes you a third time.

Not because it’s his.

Because it’s a bed.

Big enough. Made. Waiting there like sleep is something normal people get to expect.

You sit down on the edge of it just to take the weight off your feet for a second.

That’s all.

Just a second.

The mattress dips under you, soft but not too soft, and the relief is so immediate it makes your eyes sting.

You exhale once.

Long.

Shaky.

Your body seems to take that as permission.

You mean to lie back for just a minute. Not sleep. Just rest. Just close your eyes until the headache eases and your thoughts stop feeling like broken glass.

Instead, the second your head hits the pillow, everything in you gives out at once.

Not gracefully.

Not peacefully.

Just… completely.

The last thing you think before sleep takes you hard and fast is that you are in Michael’s house, in Michael’s bed, and you still hate him.

Then even that goes under.

Tags: @kitkat1690 @little-mini-me-world @marisol4k @shashasimba1996 @karlawithacapitalk @robinavitchswhore @borbalalikesdocs @3-smi @dizzybee03 @cerberus101 @celestialsonglines @mewmew222 @baelorandmaekarinparis @tpwklizzie @floralsightings @joelmillerswifey @rufles2 @maskfiend @adoringanakin @mynameisbaby9 @graciiiaciii @menolderthan39 @anyasthoughts @findthebeautyinbreakdowns @twizzlelutz @redhooduwu @rithifriesstuff

[imaginesofwonder]

Happily Married - Jack Abbot x Reader

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader

WC: 2.4k

Summary: You’re a new ED doctor who wears a fake wedding ring to keep patients from flirting, but your observant colleague Jack notices and wants more.

A/N: Sorry for the lack of posts, I've been sick. This work is all mine, and proofread by Grammarly.

Masterlist

No two days in the emergency department were ever the same.

Some nights were quiet, with only a couple of patients coming in with fevers or coughs. Other nights were utterly chaotic, ambulances rolling in back-to-back, alarms blaring, doctors and nurses moving like a storm through the hallways.

But one thing never seemed to change: the patients who thought the emergency department was the perfect place to find a date.

You learned that lesson after just a week of working in the ED.

It didn’t matter if someone had a broken arm or had suffered a heart attack; some men still found the energy to wink, grin, or make comments that made your skin crawl while you were trying to work. Sometimes it was harmless. Most of the time, it wasn’t. And there was no running away when you were their doctor.

So you developed a plan.

When you transferred to PTMC and started working the night shift, the solution became routine. You weren’t married. But a simple ring on your finger changed everything.

It wasn’t flashy, just a simple silver brand that lived on your left hand whenever you had to work a shift. Most people assumed it was a wedding ring from a happy marriage, and you let them think that. In reality, it had cost ten dollars from an online store.

But it worked.

Some patients would never see you as their doctor, someone who had spent years in med school at the top of their class. Instead, they only saw a pretty woman standing close enough to flirt with.

However, when was there a ring on your finger? Suddenly, you were someone’s wife.

So the comments stopped. The winks. The “you got a boyfriend?” question. Everything disappeared. Apparently, being someone’s wife made you off-limits in a way that simply saying no never did. Like you were someone else’s property, it made them hesitate. Stupid, but the logic worked, so the ring stayed.

If any of your new co-workers noticed it, they never mentioned it or just assumed the obvious. Except Jack.

Jack Abbot noticed everything around him.

It was a habit from years as an army medic and now attending in one of the busiest emergency departments in the city. Jack didn’t just see charts and symptoms. He saw the small things, the way someone held their shoulder, the slight limp in their step, the tremor in their hand.

And he noticed your ring. Not only because he was staring, but also because it was always there. You had a habit of twisting it when charting. It tapped against the counter when you were thinking. It left a bump under your gloves. It was a small detail, but Jack’s brain catalogued it anyway.

You were still new, and the few details that Jack knew about you had him intrigued: married, new to the hospital and worked well under pressure. And then there was something else he couldn't quite place, the pull he felt towards you.

This night shift had started like any other, chaos in bursts but slowed at times. You were tucked into your usual rhythm, moving between patients, checking vitals and charting. 

It wasn’t until the trauma phone went off that it paused your movements.

“Level two trauma, motor vehicle collision," Lena shouted as she answered the call. “Five minutes out.”

Your adrenaline spiked, and Jack was already moving, tablet in one hand, gloves snapping as he prepped for the incoming patient. You were paired on this trauma together, moving almost instinctively as a team.

The patient arrived bloodied, unconscious, and chest rattling with each forced breath. You slid the IV line into the patient’s arm while Jack called out instructions for the rest of the team. 

Jack’s eyes were everywhere at once, vitals, monitors, and the team's movement, but his gaze happened to flick across your hand. And that's when he noticed. Your ring. It wasn’t there.

A small detail that others would have overlooked, but made him pause for a fraction of a  second. A movement he couldn't afford in a place like this. He didn’t realize until now how much he had noticed it, how automatic it was to look at you during shifts and see that silver band wrapped around your finger. Tonight, it was nowhere to be found.

Jack quickly turned his focus back on the patient, but the details lingered in his mind.

Minutes passed in a blur of intubation, transfusion, chest compressions, and desperate interventions. Despite the skill and precision of the team, the injuries were too severe.

The patient coded. The monitor went flat. Time of death was announced.

You stepped back, heart sinking, and Jack’s hand went to your shoulder, not to blame, but to ground you as the weight of loss pressed down on the team. Sometimes, despite doing everything right, it wasn’t enough.

By the end of the shift, the ED was quieter than usual. The hum of machines, the footsteps of staff cleaning up, and the weight of loss hung heavy in the air. Jack glanced at you while filling the final chart, noticing that your finger remained bare.

“Are you going out too?” He asked. Shen had suggested that everyone go out for a drink to cope, and no one seemed to argue.

“Yeah… I could really use a drink.” Your hands hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly.

Jack’s gaze lingered on you, a mixture of concern and something softer, harder to define. “Yeah… me too,” he muttered. The unspoken weight between you decided for you.

There was a bar a few blocks down from the hospital where everyone gathered after shifts. It was louder than usual for a weekday, the low thrum of music and conversation filling up the air. It had discounted drinks and dim lighting, a place where no one asked the doctors or nurses what had just happened when it looked like they had been through hell. 

Jack was sitting in a booth near the back with John, nursing a half-finished beer. His scrubs had been swapped for a dark jacket, but exhaustion still lined his face.

John exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down his face. “Hell of a shift.”

Jack nodded once, staring at the condensation on his bottle. “Yeah.” Silence followed, heavy but not awkward. The burden of the night weighed on him.

His eyes drifted across the bar and landed on you. You were on a stool near the counter, chatting with one of the nurses, a drink in hand. Your laugh was softer than usual, slower, the kind that came from alcohol loosening the edges of the hard night.

His gaze dropped to your hand once again.

Still no ring.

“Hey,” John said, standing and grabbing his empty bottle. “I’m getting another. Want one?”

Jack lifted his bottle slightly. “I’m good.”

John nodded and disappeared into the crowd.

Jack leaned back in the booth, letting his eyes wander again. They found you on your way over, movement slightly unsteady, yet deliberate.

“Hey, Doc,” you muttered, sliding into the seat across from him, sighing softly as your forearms rested on the table.

“You okay?” he asked immediately. It wasn’t unusual for Jack to see his coworkers like this after a shift, but he still wondered if this was normal for you.

You huffed out a small laugh that didn’t sound very amused. “Define okay.”

Jack didn’t answer right away. Instead, he studied you, the tired eyes, the way your shoulders slumped, the weight of the night still sitting on you.

“Rough one,” he said finally.

Your gaze dropped to the table. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the bar filled the silence.

“I kinda like this part,” you admitted quietly.

Jack tilted his head slightly. “The bar?”

You shrugged, tracing the rim of your glass with your finger. “Yeah… not why we’re here, exactly. But the team gets together. Feels… lighter. Less like you’re carrying it alone.”

He softened. He’d seen too many new doctors burn out trying to carry everything. He understood.

“At my last hospital,” you continued, your voice a little looser from the alcohol. “Everyone just… went home. Pretended nothing happened. But here you guys carry the wins and the losses together.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It helps.”

You nodded, shoulders relaxing slightly as you took another sip. Even in your tiredness, there was a warmth to you now.

For a second, Jack just studied you again. The way the tension slowly left your posture. The way you still looked tired but lighter now that the shift was behind you.

Then his eyes drifted back down to your hand. Bare,

He hesitated before speaking. “So… everything alright at home?”

You blinked up at him. “At home?”

Jack nodded subtly toward your hand. “You usually wear a ring.”

You stared at him, surprised. Then laughed, soft, tipsy, a little embarrassed. “Oh my god… alright, I’ll let you in on a secret.”

Jack’s brow lifted.

“What?”

You held up your hand, wiggling your fingers slightly.

“It’s fake,” You leaned back in the booth a little, clearly amused. 

“…Your ring is fake?”

You nodded, taking another sip of your drink before explaining. “Patients, some of them get… handys. Especially at night. You say no, you ignore them, but it doesn't always work.”

Jack’s jaw tightened slightly. Yeah. He’d seen that.

“So I bought a ring,” you continued, tapping your bare finger. “Ten dollars online. Suddenly, I’m someone’s wife. The flirting stops. It’s like magic. Stupid, but it works.”

Jack studied you quietly for a moment. It wasn’t the confession itself that caught his attention; it was the way you said it so casually, as you’d simply adapted to the world instead of letting it push you out of a job you clearly loved. 

“That’s… actually pretty clever,” he admitted.

You grinned. “Right?”

Jack’s gaze lingered, softer now. “So the husband doesn’t exist.”

“Nope.”

Jack smiled into his drink, a warmth threading through him. Somehow, hearing this made him admire you more.

“Well,” he said casually, taking another sip of his beer, “if you’re going to invent a husband…”

You raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by where this was going.

“…you should at least give the guy a decent name.”

You laughed softly. “Oh yeah?” you asked. “What would you name him then?”

Jack pretended to think about it for a moment, leaning back in the booth.

“Hm.”

Your eyes narrowed playfully. His gaze met yours, something teasing sparking there.

“Jack,” he said.

You blinked.

“Jack?”

He shrugged lightly, a small grin forming.

“Sounds reasonable.”

You stared at him for a second before laughing, the sound warmer this time.

“Wow,” you said. “That’s bold.”

Jack lifted his bottle slightly, clearly enjoying himself now.

“Just saying,” he replied. “If you’re going to make up a fake husband, you might as well pick a good one.”

You shook your head, still smiling into your drink.

“Careful, Abbot,” you said lightly. “People might start to think you’re volunteering.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on you a moment longer than necessary.

“Would that be so bad?” he asked quietly.

The question hung between you for a beat before the noise of the bar swallowed it again.

The next shift felt strangely normal after the night before. 

Did you drunkenly flirt with a fellow attending? Yes, but did you regret it? Nope.

The ED hummed with its usual controlled chaos; it almost felt strange that the world kept moving after a shift like that. You were currently charting at the nurses’ station, twisting the silver band on your finger without really thinking about it.

“Nice to see your husband’s back.”

You looked up. Jack was leaning against the counter across from you, tablet tucked under his arm, the corner of his mouth curved in that quiet, knowing smile.

“Oh my god,” you laughed, shaking your head. “Are you really going to start with that today?”

“Of course,” he said, a small, confident grin tugging at his lips. “I’m hoping to get an audition to play him.”

You blinked at him, half amused, half exasperated.

“What?” you said, lifting an eyebrow.

“If you’re going to invent a husband,” he continued, voice low and teasing, “someone has to audition for the role. And I think I’d be perfect.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous, maybe,” he admitted, “ but if I'm going to audition for the role properly.. I should probably take my lovely wife out… maybe for dinner or coffee sometime. To make sure I'm playing the part right.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the smoothness of it. “Jack Abbot, are you asking me out on a date?

Jack’s grin widened, confident but teasing. “Call it a test run. Coffee after shift, and I can show you my best husband skills.”

You felt a blush creep up your neck and laughed softly, shaking your head. “I… Yes, that sounds perfect.”

“Good, I’ll see you later, wifey.” With that, Jack left the nurses' station, heading into a patient room.

Your chest tightened, heart beating faster. Somehow, the chaos of the ED and the fake ring felt far away. Jack Abbot had made something pretend feel achingly real.

[sleepyvampvibes]

—PLAY ALONG [PART ONE]

pairing: michael robinavitch x reader

summary: the day jack abbot asked you to pretend to be his girlfriend, you nearly died from shock. although he tells you he’s trying to make a girl he likes jealous, he is actually trying to make the guy you secretly like make a move. michael robinavitch has caught your attention since the first time jack invited the both of you over. even if you didn’t tell jack about your crush on his friend, he could tell. while the two of you pretend to date, michael’s attention is on you and the man who is on your arm. will he finally make the move you’ve been waiting for?

tags: fake dating, fluff, jealousy, a little bit of toxic/messy situations.

word count: 6.0K [part one]

warnings: i need to proofread this still! it’s late atm but i’ll come back and correct everything tomorrow. <3

note: i hope you enjoy the first part of this! i’m hoping to post the second part by the end of the week but i’m not sure i’ll be able to. let me know your thoughts! i absolutely love reading all your thoughts in the comments, it’s one of my favorite things to do. trying to keep the story loyal to the reader ending up with robby is hard, but i’ll stay focused. freaking jack abbot and his charm. anyways, thank you so much for reading the first part! stay tuned for more! xx

One moment, you were relaxing with your friend, watching your favorite show together while sipping on a drink. The next second, you’re spitting your drink out, wearing it down the front of your shirt. The man to the side merely lifts his cup, taking a swig from it with a glint in his hazel eyes.

“I’m sorry? You want me to do what?” You wipe the drink from your face, coughing. Jack sighs as if the thought of repeating himself is exhausting before setting the cup down.

“I want you to date me,” he repeats nonchalantly, “well, I want you to pretend to date me.”

“Okay, start with that next time. Oh my god, Jack. I almost died,” your throat is still scratchy from the coughing fit you had after nearly choking on your drink. Your silver-haired friend’s eyebrows raise at your words while laughing at you.

“I didn’t realize the thought of dating me would send you to such an early grave,” he jokes while nudging your shoulder with his. Your body jostles from the impact while you quickly go to defend yourself.

“Well, how else would you expect me to respond? We’ve been friends for how long now? Then, we’re in the middle of our new episode, and you randomly go, ‘Hey, will you be my girlfriend?’” You mock his deep voice. Jack rolls his eyes, scoffing at your impression.

“I didn’t say that,” he levels his face with yours with a dumb look.

“I’m sorry,” you hold your hands up, adjusting the way you sit. “‘Hey, weird question. Will you be my girlfriend–well, my pretend girlfriend?’ Better?” The tone of your voice holds obvious sarcasm as you question him.

Jack sits and ponders your reenactment with pursed lips, tilting his head to the side while thinking. You can’t help rolling your eyes at his antics; he hasn’t changed since you two became friends. “Well, it’s an improvement from the first one, that’s for sure.”

“Why do you need me to be your pretend girlfriend anyway? That one came from left field. Hey, look at what they just did in the new episode–oh yeah, wanna go on a date with me later?” Your voice goes deep, mocking him once more.

“I don’t sound like that,” he sneers, squinting his eyes at your impression.

“Oh yeah? What do you sound like then?”

“Sexy, like this,” he gestures to himself. You snort at his cockiness, throwing a pillow at him before getting up from the couch as the credits roll on the television. “Where are you going?”

“Away from you,” you scoff, “Your ego is suffocating. Hard to breathe.”

“See, I already leave you breathless, so let me take you to dinner, and we can pretend. Well, apparently, I take your breath away as is, so I’ll have to pretend.” He smirks when you toss a nasty look over your shoulder. “Come on, I’ll pay.”

“Obviously, you’re paying. If I agree to this–which this is not me saying yes, so don’t get it twisted–you’re taking away precious me time. I don’t get much of it, so the least you can do is pay for the meal.”

Jack chuckles at your words and quickly stops when catching the expression on your face. “Of course, your precious me time that you never get. What does your ‘oh so busy’ schedule consist of besides sitting on the couch watching TV and reading your books that would kill your grandma if she opened them?” He interrogates you, while also reading you to filth.

Instead of answering his question, you suck your bottom lip in and run your tongue over it while letting out a fake laugh. “You know, most people are nicer when they need a favor. You, my friend, are not exactly making me want to help you with whatever you’re trying to do. Which are you going to tell me, why you need this date, or what? Trying to impress your boss? Proving to someone that you can get a date? Making someone mad? Why on earth do you need a fake girlfriend?”

“There’s a girl I like, but I need to give her a little extra motivation,” he shrugs. You pause your movements, head snapping in his direction before huffing a laugh.

“Wait,” you shake your head, “you’re using me to make a girl jealous?”

The way you laugh incredulously has Jack tilting his head at you with a questioning look. “Is there a reason why that’s funny? I’ve been around long enough to see how girls work. You guys want what other girls have. Toxic but seems to be the thing these days.”

“Jack, I’m not making anyone jealous. If anything, you’re going to look like an idiot for going on a fake date with me.”

“And why would I look like an idiot? Do you not think you’re capable of making another person jealous?” he nears you, angling his head back as he looks down at you. A disbelieving sound comes from you as your friend corners you in the kitchen.

“Jack Abbot, that will not work on me. Don’t even try it,” you push him backwards and start laughing at him. When you turn to focus your attention on him, he smirks and joins in on the laughter.

“Not even a little bit?” He asks, eyebrows wiggling at you.

“Not even a smidge, I fear.” The words leave you with a sigh as your shoulders drop.

“Someone else you got your eyes on?” Jack follows you, watching as you gather your belongings scattered throughout his house. His question makes you send him a dumb look; the same interrogation is becoming old.

“Jack, how many times do I have to tell you that there’s no one I have my eyes on? Can’t a girl be single in peace? Why must I be interested in someone at all times? Can’t I be an independent woman who isn’t looking for a relationship?”

Your silver-haired friend bites back a smile, squinting as he nods his head at your mini rant. He points at you before opening his mouth to say some smart-mouthed comment; you’ve been around him far too long to know what the look in his eyes means. “If I weren’t interested in someone, I’d definitely say what you just did. I’d also be just as defensive. But, yes. You can be single in peace, and you are more than welcome to be an independent woman. I just thought I saw you looking at–”

“Oh, don’t you even start.” Your hand shoots upward, cutting his sentence short. He stifles a laugh, nearly failing as an almost silent snort sound leaves him. “I’m leaving.”

Jack’s laughter echoes throughout the living room you pace through, trying to get to the front door as fast as possible. Both of you have had this conversation countless times, and nothing good comes of it. He also doesn’t need to witness your face that is currently burning in a frenzy, glowing a shade of red that’s hard to miss.

“You don’t have to leave. I won’t even bring him up. I know you don’t like him. At least that’s what you say, but I’m telling you–”

“As always, it was nice watching the new episode! I’ll see you when you let this go.” Your hand rips open the front door, all but running outside to escape Jack.

He’s quick on your heels, however, His voice carries through the neighborhood as he calls out to you. “Tomorrow night! Wear something nice. We’re going to dinner.”

“Tomorrow?” You spin on your heels to face him.

However, Jack looks anything but guilty as he leans against the pole of the porch, arms across his chest, with an amused smile. It’s now that you realize he can see how flustered you are from his previous interrogation.

“Yes, tomorrow night. Put the yarn down, wear a nice dress, and ditch the sweatpants. We have a part to play, and I need you to play along. We’re going to be the best couple there.”

As tomorrow night rolls by, you find yourself standing in front of a mirror, twirling in your little black dress. It does everything it needs to, squeezing your torso where it needs to, flaring out slightly at the hips, and being the perfect length to be modest yet a little risky. It’s not a dress you typically wear out since you’re not at many fancier dinner parties or dates, so you’re happy to wear it even if it’s for a fake date with your cocky friend.

Speaking of the man with an ego problem, he walks into the room, examining you from head to toe with an approving nod. You roll your eyes, pretending to be annoyed, before putting on jewelry to elevate the look. With your hair done, makeup completed, dress on, and accessories added, with your heels being the final touch, you are thankful you agreed to tonight.

The situation wasn’t ideal, but you felt good. Even if it’s Jack who gives you a practice twirl in your hallway with a crack of a smile playing on his lips. You’re not the only person dressed to the nines, so is Jack. He wears a black button-down top that’s tucked into his slacks. Fancy dress shoes and a watch to spice up his look. Nothing too fancy, but men never have to impress as women do for events like these.

“So what exactly are we doing? Stalking this girl at the restaurant she’s at? Honestly, that’s a little weird. Are you just going to keep following this poor girl around?” You question him.

Jack adjusts the cuff of his sleeves, rolling his eyes at your question. “It’s a work thing, and she’s invited through mutual friends,” he tells you simply. Your eyes widen at his confession, turning to face him in a millisecond.

“Wait, did you say a work thing?” Your words are rushed. Jack lazily glances your way, a little smile sneaking onto his face. “Hello?” He retreats a couple of steps when you wave your hand in front of his face after he doesn’t answer the question.

“Yes, work dinner party. A dinner with some cocktails. Maybe some dancing. It’ll be fine,” he shrugs off the panicked look you give him. When your jaw slightly hangs open, Jack gradually turns to face you, a smug grin on his face as he leans to your height. “Is there a reason why you’ve been gaping like a fish out of water since I said something about it being a work function? Whereas I’d love to say it’s because of me and my rugged looks and impeccable charm, I know you lack taste.”

Even if you’re shocked at the moment, you scoff at the man in front of you and his growing ego problem. “There’s no reason. I’m just shocked, that's all. Is–uh–is everyone aware that this is fake between us at your job?”

Jack looks at you as if you are an idiot and stops fixing his sleeves. “No, if people don’t think we’re in a relationship, it won’t work. I love my coworkers, but they love to gossip. Also, imagine me telling people you are pretending to date me.”

“Oh, the horror. There’s no way a girl could ever resist the charm of Jack Abbot. How could anyone pretend to date you?” You pretend to clutch your pears, gasping as you picture such a terrible reality. Jack turns to face you in the middle of your dramatic flailing with amusement dancing on his face, crossing his arms over his chest as he watches.

“Are you done?” He looks you up and down. Your movements have ceased, a smile still on your face, knowing he’s stuck with you for the rest of the night.

“I suppose,” your voice is tired when you respond to him. Before he waves you away from the mirror, you smooth the fabric down and begin to second-guess your outfit. “Does this look okay?” Jack’s eyebrows furrow when he hears the uncertainty in your question.

“Okay?” He questions with a laugh. “As your friend and a person with eyes, you look incredible. You are not changing. Wait until we get there, everyone is going to be looking at you, going, ‘wow, she’s so beautiful. Oh my gosh, who is she? And who is that man with her? They look amazing.” Jack is doing a variety of different voices as he impersonates the people at the dinner. You huff a laugh when he starts complimenting himself, too.

“You’re so dumb,” you roll your eyes, “and so incredibly full of yourself.” Your hands raise when you say the last part, a grimace on your face. Jack sends a smirk your way, his head tilting to catch your eyes.

“Someone has to be, since you can’t see how incredible your friend is.”

“Okay, let’s go. I need to see the girl who is unfortunate enough to catch your attention. Poor girl doesn’t know she’s going to be dating a man and his ego.”

“Just means she gets to love someone twice as much.”

_______

When you step foot into the dinner party, everyone really can’t keep their eyes off the night-shift attending and the girl on his arm, you. Suddenly, you’re gripping Jack’s arm, commanding him not to let you fall as the weight of their eyes makes you feel like you can’t walk anymore.

It’s incredible how the simplest of things are never difficult until people are watching. Now you feel as though you look similar to a baby deer walking for the first time. Your legs wobble with every step as everyone follows you with their eyes, smirks on their faces, and covers their lips as they whisper something to the person alongside them.

“Jack, everyone is staring. Whispering too,” you grit out. Although your smile is polite, nothing is polite about the way you pinch your friend’s inner arm and growl at him. Jack beams at your words, his pearly whites flashing for all to see as he looks down, pretending to be completely enamored by you.

“Of course they’re staring. Have you seen how handsome I look tonight?” He muses. You scoff at his question, rolling your eyes and looking completely unladylike.

“Oh my god, why did I agree to this? If you say some egotistical thing like that one more time, I swear I’ll–”

“Dr. Abbot, you seem to be the talk of the night.” A woman with a tanned complexion and natural curly hair flows down her back, walks up to the man on your arm.

You purse your lips, instantly cutting yourself off midsentence before she hears the threats you were sending to your friend. Now, you wear your polite smile once more, imitating the picture of a classy and proper person, to sell your part as Jack’s loving, devoted girlfriend.

“I saw that. Well, it’s always something weird for the students and residents to see their attending having a life outside the hospital. Fortunately, I have a life outside the hospital and well–here it is,” he says in a suave tone. When a smirk pulls to your lips, and you almost sneer at his words, it’s his turn to pinch your inner arm.

A gasp rips from you, quickly covering it up as if you are shocked by his words, “Ow-Oh, he’s too kind. I really don’t do much; I feel like my day doesn’t begin until he comes back home. Call it the honeymoon phase, or whatever people say it is these days. But I’ve never met anyone who can make me as happy as he does. Truly,” you glance his way when you say the last part.

Jack is already staring at you, your eyes instantly noticing the way his lips twitch as if he’s fighting the urge to smirk or laugh. Instead, he continues to look down at you, trying his hardest to maintain his composure at your fake words.

“But, oh my goodness, where are my manners? What’s your name? I don’t hear too much about the people he works with. He is very strict about the whole leave work outside thing. Not me, though, I tell him everything.”

“Well, with HIPAA and other rules doctors follow, he can’t really tell you much about what happens,” she speaks in a matter-of-fact tone. Your eyebrows raise at the way she responds, her words and attitude confusing you, whether or not she’s belittling you or simply trying to inform you, as if you’re not already aware.

“Right,” your tone must be unimpressed because there’s a pinch in your arm again. Your smile is tight as the pain registers. “I know, I just wish I knew who is who, you know? I’m all too knowledgeable about HIPAA and things like that.”

She smiles, approving of your response while eyeing Jack for a moment longer than normal. You glance his way; however, he’s still staring at you. Creepy.

“I’m Dr. Baran Al Hashimi,” she reaches her hand that isn’t holding a glass, out for you to shake. You use the one that isn’t wrapped around Jack’s arm to introduce yourself. She stares at both of you once more, doing a noticeable once-over, before smiling at the doctor to your side. “It’s a pleasure meeting you, and have a good time tonight. I hope you can meet the others, they’re a great group of not only nurses and doctors, but people.”

As she walks away, all you can do is smile before turning to look at Jack, a look of ‘what the fuck’ written on your features, clear as day. He doesn’t hold back the laugh that escapes him when both of you begin walking with an unknown destination. Instead, you’re both trying to compose yourselves, clinging to each other’s arms still as you struggle to move normally.

“I have a life outside the hospital–here she is,” you snort, legs wobbling. Jack throws a look your way, wiping the corner of his eyes while supporting the majority of your weight. “Since when did you become such a sap? Ugh, is that how you act in front of people at the hospital? Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”

“I didn’t know how truly happy I made you,” he fires back, “My day doesn’t begin until he comes back home.” It’s his turn to mock your voice, and you don’t even try to hold your amusement in. Your body shakes with every laugh, and Jack even cracks another big smile, remembering the entire interaction from seconds ago.

“Oh my gosh, that was good,” you gasp, wiping tears from your eyes. When you look up, everyone has little smirks, knowing smiles, or looks of jealousy as they observe Jack and you. “Speaking of staring problems,” you clear your throat, “No one looks at their girlfriend for that long. Seriously, Jack. It’s weird. Did you even look at her–speaking of her–is that her?”

“I’m not telling you,” he leans down to whisper-sing it. When your head snaps to him, he simply smirks and stands to his full height.

“I don’t get to know who the girl is? Are you serious? I’m over here playing house with you, and I don’t even get to know who she is? Jack, that’s not fair.” You feel childish, but you really wanted to know who caught his eye. It’s been a while since he’s been truly into someone, and it was only fair for him to tell you after doing this for him.

“No, I want you to act the same with everyone. If you know who it is, I know you’re going to leave the conversation so we can talk. When my plan works, then I’ll tell you,” he guides you through the crowd.

“Jack, if you don’t tell me, I’m not–”

“Jack?” A familiar voice catches your attention. You freeze in your tracks as your friend stops walking and turns toward the voice.

“Hey, man,” Jack lets go of you. The sound of them hugging and separating is slight, but you still hear it.

“You brought a date?” The man questions. As you attempt to sneak away, Jack catches your hand, gently pulling you into the conversation.

When you’re tugged to your friend’s side, you can feel the thud in your chest, slowly raising your eyes to meet the brown ones of the man standing in front of you. His eyes widen when it registers who stands at his friend’s side, glancing between both of you, slightly leaning back as the news washes over him.

“Oh, wow,” he says indifferently. “I thought you two were–uh–friends. When did this start?” Robby takes a swig from the now-empty cup in his hand. Suddenly, your mouth is dry, and you’re unable to lie. Instead, you continue to stand there, heart painfully pounding against your chest.

“Probably about a month ago, right?” Jack says, pulling back to look at you with a soft smile. You clear your throat, face flaming as you nod instead of talking, not quite trusting yourself to talk yet. Jack searches your face, a soft smile now turning into a smug one, before his hand rests on the middle of your back. “We were friends, but I couldn’t imagine someone else swooping in and taking her. I mean, the fact that no one has made a move on her has always been crazy to me. So, who better to be with her than her friend, who already cares about her?”

You finally pry your eyes from Michael, who stares at Jack with a look you aren’t able to describe. They stare at each other for a couple of seconds, Jack wearing an all too knowing, smug smirk, and Michael simply staring at him. The silence is broken when the dark-haired man clicks his tongue, a terse laugh coming from him before he looks at you. His brown eyes are drawing you in almost immediately as he sends a thin smile your way.

“I hope his charm doesn’t wear off too fast. But, you look good tonight,” he says stiffly. Your breath hitches, face flushing even more as he watches Jack run a hand down your back.

“Doesn’t she?” Your friend questions, his eyes scanning your every reaction. Finally, you inhale a shaky breath in, not sure how to feel under all the attention on you.

“Thank you, Michael.” Your voice comes out normally, which you’re thankful for. He delivers the same tense smile, the feature looking more annoyed than anything; however, you’re confused as to why. “As for his charm,” you clear your throat, glancing at your face, who searches your face, “It hasn’t worn off yet.”

“Oh, trust me, it won’t,” Jack smirks and swings his arm over your shoulder, squeezing where the dress doesn’t cover. Michael’s eyes track the movement, and he rocks back and forth on his heels before hunching slightly to deliver one last smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Well, you two have a good time. I have to make a couple more rounds, thanks to Gloria. Maybe we’ll run into each other again,” he stretches to his full height, groaning after bringing up Gloria. Jack pats his friend’s shoulder with a smile and wishes him luck.

Although you don’t say anything, Robby looks to you one more time, then the hand on your bare shoulder. Slowly, his eyes trail to your friend, the look in his eyes unreadable before excusing himself to make his rounds with the other guests. Quickly, you begin walking, skin cold from the interaction. Any heat from it leaves you quickly, the pounding in your chest settling to a dull thud.

Jack strolls next to you, hands stuffed in his pockets with a slight sway in his walk. Instead of talking to more people, you find an open table and grab a flute of champagne from a passing server’s tray, then promptly sit down. Your friend thanks the server for you and slowly eases himself into the chair next to you.

He doesn’t need to open his mouth to say anything; you don’t need to turn and see how he’s staring at you either. Jack has accused you for years of having a crush on his friend, Michael. You’ve denied it because you know what he’d do: either tell you absolutely not or play matchmaker. Plus, you’ve heard all about his friend, certified rake of the emergency department. It seems like that, at least from what Jack has told you about his previous relationships.

When you first met Michael, you began asking Jack about him. Your friend couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows and laugh at your inquiries. Teasing you for being into someone who is probably the same age as your parents, however, you were quick to deny the crush accusations. Although he never truly believed you, he left you alone about it. Of course, he still brings it up occasionally, but it’s quickly shot down.

“Well, that was weird,” he puffs out. When you take a sip out of your drink to cure your sudden cottonmouth, he nudges you. “You still there?”

“Yeah, why was that weird?” You rush the question out. At the corner of your eye, you see him send you a pointed look before lightly laughing at your question. Instead of answering, he covers his mouth as he chuckles. “I don’t even want to know why you’re laughing.”

“I’m just wondering why you were so chatty with Dr. Al Hashimi, but as soon as Robby appears, you clam up. Not to mention, it looks like you put twenty layers of blush right now.”

You turn your head away from your head, scoffing at him. “Well, I was shocked that you lied to your friend. Why lie to Robby that you’re in a relationship?”

“Are you upset that I lied?” He leans over the table to peek at you. When you finally turn to meet his gaze, he’s serious but still amused by the situation.

“He might be upset when he finds out you lied to him,” you deflect. Jack’s eyes give you a quick once-over, laughing to himself. “What? I’m being serious. You are supposed to be friends, and you’re lying to him about being in a relationship. It’s weird. I’m sure he’d understand that you’re trying to make a girl jealous. He’s probably done it.” The last part comes out with a certain tone that you don’t mean to do.

Jack reclines back in the chair, looking away with a wide grin, amusement clearly evident. “I think you’re upset that I lied to him. Do you not want him thinking you’re in a relationship?” He shoots back. You sputter at his accusation, your drink nearly spilling when you rear back.

“What? No, why would I care? I’m just saying, he’s your friend. I just think it’s weird, is all.” The way you try to shrug off the question is awkward; the weight of Jack’s words weighs them down. Your rushed words and awkward movements cause Jack to merely nod and pull his lips into a thin line, squinting his hazel eyes at your defensive behavior.

“I don’t know why you care. At least, I have to pretend I don’t know. I think you care that he thinks you’re in a relationship with me. If you’re in a relationship, how would he ask you out? That’s what I think. You’re all stressed and pressed about him being under the impression he can’t make a move now.”

The glass in your hand is quickly emptied as you throw it back, gulping down the drink. Jack barks a laugh when you shake your head. Music starts drowning out the conversations around the two of you, and people flee toward the floor, dancing with their drinks in hand. You didn’t ask Jack what this dinner was about, but you assumed it was a celebration or reward for something with the energy in the building.

“I don’t care if he thinks I’m in a relationship. It doesn’t change anything for me, because even though you can’t get it through your thick skull, I don’t like him like that. He’s a nice guy, and I just don’t think you need to lie to one of your buddies, is all.” You try to sound sincere because you do, in fact, care.

“Okay, good. Because I wasn’t going to ask you to dance with me, but I didn’t want you to be all upset with Michael watching.” Jack stands and holds out his hand. You glance down at his open palm and shake your head. “Come on, play along with me. I need this to look real. Maybe she’ll steal me from you when she sees my dance moves,” your friend wiggles his eyebrows at you.

You deadpan, face dropping as his ego returns to him. “The love you have for yourself sickens me. Truly, it makes my gut twist.”

“Good thing I’m a doctor, we can take care of that later. But, first, we have to dance.”

“You know I’m not a good dancer, Jack,” you say as you grab his hand. He smirks at you, remembering all the times he’s caught you dancing at your house.

“I know, but I am.”

As the two of you near the dancefloor, a couple of people who know him chat with him momentarily. You’re introduced to a couple of them before he whisks you away for a dance. Every song is peppy and fun, and you allow yourself to bask in the energy. A woman named Princess came up and stole you momentarily to ask you a barage questions and danced with you. When Jack found you again, he shook his head at his coworker and laughed at her little finger-wave to you.

“Ooh, I need you to stay here for a second, there’s someone I need to go talk to,” Jack’s hands leave your arms as his eyes scan the crowd. Before you can say something, he pulls away and is lost in the crowd.

“Okay, I literally know no one here, jerk face. Thanks for leaving me,” you grumble under your breath. Someone’s hand catches your arm as you pass through the crowd. “Uh, excuse me?”

“Where’s Jack?” When you glance at them, your lips slightly part at your bad luck. Michael looks around the group of people, but he cuts his losses on finding his friends when his eyes fall on you once again.

“Uh–he ditched,” you shrug, and Michael’s eyebrow instantly raised. “Oh, not like ditched. He’s still here, just went to talk to someone apparently.”

“Oh, gotcha. How are you liking the good ol’ work party? Did Jack introduce you to everyone already?” He questions, leaning against the wall behind you two. You pull your lips into a thin line; nothing could’ve prepared you for a conversation with Michael.

“It’s fun, good group of people. But, no. I met Dr. Al Hashimi and—”

Michael’s face tightens at her name, which causes your lips to slowly stretch into a smile. When you tilt your head at him, he takes a sip from his glass, eyes never leaving you. “Not a fan?” You quirk an eyebrow, causing Michael to laugh into his cup.

“Trying to get me in trouble at the party?” His eyes crinkle while he laughs. You shrug and lean against the wall next to the brunette.

“No, I would never,” you smile at him. When a silence passes between you both, you inhale a quiet breath to steady your heart. “Jack and I were dancing then, and suddenly I was stolen by a girl named Princess. I got an entire questionnaire thrown at me in the middle of a dance. I don’t remember the last time I’ve been asked so many questions about myself.” Robby runs his tongue across his bottom lip as he listens to you.

“Ah, Princess, the pitt’s biggest gossip,” he drags out as if he’s announcing an award. Both of you laugh together at a safe distance from the crowd.

“Dr. Robby, I haven’t seen you out there yet,” a young woman points her thumb in the direction of the dance floor. The man to your side chuckles and shakes his head. “Better get out there. Everyone’s been waiting to see those moves.”

You raise your eyebrows while you watch his reaction. He barks a laugh at the young lady he works with, still shaking his head when she turns to leave. “Yeah, you should get out there and show them what you’re made of.”

“You coming with?” He slowly asks, observing your reaction. You laugh at his question, eyes scanning the crowd for your friend. “You don’t have to. I just thought I’d ask since you don’t know anyone here. I’d hate to leave you to the wolves.”

With your pretend boyfriend nowhere in sight, you gradually turn to face the man in front of you. He has a hand extended your way, the gesture causing your hand to beat a little faster. “Uh, sure, why not?” You send him a tight smile. As your hand falls into his, he squeezes it, as if testing out how it feels.

“Just a dance, then we’ll go search for Jack together,” Robby glances at you as you walk alongside him to the dance floor. You nod at his words, turning towards the man, gently holding your hand when you reach the dancefloor. “Is this fine?”

His question is lost on you when he pulls you toward him. Robby’s hands slide from your hips to the center of your back, his finger tracing your spine for a moment. Whereas you want to answer his question or step back, you can’t. Your eyes are locked on his chest as he holds you almost flush to his figure. It feels as if you can’t get enough air from how close he is, how he allows himself to trace the curve of your spine just once. His scruff brushes your cheek momentarily from the proximity, your face turns red from the feeling, and his breath dusts the curve of your neck.

“You didn’t answer me,” he says, voice low. Your heart pounds against your chest, which is pressed softly against him; you're positive he can feel it–if even just a little bit. “Is this fine?” Robby questions again. You hesitate before slowly nodding yes, your hands dropping from his shoulders, and sliding to fall on his upper arms instead.

“Yes, this is fine.” Your voice is practically a whisper when you respond. Robby nods, slightly swaying you to the slow beat of the music.

“Uh-oh, a new bombshell has entered the villa,” Princess whispers while skirting past you. When you look up, shocked, you catch your pretend boyfriend’s eyes, a glint swirling in them.

Robby spins you, and you’re quickly in someone else’s arms. The warmth leaves your skin as Jack catches you with ease, his lips tug into a smirk as he picks up on your flustered state.

“Sorry, I had to leave. I trust Robby is taking good care of you, though, yeah?”

end of part one.

[paigepie213]

I’m Glad You’re Back - Dr. Robby x Female Reader

Summary - Robby comes back from his sabbatical.

Masterlist

*********************************************************

The sound of the motorcycle hits before you even realize you’ve been holding your breath. Low. Familiar. A vibration you feel more than hear, something that settles deep in your chest and pulls you to the window before your brain can catch up. Your hand presses to the glass as you lean out just enough to see him pulling in, the late afternoon light catching on chrome and leather and the broad line of his shoulders as he swings his leg off the bike like it’s second nature, like he never left.

But he did. Three months. Three months of phone calls that stretched too late into the night, of FaceTimes where you both pretended the distance didn’t ache as much as it did, of texts that tried, and failed, to hold the weight of everything you wanted to say. And now he’s here.

You don’t even remember moving away from the window. One second you’re watching him, taking in the way he looks…different. Lighter somehow. The tension that used to sit permanently in the line of his spine softened. His hair a little longer, a little fuller. The beard still there, still him, but neater. Intentional. Better.

And then the door is unlocking. The handle turns. And everything in you stills. For just a second. He steps inside, dropping his keys into the bowl by the door out of habit, shrugging off his jacket, and then he sees you.

And the world narrows. It’s quiet in a way that feels loud. Heavy. Full. You both just…look.

Three months passes in that space between you. Every missed touch. Every almost. Every quiet night where you wished he was there instead of a voice through a speaker. His eyes soften first. Yours burn. And then you’re moving.

You don’t remember crossing the room, only the impact of him, solid and real and here, as your arms wrap around his neck and his come around you just as fast, pulling you in so tightly it almost knocks the breath from your lungs.

But you don’t care. Because he’s warm. He smells the same, clean and faintly like leather and something distinctly him, and you bury your face into his shoulder as your eyes sting, your grip tightening like if you let go he might disappear again.

“Hey,” he murmurs, but it’s not casual, not light. It’s rough around the edges, like his voice hasn’t caught up to the moment yet.

Your laugh is shaky, muffled against his neck. “Hi.”

He exhales against your hair, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair like he needs to feel it, confirm it, anchor himself.

“God,” he breathes, almost to himself. “You’re—”

He doesn’t finish it. He doesn’t have to. You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands still gripping the front of his shirt, your eyes scanning his face like you’re memorizing him all over again.

“You look…” you start, but the words get caught somewhere between your chest and your throat. Better feels too small. Different feels wrong. “You look like you slept.”

That earns you a quiet huff of a laugh, the corner of his mouth lifting as his hands come up, both of them now, framing your face, thumbs brushing lightly under your eyes like he’s checking if the tears are real.

“The trip helped with that,” he says softly.

You nod, swallowing, your lips brushing his when you lean forward without thinking. “Good.”

It’s barely a kiss. Just a whisper of contact. A hello. But something in him shifts. You see it. Feel it. Because the next second, he’s kissing you back, and it’s not soft.

It’s not tentative. It’s him. Full and consuming and a little desperate in a way that makes your breath hitch as his grip tightens, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you at all.

It’s like relearning him. Like your bodies remember before your minds can catch up, your lips moving together with a familiarity that feels almost overwhelming after the distance. His mouth is warm, insistent, the scrape of his beard grounding in a way that makes your fingers curl into his shirt as you lean into him, trying to keep up, trying to take in everything at once.

His hand slides to your waist, then lower, gripping, pulling, guiding you backward until your shoulders meet the hallway wall with a soft thud. You gasp against his mouth, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, it pulls him deeper.

Like he’s been holding this back for three months and now that he has you, he doesn’t know how to do anything halfway. Your arms come up around him again, one hand in his hair, tugging slightly as his mouth moves from yours to your jaw, your neck, his breath warm and uneven as it ghosts over your skin. And for a second, just a second, you let yourself get lost in it. In him. In the way everything feels right again.

“Hey…” Your voice is soft, breathless, but it’s enough.

He stills. Not pulling away completely, not yet, his forehead resting against yours, his hand still firm at your waist, but there’s a shift. Awareness. Control slipping back into place.

“There’s… plenty of time,” you murmur, your fingers brushing along his jaw, grounding him the same way he grounds you. “But… hi.”

That does it.mHe huffs out a quiet laugh, his head dipping as his shoulders loosen, the intensity softening just enough for something warmer to take its place.

“Hi,” he echoes, but this time it’s gentle.

Intentional. He leans in again, but slower now, pressing a softer kiss to your lips, one that lingers instead of consuming, one that feels like a promise instead of a release. His hand comes up, brushing your hair back behind your ear, his eyes searching your face like he’s still not entirely convinced you’re real.

“I missed you,” he says, and there’s no hesitation in it. No deflection. Just truth.

Your chest tightens.

“You have no idea,” you whisper back, your hand sliding to rest over his where it cups your cheek. “No idea.”

He studies you for a second longer, something quiet and certain settling in his expression, and then he exhales, really exhales, for what feels like the first time since he walked in.

“I think I’m starting to,” he murmurs.

And this time when he kisses you, it’s not rushed.

******

Morning comes slowly. Soft light filters in through the blinds, painting faint lines across the walls, across the sheets, across him. You wake before you move.

Before you even open your eyes, you feel it, him. The warmth of his body beside yours, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the solid, grounding weight of his arm draped loosely across your waist like it found its place there sometime in the night and refused to let go.

And then, you remember. Everything. It comes back in pieces first, his hands, his mouth, the way he said your name like he hadn’t in months and didn’t intend to stop now that he could, but then it hits all at once, full and vivid and real, and you feel it in the ache in your muscles, in the warmth still lingering low in your body, in the way your lips feel just a little swollen from too many kisses that never seemed to end.

A slow, quiet smile pulls at your mouth. God.

You shift slightly, careful, not wanting to wake him just yet, and turn your head. Robby is still asleep. Completely. And for a moment, you just…watch him. It’s different like this.

Not the man who moves through the ER with sharp focus and quiet authority, not the one carrying the weight of a hundred lives on his shoulders at any given moment.

Just him. Relaxed. Unguarded. Younger, somehow. The lines that usually sit at the corners of his eyes are softened, his brow smooth, his mouth resting in something close to peaceful. His hair is a little messier than when he walked in yesterday, curling slightly where your hands had been more than once, and his beard brushes lightly against the pillow as his chest rises and falls in a slow, even rhythm.

Better. He looks better. And something in your chest tightens, not painfully, not sharply, but full. Overwhelmed in the quietest, most grounding way.

Your gaze drifts. Down the line of his shoulder, over the curve of his arm where it rests across you, and that’s when you see it.

You freeze. It’s small. So small you almost miss it, tucked along the underside of his left bicep, just barely visible where the morning light catches it.

A heart. Simple. Hand-drawn. Imperfect in the way something real always is. Your breath catches. Because you know that heart.

You know it.

Your hand moves before you think, fingers hovering just above his skin like you’re afraid touching it might make it disappear, like it isn’t actually there.

But it is. And it’s yours. The exact way you draw it. Slight tilt. Uneven curve on the left side. The tiny dip at the top that you’ve done the same way since you were a kid without ever realizing it.

“Oh my God…” you whisper, barely audible, more breath than sound.

For a second, you forget how to breathe at all. Behind you, he shifts. Just slightly. His arm tightens instinctively around you, pulling you a fraction closer as he comes awake slowly, like he’s not rushing it, like he doesn’t need to anymore. His voice is rough with sleep when it comes.

“You’re staring.”

You swallow, your eyes flicking up to his face for a split second before dropping right back to the tattoo, like you can’t quite pull yourself away from it.

“When—” your voice catches, softer this time. “When did you—”

He follows your gaze. Sees it. And there’s no hesitation. No awkwardness. No attempt to brush it off.

“Outside Detroit,” he says, still half-laying on the pillow, watching you instead of it. “Three days in.”

Your heart stutters.

“Why?” you ask, even though some part of you already knows the answer, already feels it settling deep in your chest.

His thumb brushes lightly against your side, slow, absent, grounding.

“Because I missed you.”

Simple. Like it was obvious. Like there was never another option. You close your eyes for a second, the weight of that pressing into you in the softest, most overwhelming way, and then you lean down without thinking, pressing a gentle kiss right over it. Careful. Intentional.

Your lips linger there for just a second before you lift your head and find his again, kissing him softly, slower than last night, but just as full. Just as real. He hums against your mouth, his hand sliding up your back, pulling you closer as the kiss deepens just slightly, not urgent, not desperate, but warm and familiar and grounding in a way that makes everything else fade out.

And then he moves. In one smooth motion, his hand shifts, guiding you as he rolls onto his back, taking you with him until you’re above him, your hands braced lightly against his chest, your hair falling forward around your face.

He looks up at you like this, eyes clearer now, awake, focused, and there’s something soft there. Something steady. Something that wasn’t there before he left.

“What do you need to do today?” you ask quietly, brushing your fingers lightly along his collarbone, tracing absent patterns like you’re still convincing yourself he’s real, still here.

His hands slide to your sides, warm and familiar, thumbs brushing along your skin in slow, easy strokes.

“This,” he answers without missing a beat.

You laugh, soft, a little breathless, a little disbelieving, as your head dips slightly. “Robby…”

“I’m serious,” he murmurs, his hands tightening just slightly at your waist, like he’s anchoring you there. “I’ve got three months to make up for.”

Your smile lingers, but you shake your head just a little, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

“Jack’s been asking about you,” you say lightly. “He wants to see you.”

Robby exhales, a low, quiet hum, his head tipping back against the pillow for a second before he looks back at you, one brow lifting just slightly.

“I’ll text him later.”

You grin, brushing your lips along his jaw. “We could do dinner tonight? Go out somewhere? Normal human interaction?”

His hands slide a little higher along your sides, fingers splaying, pulling you just a fraction closer as his gaze drags slowly over your face, your shoulders, back up again.

“Can you not,” he starts, voice still rough, still warm, “talk about my friend while you’re naked on top of me?”

You laugh, full this time, the sound soft and bright in the quiet room, and it melts into him when you lean down again, capturing his mouth in another kiss.

And this one feels like the start of something that doesn’t have an end looming over it.

******

The place is small. Dim lighting, low music, the kind of neighborhood dine bar that feels lived in without trying too hard. Halfway between Robby’s place and the hospital, neutral ground, familiar enough to be easy, quiet enough to actually talk.

You and Samira slide into the booth first, the cool leather against your legs grounding in a way that contrasts sharply with the warmth still lingering in your body from the morning. You tuck your hair behind your ear, glancing once toward the bar where Robby and Jack have already settled in, shoulders angled toward each other like no time has passed at all.

Jack claps him on the back. Robby laughs. And something in your chest settles.

“They look like they never skipped a beat,” Samira murmurs, following your gaze.

“They didn’t,” you say softly. “That’s kind of their thing.”

A waiter appears, setting down waters and a basket of fried pickles between you, the smell immediately cutting through the air. Samira doesn’t wait, she grabs one, blowing on it lightly before taking a bite.

“So,” she says, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all day. “Last night.”

You huff a quiet laugh, reaching for a pickle but not quite committing to it yet, your eyes dropping for a second as the memory flashes, his hands, his mouth, the way he said your name like it had been sitting in his chest for three months waiting to get out.

“Perfect,” you say simply.

Samira’s brows shoot up immediately, her mouth curving as she leans in slightly. “Perfect,” she repeats, dragging it out.

You finally take a bite, chewing slowly before you cave just a little, a smile tugging at your lips. “It was great,” you admit, voice lower now. “But honestly… just having him back? In person?”

“Yeah?” Samira leaned in.

You shake your head, letting out a quiet breath.

“It’s… fucking with my mind in all the right ways.”

Samira grins, pleased, nudging your foot under the table.

“Yeah,” she says, studying you. “You already look like a new human.”

You laugh at that, real and easy, and it feels different than it has in a while. Lighter.

“Okay, relax,” you tease, but you don’t deny it.

Before she can push further, the guys are back. Jack slides in next to Samira, still mid-sentence about something you didn’t catch, while Robby steps in beside you, and without missing a beat, he presses a kiss to the top of your head as he sets a cold beer down in front of you.

It’s casual. Unthinking. And it makes your chest warm in a way that feels dangerously obvious.

“Thank you,” you murmur, glancing up at him.

He hums, already sliding in next to you, his knee bumping yours under the table like it belongs there.

Jack grabs his drink, leaning back. “Alright,” he says, pointing at Robby. “You’ve been gone three months. We’ve got things to share.”

Robby takes a sip of his beer, settling in, one arm resting along the back of the booth behind you like it naturally curves there. “I figured.”

Samira leans forward immediately. “Okay, first of all, we had a guy come in dressed as a literal medieval knight.”

Robby blinks once. “I’m sorry—what?”

“I wish I was kidding,” you cut in, already smiling. “Full chainmail. Said he was ‘training for authenticity.’”

Jack snorts. “He passed out in triage because it was ninety degrees outside.”

Robby exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Of course he did.”

“And then,” Samira continues, holding up a finger, “we had a woman who painted her entire face green for St. Patrick’s Day—”

“And poisoned herself,” you finish.

Robby’s brows lift. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” Jack says. “Al-Hashimi handled that one. Diagnosed it in, like, two minutes.”

There’s a small shift at the table. Subtle. But it’s there. Robby catches it, of course he does, but he doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, his gaze moving between you and Samira, taking in the dynamic, the tone, the things not being said.

Samira leans back slightly, crossing her arms. “She’s brilliant,” she says plainly.

You nod. “She is.”

A beat.

“But,” you add, reaching for your drink, “I’m okay not reporting to her again.”

Jack chokes on his beer slightly, coughing into his fist. “Jesus.”

Samira rolls her eyes. “You didn’t like her because your boyfriend left her in charge.”

You shrug, unbothered, but your shoulder presses a little more firmly into Robby’s side as you lean into him.

“Maybe,” you say lightly. “Or maybe I just don’t enjoy being interrogated at six in the morning.”

Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside you, his hand briefly brushing your arm under the table, subtle, grounding.

“I leave for three months and you all fall apart,” he says dryly.

“Excuse you,” Samira shoots back. “We thrived.”

Jack nods. “Debatable, but sure.”

The pizza arrives then, cutting through the tension before it can linger, plates shifting, conversation loosening again as the night settles into something easy. Stories overlap. Laughter builds. Robby listens more than he talks, but when he does, it’s measured, present in a way that feels different. And every so often, his hand finds you again. Your knee. Your side. The small of your back when you shift. Like he’s reminding himself you’re still there.

******

The walk back is slower. Deliberately so. The night air is cool, quiet, the city settling around you as your fingers lace loosely with his, swinging slightly between you as you walk.

Neither of you rush. Neither of you need to.

“You really did okay without me,” Robby says after a while, glancing down at you.

You hum. “We survived.”

He smiles faintly at that. A few more steps pass before he speaks again, more casually this time, like it’s just information.

“Al-Hashimi’s staying.”

You stop. Dead in your tracks.

“Excuse me?”

He laughs immediately, already turning to face you as you tug lightly on his hand, pulling him to a stop too.

“She’s staying,” he repeats, amused now. “As an attending.”

You stare at him.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

You narrow your eyes slightly, searching his face like you’re trying to decide if this is a test.

“There will always be two attendings now,” he adds, a little softer.

You exhale, rolling your eyes dramatically as you start walking again, tugging him along with you.

“Fine,” you mutter. “But you’re still in charge.”

Robby lets out a quiet laugh, falling back into step beside you. “And how exactly does that help you?”

You glance up at him, a slow smile pulling at your lips as your fingers tighten just slightly around his.

“Because,” you say sweetly, “you get me naked on top of you, so I think you should be very careful with me.”

He stops walking this time. Actually stops. And you feel it immediately, your arm pulling slightly as you turn back toward him, already smiling because you know exactly what that did.

Robby looks at you for a second, just a second, before he exhales a quiet, incredulous laugh, shaking his head.

“You’re unbelievable.”

You beam.

“Mmhm.”

And then he steps closer again, his hand sliding back into yours, but tighter now. Intentional. Like he’s not letting go.

******

Midway through the shift, it’s obvious. Not subtle. Not something you have to convince yourself of.

Robby is back.

You see it in the way the department moves around him again, how people look to him without thinking, how his voice cuts through the noise just enough to organize chaos without ever raising it, how his hands are steady, decisive, familiar in a way that makes everything feel just a little more controlled.

Al-Hashimi had done well. More than well. She was sharp, efficient, brilliant in a way that demanded respect whether you liked her or not. But this is different.

Two attendings. Two minds. And somehow, instead of competing, it’s…working. Better than it should.

You lean against the counter, cradling a cup of coffee that’s long since gone lukewarm, your eyes tracking the movement across the floor as Robby steps out of a room, pulling off his gloves with practiced ease while giving quick, quiet instructions to Whitaker trailing behind him.

He doesn’t look overwhelmed. He doesn’t look weighed down. He just looks…steady.

And it does something to you that you don’t have time to unpack. You take a sip of your coffee and immediately regret it.

“Jesus,” you mutter under your breath.

“Yeah, that’s been sitting there awhile.”

You glance up. Robby’s already holding out a fresh cup toward you, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth like he knows exactly what he just saved you from.

You take it, your fingers brushing his briefly. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“I know,” he says easily, but his tone is softer than his words, his eyes lingering on you for half a second longer than necessary. It’s subtle. Everything about him right now is subtle. The way his hand brushes lightly along the middle of your back as he passes behind you, grounding but quick. The way his shoulder angles just slightly toward you even as he looks back out onto the floor. The quiet check-in in his expression.

“Eat something,” he murmurs, low enough that it doesn’t carry.

You roll your eyes just slightly, but there’s no bite to it. “You need to eat something.”

Your hand catches the zipper of his jacket as you say it, giving it a light tug, a small, absent gesture that feels far more familiar than it should after three months apart.

He huffs a quiet breath through his nose, something amused flickering in his eyes. “I will.”

“You won’t.”

“I will.”

You narrow your eyes at him just slightly. “Robby.”

“Later,” he concedes, and it’s close enough.

A beat passes. Then he’s already pulling back, stepping away, slipping seamlessly back into the rhythm of the floor like he was never gone at all. You watch him for just a second longer.

“You seem…more upbeat.”

The voice is calm. Measured. You turn. Dr. Al-Hashimi stands a few feet away, arms loosely crossed, her gaze not unkind but entirely too observant. You straighten just slightly without meaning to, adjusting your grip on the new coffee.

“Yeah,” you say, keeping it simple. “I am.”

There’s a pause. She studies you, not in a way that feels personal, but not entirely professional either. Like she’s assessing something beyond just your words.

“I’m glad,” she says finally. “Transitions can be…disruptive.”

You nod once, unsure where this is going. She steps a little closer.

“This department runs best without distractions,” she continues, tone even. “Consistency matters. Focus matters.”

You blink. Your brow lifts slightly.

“Distractions?” you echo, letting just enough curiosity into your voice.

She tilts her head a fraction. “It’s always an adjustment when dynamics shift.”

Something in you stills. Not defensive. Not reactive. Just…aware. You take a slow sip of your coffee, letting the silence stretch just long enough to be intentional before you lower the cup again.

“Before you continue with me,” you ask. “Have you run all of this by Robby?”

That stops her. Just for a second. It’s subtle, but you see it, the flicker of confusion, the recalibration.

“I’m speaking to you,” she says.

You nod once. “Right.” Another beat. “If I’m going to get the ‘keep your relationship out of work’ talk,” you continue, voice calm but steady, “I just want to make sure he’s getting it too.”

Silence. Not tense. Not explosive. Just…quiet. Al-Hashimi doesn’t answer right away. And she doesn’t need to. You hold her gaze for a second longer, then give a small, almost polite nod as you lift your coffee again.

“Good talk,” you add lightly.

And then you turn. Walking back into the rhythm of the floor, the noise and movement swallowing the moment like it never happened, but the steadiness in your step says otherwise.

******

The room is quiet in that heavy, post-storm kind of way. Breath still uneven. Skin still warm. The faint hum of the city outside barely cutting through the silence that’s settled between you. You didn’t even make it to the bedroom. Clothes abandoned somewhere between the hallway and the couch, the two of you tangled together in a way that had nothing careful about it, months of distance burned off in minutes, in touch, in heat, in something that felt a little like reclaiming and a little like relief.

You’re draped over him now, your cheek pressed against his chest, your leg hooked lazily over his hip as his hand moves slowly along your back, absent and grounding all at once. You tilt your head just enough to look at him, your lips curving faintly.

“Seeing you back in action today…” you murmur, voice still soft from everything that came before. “Stethoscope and all.”

His mouth lifts slightly, a quiet, amused exhale leaving him as his fingers trace along your shoulder. “Yeah?”

You nod against him. “Did something to me.”

That earns you a low laugh, warm, a little breathless, as he leans down, pressing a slow line of kisses along your collarbone, unhurried this time.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmurs against your skin.

You hum softly, your leg tightening just slightly around him as your eyes drift back to his face. And then something shifts. It’s small. But you know him. The way his eyes flick, the way his expression tightens just a fraction before smoothing out again, it’s enough.

Your head tilts back against the cushion, giving you a clearer look at him. “What?”

His hand comes up, brushing along your jaw, thumb grazing lightly over your chin in a slow, thoughtful motion.

“Nothing,” he says, but it’s not convincing.

You hold his gaze.

“Robby.”

He exhales softly, his eyes dropping to your lips for a second before coming back up again.

“I just…” he pauses, searching for it. “I don’t want to leave this moment.”

Something in your chest softens. You lean up just enough to press a slow, lazy kiss to his mouth, lingering for a second before pulling back, your nose brushing his.

“Tough,” you murmur lightly. “Tell me.”

He huffs a quiet laugh at that, but it doesn’t fully shake whatever just crossed his mind. You shift then, sliding off of him with a soft exhale, grabbing his shirt from where it’s half hanging off the arm of the couch and pulling it over your head as you stand.

“Come on,” you call over your shoulder as you start toward the bedroom. “Spit it out.”

Behind you, you hear him sit up. A quiet sigh follows.

“Baron brought you up today.”

You stop. Turn. You’re halfway down the hallway, his shirt falling just past your thighs, your brows pulling together slightly.

“Baron?” you repeat. “Since when is it not Al-Hashimi?”

Robby gives you a look. The kind that already knows the answer.

“Did you smart off to her today?”

You blink. Then straighten. Hands settling on your hips as you look at him fully now.

“She started questioning you being back and how it might affect my work,” you say, tone even but firm. “So I asked if she was planning on having that same conversation with you.”

He exhales, dragging a hand over his face.

“She did.”

That catches you off guard.

You pause. “What?”

Robby shifts, reaching for his boxers, pulling them on before standing and stepping into his scrub pants, movements slower now, more deliberate.

“She asked if we were still together,” he says. “I told her yes. And that it stays professional at work.”

He shrugs slightly. “That was it.”

You stare at him. Then turn, walking into the kitchen instead, pulling the fridge open a little harder than necessary and grabbing a water bottle.

“That’s it,” you repeat, unscrewing the cap.

He watches you from across the room.

“She’s not going to push me,” you continue, glancing back at him. “You’re her boss.”

Robby exhales, slower this time, leaning back slightly against the edge of the couch.

“Is this the hill you want to fight on?”

You frown immediately. He pushes off the couch, stepping closer, his hands coming up to gently catch your arms, not forceful, just enough to ground you.

“That’s not what I meant,” he corrects quietly. “Not fighting for us. I know you would.” His eyes soften just slightly. “I’m asking if you want to fight her for us.”

You hold his gaze. And when you answer, it’s quieter. But steady.

“I’d fight anyone for us.”

He groans softly, dropping his head for a second before looking back at you, his hands still warm against your arms.

“You know what I mean.”

You sigh, the tension loosening just a fraction as you shift, slipping out of his hold with a small shake of your head.

“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll set up a meeting with her tomorrow. Tell her we’re still dating. Clear the air.”

“You’re going to make it worse if you walk in there already defensive,” he says, watching you carefully.

You pause. Your hand stills on the counter. And then you look back at him. There’s something different in your expression now.

“You have no idea what it was like under her,” you say quietly.

Robby nods once. “I know she’s difficult.”

You let out a short, almost humorless laugh, shaking your head.

“No,” you correct, softer this time. “You don’t.”

******

Shift change feels heavier than usual. Not just busy. Not just loud. Heavy. It sits in your bones, in your shoulders, in the way your hands feel just a little slower than they should as you finish charting, staring at the screen a second too long before you finally sign off.

An hour ago, an eighteen-year-old coded on you. Eighteen. The number won’t leave your head. You replay it in flashes you don’t ask for, the monitor, the compressions, the call, the moment it all just…stopped. You swallow, hard, pushing your chair back as the noise of the ER shifts into that familiar turnover rhythm.

Night shift filtering in. Day shift filtering out. Jack is already there, leaning against the desk, waiting for Robby, his eyes scanning the floor before they land on you. He straightens immediately.

“Hey,” he says, softer than usual as he steps closer. “You okay?”

You don’t look at him right away. You gather your things. Adjust your bag. Pick up your water bottle like it matters.

“Fine,” you answer, short. Too short.

Jack doesn’t buy it. Of course he doesn’t. He steps closer anyway, one arm coming around your shoulders in an easy, familiar hug before you can sidestep it, pulling you in just enough that you don’t have to hold yourself up alone for a second.

And that’s when it hits. Not all at once. Just enough. Your eyes burn. You blink hard, once, twice, forcing it back down before it can spill over.

“I’m fine,” you repeat, quieter this time.

Jack doesn’t push. He just squeezes your shoulder once before letting you go, his expression soft but knowing. Robby appears then. Like he always does. Right when you need him. He walks up with purpose, eyes moving between the two of you, reading the room in a second flat.

“Give me a minute,” he says to you, voice a little shorter than usual, not sharp, not directed at you, just…end of shift exhaustion wearing thin at the edges. “Wait for me?”

You nod. You don’t trust your voice. He watches you for a second longer than necessary, something flickering in his eyes, and then Jack says something low to him, too quiet for you to hear, and the two of them walk off together.

You don’t follow. You don’t move. You just…stand there for a second. And then you turn.

The locker room is quiet. Blissfully, completely quiet. You sit down on the bench, elbows resting on your knees, your hands hanging loosely between them as you stare at the floor. Your body feels heavy. Your head feels louder than it should. You don’t even remember closing your eyes. But you must have.

Because when you open them, Robby is kneeling in front of you. Close enough that your knees almost brush his chest. His eyes are locked on yours, and whatever is in them, you know immediately. Jack told him.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. Not right away. He just looks at you, really looks, like he’s trying to piece together everything you’re not saying out loud.

“Hey.” That’s all it takes. Your throat tightens.

*****

Back at his apartment, the quiet feels different. Not heavy. Not suffocating. Just…contained. Safe enough to let things exist without the noise around them. You lean against the bathroom counter, arms loosely folded, your eyes fixed somewhere just past his shoulder as he stands across from you, listening.

And you tell him. Not all at once. Not clean. But enough.

“At first she was fine,” you say, your voice quieter than usual, a little worn down around the edges. “Professional. Distant, but fair.”

Robby nods slightly, not interrupting.

“And then I lost a patient,” you continue, your gaze dropping briefly before coming back up again. “And it was like a switch flipped.”

Your jaw tightens.

“Suddenly I couldn’t be trusted alone. Every order I put in got double checked. Every plan I made got questioned. She hovered. Constantly.” You let out a slow breath. “It didn’t matter what I did, it was wrong before I even finished saying it.”

Robby’s expression darkens, not angry exactly, but…focused. Controlled.

“And you didn’t tell me,” he says quietly.

You ignore that for a second.

“Dana told me later,” you add, almost like an afterthought. “About her. About Afghanistan. Doctors Without Borders.”

Robby’s brows pull together slightly.

“She watched kids get killed,” you say, the words sitting heavy in the air. “It messed her up. Bad.”

A beat.

“But she still took it out on me.”

Silence stretches between you. Not uncomfortable. Just…full. You shift slightly, your shoulders dropping as the exhaustion finally settles in deeper than before.

“I’m tired,” you admit softly. “I just want a shower.”

Robby watches you. And there’s something there, something unsettled, not because of what you said, but because of what you didn’t.

You’re not fighting. You’re not pushing. You’re just…quiet. And that’s not you. He frowns slightly as you step around him, brushing past into the bathroom, already reaching to turn on the water.

“You’re not talking to me,” he says, not accusing, just noticing.

You shrug lightly, not meeting his eyes. “I told you.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

You don’t answer. You step into the shower instead, letting the door slide shut behind you, the sound of the water filling the space where your voice should be. And for once, he lets you. He gives you space.

******

When you come out, the apartment smells different. Warmer. You pause slightly, towel drying your hair, only to find him in the kitchen, something simple laid out on the table, nothing fancy, just food. Thoughtful. Easy.

You change into pajamas, your hair still damp, and when you step back into the room, he’s sitting on the couch, watching you like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. You don’t hesitate. You cross the room and climb into his lap, settling against him like you’ve done a hundred times before, your arms sliding loosely around his shoulders as his wrap around you immediately, holding you close. Grounding you. His hand moves up your back slowly, steady.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks quietly, his voice low against your temple.

You rest your forehead against his shoulder for a second before answering.

“Because I did lose a patient,” you say, just as quietly. “She was wrong in how she handled it, but…” you swallow. “I missed something. And he died.”

Robby pulls back slightly. Just enough to make you look at him. His hand comes up, firm but gentle, guiding your chin so you can’t look away.

“Hey,” he says, more serious now. “You tell me these things.”

You raise a brow slightly, tired but not without a hint of you.

“Oh, do I?”

He exhales, a small shake of his head as his expression softens.

“That’s what we do now,” he corrects, quieter this time. “We communicate. Better. More.”

His thumb brushes lightly along your cheek.

“You don’t carry that alone anymore.”

You hold his gaze. Something in you loosens.

“I’m really glad you’re back.”

[asxgard]

Companionship Masterlist

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader

ongoing series temporary hiatus

Series Summary: He’s not sure how he got here, perhaps it’s the aching loneliness or the overwhelming stress. You got here because it seems like easy money and you have a pushy friend. All in all, it’s a good deal — he gets the companionship he’s after, no strings, and you get your utility bills paid on time. It’s pretty simple, easy, until your arrangement bleeds into something a bit more…complicated.

Due to the mature themes and content: 18+ please

Series Warnings: BIG age gap omg (reader is late 20s, Robby is mid/late 40s), foul language, ptsd mentions, mentions of sex work, descriptions of hospitals/patients and brief mentions of violence at said hospital, mild dubious consent later on (like barely), eventual sexual content (afab!reader/female anatomy described), angst, mutual pining, mentions of difference in power dynamic, medical errors bc I am a simple bitch, Dr Robby lacking some emotional intelligence/bottled up feelings. (Also reader goes to school for accounting and has two named friends). Slowburn. Mature themes.

— Anything marked with an astrik contains explicit content. Minors DNI, you will be blocked.

— All work is my own. Please do not repost anywhere else without my consent.

Part 1: the beginning

Part 2: late nights

Part 3: dinner

Part 4: sweetheart

Part 5: a gift

Part 6: unsaid feelings

Part 7: distance & doubts

Part 8: the agreement

Part 9: a rough day

Part 10: feelings of the heart

Part 11: first date

Part 12: you and me*

Part 13: birthday*

Part 14: the cabin*

Part 15: tough shift (coming soon)

updated 05/14/2025

posted on AO3 with a f!oc: AO3 Companionship

[ Main Masterlist ]

[paigepie213]

Forty Is Just An Age - Dr. Robby x Female Reader

Request - can you write one about the reader turning forty and Robby making her birthday feel better? She’s like nervous about the age. Thanks I love your writing!

thank you 🫶

Masterlist

****************** ***************************************

The fluorescent lights of the emergency department had dimmed just enough to signal the end of another long shift, though nothing in The Pitt ever truly felt quiet, not with the distant hum of monitors, the occasional overhead page, and the steady rhythm of footsteps echoing down the hallways that had long since become more familiar than your own living room. You sat at the workstation beside Dana, shoulders slightly slumped, one hand wrapped around a lukewarm cup of coffee you had long forgotten to drink, the other clicking through charts with the kind of muscle memory that came from years of doing this work long past the point of exhaustion.

Dana leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms over her head before glancing sideways at you, her expression already carrying that knowing look that meant she was about to ask something you weren’t sure you wanted to answer.

“So,” she started casually, dragging the word out just enough to make you suspicious, “your birthday’s in, what, three days?”

You didn’t look up from your screen right away, scrolling through labs, signing off on orders, trying to pretend like the question hadn’t landed somewhere deeper than you expected.

“Yeah,” you said finally, your tone light but not quite convincing. “Three days.”

Dana turned her chair fully toward you now, one eyebrow raised, fully invested. “Forty.”

You exhaled a quiet breath through your nose, a faint huff of a laugh following. “You say it like I’m expiring.”

“I say it like it’s a big deal,” she shot back immediately, nudging your arm with the back of her hand. “Because it is. Forty is a thing. It’s a moment. It’s… I don’t know, reflective or whatever people say when they’re trying to pretend they’re okay with getting older.”

You finally looked over at her, lips quirking despite yourself. “I was okay with getting older until everyone else started making it a thing.”

“That’s because it is a thing,” Dana insisted, leaning in slightly. “So what are you doing?”

You shrugged, turning back to your screen as if the answer lived somewhere between discharge summaries and medication reconciliations. “Nothing that I know of.”

Dana blinked at you, clearly not satisfied. “Nothing? As in, actually nothing? No plans, no surprise party, no dramatic ‘I’m embracing my forties’ moment?”

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “We’re both working the days around it, and it’s one day we actually have off together, so… I don’t know. Dinner, probably. Early. Somewhere quiet. Then home. Sleep.”

Dana stared at you like you had just personally offended her.

“That’s it?” she demanded. “That’s your big plan for turning forty? Dinner and sleep?”

You laughed softly, the sound a little tired but genuine. “It sounds kind of perfect, actually.”

“No,” Dana said flatly, shaking her head. “No, it does not. Where is Robby in all of this? Why is he not planning something? That man lives to overthink things.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, the familiar presence of voices approaching pulled your attention toward the end of the hall. Robby and Jack were walking your way, mid-conversation, both of them looking like they had just survived a shift that had asked too much and given nothing back, which was most shifts, if you were being honest. Jack spotted you first, offering a quick grin and a nod as they approached, while Robby’s gaze found you a beat later, softer, more focused, the way it always did no matter how chaotic the department had been. Dana, of course, did not miss her moment.

“Oh good,” she said, her voice lifting just enough to catch Robby’s attention as he reached the workstation. “Perfect timing. We were just talking about something very important.”

Robby slowed slightly, one hand resting on the back of your chair as he glanced between the two of you. “That sounds dangerous already.”

Dana didn’t hesitate. “Her fortieth birthday is in three days.”

Robby’s expression shifted, something thoughtful flickering across his face before he looked down at you, his hand briefly brushing your shoulder in a way that felt grounding without being overt.

“You don’t say,” he said, his tone calm but laced with something more intentional.

Dana pointed at him accusingly. “Don’t be smart…and apparently your big plan is dinner and sleep, which I’m sorry, but that is unacceptable for forty.”

Jack snorted quietly beside him, clearly entertained but wisely choosing not to insert himself into whatever this was. Robby didn’t rise to Dana’s bait, not directly anyway. He just looked at you, really looked, like he was trying to read something you hadn’t said out loud.

“Dinner and sleep,” he repeated, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

You shrugged, meeting his gaze. “We’re both busy. It’s the one day we’re off. It sounds good.”

Dana groaned dramatically. “You are both impossible.”

Robby’s lips twitched faintly, but his attention stayed on you. “You ready?” he asked, his voice quieter now, more personal, like the rest of the room had faded out. You nodded, pushing your chair back and standing, your body already leaning toward him in a way that had become second nature.

“More than ready,” you said, grabbing your bag.

Jack gave you a quick salute as he stepped past. “Try not to get called back in.”

“No promises,” you shot back lightly.

Dana shook her head as you walked away. “I’m not done with this conversation!”

“You never are,” Robby called over his shoulder, guiding you gently toward the exit with a hand at your back.

The night air outside felt cooler than expected, a quiet contrast to the constant motion inside the department, and for a moment, neither of you spoke as you crossed the parking lot, the silence not uncomfortable but familiar, like something you both understood without needing to fill. Once inside the car, the door shutting with a soft thud, Robby exhaled, leaning back in his seat before glancing over at you.

“You haven’t said much about what you actually want to do,” he said after a moment, starting the engine.

You looked out the window briefly, watching the glow of the hospital lights reflect off the windshield. “Because I don’t really know.”

“That’s not like you,” he replied, pulling out of the lot.

You let out a quiet breath, your fingers tracing absent patterns against your jeans. “I just… I don’t know. I feel weird about it.”

“About turning forty?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you admitted, the word softer than you expected. “It’s never bothered me before. Thirty didn’t bother me. Thirty-five didn’t bother me. But for some reason… this one does.”

Robby nodded slightly, his eyes on the road but his attention clearly on you. “It’s a number,” he said. “It doesn’t change anything about who you are or what you’ve done.”

You gave him a look, one eyebrow lifting. “That’s very comforting coming from someone who is already past it.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Hey, my forties were good.”

“Of course they were,” you said dryly. “You’re you.”

He glanced at you then, a small smile forming. “I met you in my forties.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you. “That’s not a fair argument.”

“It’s the only one that matters,” he replied simply.

You shook your head, but you were smiling now, the heaviness from earlier easing just a little as you leaned back into your seat.

“Dinner and sleep still sounds pretty good,” you said.

Robby nodded, one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel as the other shifted to the center console, his fingers brushing yours for just a second.

“Then we’ll do dinner and sleep,” he said. “But we’re not doing nothing.”

You glanced at him, curious. “What does that mean?”

He smirked slightly, eyes back on the road. “It means I have three days to figure out how to make you hate turning forty a little less.”

You laughed then, the sound filling the car as the city lights blurred past, and for the first time since Dana had said the number out loud, it didn’t feel quite so heavy.

“Good luck with that,” you said.

Robby’s smile lingered, quiet and certain.

“Yeah,” he replied. “I don’t usually miss.”

******

You woke slowly, the kind of slow that only came when your body knew, somewhere deep beneath the surface, that it didn’t have to rush anywhere, that there were no alarms waiting to drag you upright, no overhead pages calling your name, no charts blinking impatiently from a screen. It was unfamiliar enough that for a moment you stayed still, eyes closed, trying to place what felt different.

And then you smelled it. Coffee. Fresh, strong, unmistakable coffee. Your brow furrowed slightly before your eyes opened, blinking against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, and for a second you just lay there, listening. The quiet was broken only by the faint clink of ceramic, the low hum of your kitchen, and something else, movement, steady and unhurried.

You pushed yourself upright with a quiet exhale, running a hand over your face before swinging your legs over the side of the bed, your body still heavy with sleep as you padded toward the bathroom. The tile was cool under your feet, grounding in a way that helped you wake up just a little more as you turned on the faucet and splashed water onto your face, dragging your hands down slowly, letting the sensation pull you fully into the morning.

You stared at yourself in the mirror for a moment, damp hair pushed back, eyes still soft with sleep, and then it hit you.

Forty.

You made a face at your own reflection, one corner of your mouth tugging downward.

“Great,” you muttered under your breath.

But the smell of coffee was still there, stronger now, curling through the apartment like an invitation, and before you could linger too long in your own head, you turned and made your way out of the bathroom. The sight that met you in the kitchen made something in your chest loosen immediately.

Robby stood at the counter, already dressed, which felt unfair on principle, his sleeves pushed up slightly as he poured coffee into two mugs like this was just another morning, like this wasn’t anything special, like he hadn’t quietly taken over your space and made it his own in the most effortless way possible. You didn’t say anything at first, just watched him for a second, a sleepy smile pulling at your lips as you stepped closer, your steps slow and unhurried.

He glanced over at you before you reached him, like he could feel you there without needing to see you, and the second his eyes landed on you, his expression softened in that way that always felt a little too intentional to be accidental.

“Hey,” he murmured.

You didn’t respond with words, just closed the last bit of distance between you and leaned into him, your arms slipping loosely around his middle as your cheek pressed against his chest.

He didn’t hesitate, one arm wrapping around you easily, pulling you closer as his other hand set the mug down, and then you felt it, his lips brushing against your forehead, warm and lingering.

“Happy birthday,” he said quietly.

You made a low, unimpressed sound against him, more of a grumble than an actual response, your arms tightening slightly around his waist.

“I don’t accept that,” you muttered.

He huffed a soft laugh, the sound vibrating lightly through his chest where you were pressed against him.

“Yeah, I figured,” he said.

You pulled back just enough to take the mug he handed you, your fingers curling around it as you took a small sip, the warmth of it settling into you slowly, grounding, familiar.

You leaned back into him again without thinking, your side pressed against his as you both stood there, quiet, the kind of quiet that didn’t need to be filled, your body slowly waking up as the coffee did its job. After a moment, Robby shifted slightly, his arm tightening around you before he spoke again.

“I need you to go put some clothes on,” he said.

You didn’t move. You didn’t even look at him. Instead, you took another sip of coffee, squinting slightly as if you hadn’t heard him correctly.

“I’m sorry,” you said flatly, “what?”

He glanced down at you, one eyebrow lifting. “Clothes. Actual ones. Not whatever this is.”

You finally looked at him then, narrowing your eyes, your expression somewhere between suspicion and mild offense.

“You’re already dressed,” you pointed out.

“Yeah,” he said simply.

“That feels like a setup.”

“It is a setup,” he replied without hesitation. “Go get dressed.”

You stared at him for a beat longer, clearly unimpressed, before groaning softly and dropping your head back against his shoulder.

“I hate this,” you muttered.

“I know,” he said, completely unbothered.

He nudged you gently away from him, his hand settling briefly at your lower back as he guided you toward the hallway, and when you dragged your feet just a little too much in protest, he smacked your ass lightly as you passed.

You snapped your head back toward him immediately. “Robby—”

“Move,” he said, not even trying to hide the smirk in his voice.

You shook your head, but you were already walking, disappearing back into the bedroom with another muttered complaint that lacked any real bite. A few minutes later, you reemerged, jeans hugging your hips and one of Robby’s sweaters hanging slightly loose on your frame, the sleeves pushed up just enough to keep your hands free, your hair still a little damp at the ends. Robby looked you over once, quick but appreciative, before nodding toward the door.

“Perfect,” he said. “Let’s go.”

You narrowed your eyes at him again but didn’t argue, slipping your shoes on and grabbing your keys out of habit even though you had a feeling you wouldn’t need them.

The morning air outside was crisp, the kind that woke you up faster than the coffee had, and you tucked your hands into the sleeves of the sweater instinctively as you fell into step beside him.

“Where are we going?” you asked.

“You’ll see,” he said.

You made a face but didn’t press, walking with him down the sidewalk, your shoulder brushing his every few steps, the quiet of the neighborhood wrapping around you both in a way that felt almost surreal compared to the constant noise of the hospital.

It didn’t take long before you recognized the route, and your steps slowed slightly as the familiar shape of the small diner came into view, its sign flickering faintly even in the daylight.

You glanced at him. “Seriously?”

He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. “You like it.”

You did. More than you probably admitted out loud. Inside, the diner was exactly as it always was, warm, a little worn, filled with the low murmur of conversation and the occasional clatter of dishes, the smell of breakfast food wrapping around you the second you stepped through the door. You slid into a booth across from him, your body still easing into the day, your fingers tracing idle patterns along the edge of the table as a waitress came by to take your order without needing to ask too many questions.

Pancakes for you. An omelet for him.

The conversation stayed light, easy, the kind that didn’t demand anything from you as you both woke up fully, your coffee refilled without you noticing, your shoulders gradually relaxing as the initial weight of the morning faded. When your food arrived, you didn’t hesitate, cutting into the pancakes and drowning them in syrup with absolutely no restraint. Robby watched you for a second before shaking his head slightly, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

“You know that’s going to kill you, right?” he said.

You didn’t even look up. “Worth it.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, picking up his fork. “Forty and already making questionable life choices.”

You finally glanced at him then, eyes narrowing just slightly, but there was no real heat behind it.

“Careful,” you said. “It’s my birthday. I can make your life difficult today.”

He leaned back slightly, completely unfazed. “You already do.”

You kicked his foot lightly under the table, and he just smiled, watching you with that same quiet, steady attention that had been there all morning, like this, this simple, ordinary breakfast, mattered more than anything else he could have planned. And for a moment, sitting there across from him, syrup and coffee and soft morning light wrapping around you, turning forty didn’t feel like something to dread. It just felt like another morning. One that, somehow, he had already made better.

******

By the time you stepped back out into the morning light, the warmth of the diner still clinging to you, the world felt slower in a way that was almost disorienting, like you had slipped just slightly out of sync with the pace you were used to keeping. Your hand brushed against Robby’s as you walked, not quite holding, not quite separate, the space between your fingers small enough that it didn’t feel like distance at all.

“You’re suspiciously calm,” you said after a few steps, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “Which makes me think you’re not done.”

Robby didn’t look at you immediately, his gaze fixed ahead, but the corner of his mouth lifted just enough to confirm your suspicion. “I said we weren’t doing nothing.”

You exhaled a quiet laugh. “This feels like something already.”

“Good,” he said simply.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, but you didn’t press, falling into step beside him as he veered just slightly off your usual route home, your curiosity piqued but not enough to ruin whatever this was.

It didn’t take long before the familiar storefront came into view, the small bookstore tucked between two larger buildings like it had been forgotten in the best possible way, its windows lined with displays that never quite matched but somehow always worked.

You stopped short for half a second, looking at him. “Robby.”

“What?” he asked, feigning innocence as he reached for the door.

“You’re taking me to a bookstore,” you said, like you needed to confirm it out loud.

“You like it,” he replied, holding the door open.

You did. You really did. You shook your head, but you were already stepping inside, the scent of paper and ink wrapping around you immediately, familiar and grounding in a way that felt almost nostalgic. The space was quiet, save for the soft rustle of pages and the low murmur of a conversation somewhere near the front, and without thinking, you drifted away from him, your fingers trailing lightly along the spines of books as you moved down an aisle, your attention catching on titles here and there, your body relaxing fully into the moment.

You didn’t realize how much time had passed until you glanced up, expecting to see him nearby, only to find the space beside you empty. You frowned slightly, stepping out into the main aisle, your gaze scanning the store until you spotted him.

Of course. You should have known. Robby stood a few aisles over, one hand resting casually against a shelf as he flipped through a book, his posture relaxed, his focus entirely on whatever he was reading. You crossed the space between you without hesitation, your steps purposeful, your expression already shifting into something that bordered on disapproval before you even saw the section he was in.

Motorcycles.

You stopped directly in front of him, stepping into his space without warning, effectively blocking his view of the shelf.

“No,” you said flatly.

Robby didn’t even look surprised, just lifted his eyes to meet yours slowly, one eyebrow arching as if he was genuinely considering your statement.

“No?” he repeated.

“No,” you said again, firmer this time, folding your arms across your chest. “Absolutely not.”

He let out a quiet breath through his nose, closing the book but not putting it back yet. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

You gestured vaguely behind you. “All of this. None of it. You don’t get to have this phase.”

“Phase,” he echoed, clearly amused now.

“Yes, phase,” you shot back. “You’re fifty-two, Robby. Fifty-two. You are a doctor. You run an emergency department. You do not need a motorcycle.”

He tilted his head slightly, considering you like you were the one being unreasonable. “I didn’t say I was buying one.”

“You’re reading about them,” you countered immediately. “That’s how it starts.”

“That’s not how it starts,” he said, his tone calm but his eyes giving him away.

“That is exactly how it starts,” you insisted, stepping even closer, lowering your voice slightly. “Those things are called donor machines for a reason.”

That got a reaction. A small one, but it was there. The corner of his mouth twitched as he looked down at you, something almost fond in his expression despite the argument.

“You’re being dramatic,” he said.

“I am being realistic,” you corrected. “You have no business on a motorcycle.”

“And you have no business telling me what I can and can’t do,” he replied, though there was no real edge to it.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “I absolutely do when it involves you potentially becoming a patient in your own department.”

That made him huff out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he finally stepped around you, placing the book back on the shelf with a casualness that suggested he was done with this conversation whether you were or not. You turned immediately, following him.

“I’m serious,” you continued, unwilling to let it go that easily. “You would hate it anyway.”

“I would not hate it,” he said over his shoulder.

“You would,” you insisted. “You like control too much.”

He stopped abruptly, causing you to nearly walk into him, and turned just enough to glance down at you.

“That’s not entirely inaccurate,” he admitted.

You pointed at him triumphantly. “Exactly. So no motorcycle.”

He rolled his eyes, the gesture exaggerated enough to make you want to swat at him, which you almost did.

Instead, he turned again, continuing down the aisle, and you fell into step beside him, still watching him carefully like he might suddenly double back and grab a helmet. He slowed near another section, glancing up at the sign above before letting out a quiet, amused sound.

You followed his gaze.

“Aging Gracefully.”

You blinked once, then turned slowly to look at him.

“Don’t,” you warned.

He didn’t even try to hide it this time, his smirk fully forming as he gestured lightly toward the shelves. “Seems relevant.”

You hit him. Not hard, but enough to make your point, your hand smacking against his back once, twice, three times in quick succession.

“Robby,” you said, half exasperated, half laughing despite yourself. “I swear to God—”

He laughed, the sound warm and unguarded, turning just enough to catch your wrist before you could hit him again, his grip gentle but firm.

“Hey,” he said, still smiling. “Careful. You’re going to injure your chief attending.”

“Oh, I would never,” you shot back. “You’d write yourself up.”

“That’s true,” he conceded.

And then, without warning, his hand shifted, tugging you closer, pulling you into him in one smooth motion that stole the rest of whatever you were about to say. Your hands landed against his chest instinctively, your body fitting against his like it always did, like it had learned the shape of him over time.

His laughter softened into something quieter, something steadier, as he looked down at you, his expression easing into something that made your chest tighten just a little.

“Happy birthday,” he murmured again, softer this time.

You opened your mouth to respond, but he didn’t give you the chance, his hand lifting to your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly along your cheek before he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t urgent. It was soft, deliberate, the kind of kiss that lingered just long enough to settle into you, to remind you of exactly where you were and who you were with.

When he pulled back, his forehead resting briefly against yours, you exhaled a quiet breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Are you done?” he asked.

You blinked at him, still a little caught off guard, before your expression shifted, your eyes narrowing slightly.

“Are you?” you countered.

He rolled his eyes again, but there was no real annoyance behind it, just familiarity, just you.

“Come on,” he said, already stepping back, his hand finding yours as he tugged you gently toward the front of the store.

“You didn’t answer me,” you pointed out, letting him pull you anyway.

“I don’t need to,” he replied.

“That’s not how conversations work,” you argued.

“It is today,” he said.

You shook your head, but you were smiling, your fingers tightening around his as he led you out into the daylight again, the bell above the door chiming softly behind you. And as the door swung closed, the world outside felt just a little brighter than it had before.

******

The apartment was quiet again by the time you stepped out of the bedroom, the kind of quiet that came after a full day, after movement and conversation and laughter had finally settled into something softer. The light in the room had shifted with the evening, warmer now, casting everything in a gentle glow that made the space feel smaller, more intimate. You paused in front of the mirror, one hand smoothing lightly over the fabric of your dress, a simple black cotton piece that fell just right, not trying too hard, not needing to. It was the kind of dress you wore when you wanted to feel like yourself, not like a version of yourself dressed up for anyone else.

For a moment, you just looked. Really looked. Not the quick, passing glance you gave yourself most mornings when you were rushing out the door, not the distracted reflection caught in a darkened window after a shift, but a full, steady look at the person standing in front of you.

Forty.

You tilted your head slightly, studying the subtle lines that had formed over time, the softness that had settled into places that used to be sharper, the way your body had changed, not worse, not better, just different. You had tried to be kind to it. You had learned, slowly, sometimes reluctantly, to respect what it had carried you through, the long shifts, the missed meals, the nights that stretched too far into morning, the weight of decisions and the people attached to them. There was tiredness there, yes, a quiet exhaustion that no amount of sleep ever seemed to fully erase, but it wasn’t something you resented.

It was just… part of you.

Still, you found yourself narrowing your eyes slightly at your reflection, one hand resting on your hip.

“Do I look forty?” you asked out loud, though you hadn’t heard him come up behind you.

Robby’s presence filled the space before you even saw him, his reflection appearing a second later as he stepped in close, his hands settling naturally at your hips, grounding, familiar.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice low, curious but not concerned.

You met his eyes in the mirror, your expression somewhere between teasing and something a little more vulnerable than you meant to show.

“Answer the question,” you said. “Do I look forty?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his hands tightened slightly at your hips, pulling you back just enough so that your body rested against his, his chin brushing lightly near your shoulder as he looked at you through the mirror, really looked, the same way he always did, like he was seeing more than just what was in front of him.

“You look beautiful,” he said finally, simply, like it wasn’t even up for debate.

You huffed a quiet breath, not entirely satisfied. “That’s not what I asked.”

“That’s the only answer that matters,” he replied.

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words caught somewhere in your throat as his lips brushed against the side of your neck, slow and deliberate, the warmth of it sending a quiet shiver down your spine despite yourself.

“Robby,” you murmured, but there was no real protest in it.

His hands shifted slightly, tugging you back just a little more, his mouth lingering at your neck for a second longer before he pulled away, his fingers tightening briefly at your hips.

“We’re going to be late,” he said, though his voice had softened.

You exhaled, shaking your head slightly as you turned in his arms. “You’re the one distracting me.”

“Get your shoes,” he replied, already stepping back, completely unapologetic.

Dinner passed in that same easy rhythm the rest of the day had found, quiet conversation, shared glances, the kind of comfort that didn’t need to prove itself. It wasn’t elaborate, it wasn’t overdone, and maybe that was why it felt exactly right. By the time you made it back to the apartment, your feet were already protesting the heels you had insisted on wearing, and the second the door shut behind you, you made a beeline for the couch, dropping onto it with a quiet groan as you reached down to slip them off.

“Finally,” you muttered, tossing one heel aside before reaching for the other.

You leaned back slightly, rolling your ankle with a relieved sigh, and then you looked up. Robby stood a few feet away, watching you. But it wasn’t the look that made you pause. It was what he was holding. A small, black box. Long.

Your brow furrowed immediately. “Robby.”

He didn’t move right away, just stood there for a second like he was deciding how much resistance he was about to get.

“I told you I didn’t want a gift,” you said, sitting up a little straighter.

He shrugged, completely unfazed. “Tough shit.”

You stared at him, somewhere between annoyed and amused. “That’s not how that works.”

“It is today,” he replied, stepping closer and holding the box out toward you.

You hesitated for a second, your eyes flicking between him and the box, before you finally took it, your fingers brushing his briefly as you did.

“Robby,” you said again, softer this time.

“Open it,” he said.

You exhaled quietly, looking down at the box in your hands as you turned it over once, your thumb brushing along the edge before you finally lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled against the dark lining, was a delicate gold necklace, simple but unmistakably elegant, the chain catching the light just enough to draw your eye to the pendant, a small diamond drop, your birthstone, set in a way that made it look almost weightless. For a moment, you just stared at it. Your chest tightened slightly, something quiet and unexpected settling in. You looked up at him, your expression softer now, the earlier resistance gone.

“It’s beautiful,” you said.

Robby nodded once, like he had expected that reaction but didn’t need to push for anything more.

“Good,” he said.

You closed the box gently, your fingers lingering on it before you set it down beside you on the couch, your gaze not leaving his.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you added quietly.

“I know,” he replied.

There was a beat of silence, not uncomfortable, just full, before he stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the shift in the air between you, the same quiet gravity that had followed you both all day.

“You want me to put it on you?” he asked.

You nodded, standing slowly as you picked the necklace back up, turning so your back faced him, your hair already being gathered to one side without needing to be asked. His fingers brushed lightly against the back of your neck as he took it from you, the cool touch of the chain a contrast to the warmth of his hands as he fastened it, his movements careful, deliberate. When he was done, his hands didn’t drop right away. They lingered. One resting lightly at the back of your neck, the other at your waist, his touch steady, grounding.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You swallowed, your eyes flicking to your reflection again, the small glint of the necklace catching the light against your skin.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I am.”

He leaned in then, his forehead brushing lightly against the side of your head, his voice low when he spoke again.

“You don’t have to like the number,” he said. “But you don’t get to pretend it means something bad.”

You let out a quiet breath, your hand coming up to rest over his where it sat at your waist.

“I’m trying,” you admitted.

“I know,” he said.

You turned slightly in his arms, just enough to look up at him, your expression softer than it had been all day, something settled, something certain.

“Thank you,” you said.

He shook his head faintly, like that wasn’t necessary, like it never was.

“Come here,” he murmured instead.

And when he pulled you into him, your arms wrapping around him easily, your head resting against his shoulder, it didn’t feel like the end of something, or even the start of something new. It just felt like where you were supposed to be.

Forty and here. And somehow, that felt right.

[lovebugism]

HOW TO DISAPPEAR ─── jack abbot & michael robinavitch

summary: robby makes you hate him as his last act of kindness before he leaves for his three-month sabbatical. but then he sees you getting close to jack, and it ruins all his plans. (3k)

characters: michael robinavitch / fem!reader, jack abbot / fem!reader, trinity santos in charting jail, dana evans, noelle hastings

contents: lovers to exes w robby, friends to lovers w jack, angst, hurt/comfort, jealousy, implied age gap cw for medical inaccuracies bc i don't know what i'm talking about :D, and mentions of robby's suicidal tendencies

( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )

Robby breaks up with you on a Friday, which you think is especially cruel, considering that every Friday since then has served only as a bitter reminder of the day he told you to leave.

Your relationship had been long in the dying, to be fair. You had stopped recognizing him some months ago — after he brought home that motorcycle, which brought a week’s worth of arguments in with it; and after you found out he made a habit of riding around without his helmet, which nearly gave you an aneurysm with how angry you got at him for it. 

You found yourself more mad with him than you were without him, but you stuck around anyway, just torturing yourself with the hope that he’d change. That you would be enough to change for.

“Do you have any affection in your heart for me?” you’d raged from the other side of the kitchen table, burning as hot as your pretty red dress. “Any? At all?”

“Of course, I do!” Robby laughed as he gathered the empty plates, as if he found your anger a quite humorous thing. (It was, in truth, quite funny, because only he could plan a date night that turned into nothing but a total screaming match.)

“Then why do you keep doing this to me?” you’d asked, voice breaking as you blinked away burning tears. “You know I can’t stand that stupid motorcycle to begin with, but you know I hate when you don’t wear your helmet. It’s like you’re purposefully trying to piss me off!”

“Well, believe it or not, my life doesn’t revolve around you, honey,” Robby answered in a dry monotone as he dropped the silverware into the sink with a thunderous clang. 

“Yeah,” you scoffed. “‘Cause it revolves around Noelle.”

“Oh, Noelle!” he laughed louder, turning to face you with a cynical sort of smile on his face. “That’s what this is about?”

“It’s about all of it, Robby!” you thundered. “But, yeah, you flaunting your old fling around at work in front of me doesn’t make it any better—”

“If you don’t like what I do…” he spat, voice even and coated in a layer of venom. “If you’re not happy here… Then feel free to leave. I won’t stop you.”

His words hung in the air for several long moments. They wrapped their cold hands around your neck and stole the breath from your lungs.

“If I go…” you’d told him, voice stern and slightly strangled. “If I walk out that door right now… I am not coming back.”

Robby only shrugged. “If that’s what you wanna do…” he trailed off and turned away, doing the dishes like you weren’t falling apart across the room.

So you left.

And he didn’t stop you.

Robby stuck to his word. And now you’re trying hard to stick to yours.

As the Friday evening draws near — marking five weeks since you walked out the door — you stand at the workstation to finish up your charting. You type slowly, while the rest of the day shift rushes around you to head home, because you have zero plans of returning to your empty apartment so soon. Not until you’ve totally tired yourself out, at least.

It was much easier to be at home that way, you found, when you were only ever there to eat and sleep. It meant never having to face how lonely you truly were without him.

“Are you busy tonight?” Santos wonders aloud as she plants herself at the computer across from yours.

You turn away from the screen for the first time in several minutes to flash the girl a quietly amused look. “You and Dr. Garcia are fighting again, I take it?”

“What?” Trinity scoffs, less than convincingly. “No! Why would… Why would you even ask that?”

“Because normally you’re busy with her,” you answer, partially distracted, as you continue click-clacking at the keyboard in front of you. “And if you’re asking me if I’m busy, it means Garcia isn’t coming over. Which also means Whitaker’s probably going out with Amy, and you just don’t wanna be alone.”

You glance up from your monitor once more, finding the girl scowling at you over the top of hers.  

“Is that a fair assessment, would you say?” you quip with narrowed eyes.

“I was just gonna ask if you wanted to watch Drag Race and get wine drunk with me,” Trinity deadpans. “I didn’t need the psych consult.”

You scoff a tired laugh and turn away again. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I’m going out with the street team tonight— But you’re always welcome to tag along if you want.”

“And work outside of work?” she scoffs. “No, thank you…”

You tense when you feel a warm, wide hand brush along your lower back. 

Your head whips over your shoulder to find Dr. Abbot sliding in behind you, placing a sticky note beside the keyboard on your desk. Cologne clings to the thin black t-shirt he wears, tucked into a pair of camo fatigues. He smells of tobacco and leather and sea salt. A dizzying concoction for a girl so strikingly touch-starved.

“Here’s Mr. Turner’s address,” the man tells you. “Or where he says he’s been hanging around recently, at least.”

Your eyes scan over the half-legible scrawl on the paper below, brows furrowing because it feels half-familiar to you. When you turn back to Abbot, you find him towering over you, much closer than you’d anticipated. “Isn’t that the overpass across town?”

“I think so, yeah,” Jack nods, scratching at the silver curls at the nape of his neck. “I’m pretty sure that’s where the ambulance picked him up when he overdosed, too…

“I’ll add that to his chart,” you murmur under your breath and turn away again. “I was gonna extend his prescription for Clonidine anyway— you know, so he didn’t have to come in so often. But this way, I can bring it to him with the street team. Make sure he’s doing well and everything.”

“You going tonight?” Jack wonders aloud.

“Mhm,” you nod as your fingers flit across the keyboard.

“Got room for one more, you think?”

Your squinted eyes cut suddenly in his direction, eyeing the man tentatively as he leans against the desk beside you. His freckled biceps strain against his t-shirt sleeves when he crosses them over his chest. 

“Aren’t you working tonight?”

“Nope,” he answers. “Technically, I’m off ’til tomorrow.”

“…Then shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“And miss out on all the action?” Jack scoffs.” No way.”

A laugh sputters from your mouth before you can help it. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s very healthy, Dr. Abbot.”

“Of course, it’s not. But my therapist told me I needed a hobby, so…”

“So you decided getting shot at was the next best thing?” you finish in a deadpan.

“What can I say?” he shrugs. “I suck at golf.”

“You should try jogging,” you tell him, crossing the workstation for the printer on the other side of it. You feel a smile hinting at your mouth when Jack follows the short distance behind you. “It’s like running away from your problems, but, you know… pretend.”

“I tried that, actually,” Jack tells you. “But it’s harder, you know… With my leg.”

You pluck the warm paper from the buzzing printer and turn to face the man behind you. He sports a barely-there wince on his scruffy features, as if the mere mention of the amputated limb has reminded him of the phantom pain that never quite leaves him.

“Is it the sweat?” you ask with a sympathetic grimace.

“The sweat...” Jack nods slowly. “And the constant adjustments, and the strain it puts on my hip and… All of it’s a mess, to be honest.”

“You use liners, right? When you run, I mean?”

“Silicon ones, yeah.”

“You should try double-stacking knit-rite over the silicon,” you tell him, shifting awkwardly on your feet as you struggle to meet the man’s unwavering stare. You swallow hard and fidget with the paper in your fingers. “I, uh… I hear the knit helps with the sweating. Keeps the skin from blistering and everything.”

Jack’s eyes narrow, sparkling with the quiet grin that tugs at his mouth. “Where’d you learn all that, huh?”

“I’m trying to get a vascular surgeon fellowship,” you confess with a shy smile. “I’ve been working with a lot of amputees, and… they’ve taught me a whole lot, you know?”

Jack nods slowly, impressed and half-shocked. “Nice…” he hums. “Let me know if you need a letter of rec.”

He pats you gently on the shoulder as he walks by. You feel your skin burning beneath your scrubs, in the place where he’d touched you, like your brain is scarring his touch into memory. 

“And, you know, if you ever wanna take up running again— We could always go to the track by the park,” you blurt. “I can help you make some adjustments, and you can help teach me a thing or two?”

You wince on instinct, preparing for rejection after being so blatantly forward.

Jack only smiles in response. 

“Sounds fun,” he says, before sauntering off in the opposite direction. “Come find me before you leave with the street team tonight. We can take my truck.”

“Sure thing,” you call back, with a big dumb smile on your face. It fades the second you realize how dumb you sound. “Sure thing…?” you repeat under your breath, half-disgusted, as you return to your computer. 

“About fucking time…” Santos grumbles, still in the same spot you left her in.

“Time for what?” you scoff.

“For you to get laid,” she answers like it’s obvious. “Instead of moping over Robby all the time. It was starting to get a little depressing, to be honest.”

Your face burns red hot. 

“I’m not trying to get laid—” you say, then argue in a sharper whisper, “And I’m most definitely not moping over Robby.”

“And I’m not on my third breakup of the day with Garcia,” Trinity deadpans. “Since we’re both lying to each other now…”

“Only third, huh?” you quip. “Must’ve been a slow day today.”

You laugh when she flips you off.

Robby spends the better half of the afternoon just watching you. 

It’s not totally his fault, to be fair, his eyes have always had a way of trying to find you in every room he’s in — even when he knows you aren’t there. But then he sees you talking to Jack, and it becomes virtually impossible to work through the sudden heaviness in his chest. 

It had been thirty-five days and counting since he talked to you last, and he feels the weight of every single one of them. 

He replays the words of that argument ad nauseam. He sees the face you made right before you left whenever he closes his eyes — the furrow that had formed between your brows, the way the lamplight glittered in your unshed tears, the way the tendons tensed in your neck as you fought back the urge to cry.

He thinks he’s only managed to make it this long without talking to you because he finds a strange sort of companionship in his loneliness — in the knowing that you were grieving the same way he was; that you returned to an empty room in a dark apartment every day just like he did. It’s selfish and it’s cruel, but he liked that you were just as hurt as he was. It made him feel less alone that way, like he was still close to you despite the obvious distance.

But then he catches you laughing, and his chest warms instantly at the sound — the prettiest he’d ever heard. His heart deflates a second later when he looks up from his tablet to find Jack standing in front of you, so close that you have to tilt your chin just to keep his gaze. 

You peer up at the man from beneath your lashes, half-shy; the way you always looked at Robby in the very beginning of your not-quite relationship.

“Come find me before you leave with the street team tonight,” he hears Jack tell you as he walks away. “We can take my truck.”

Robby thinks a knife to the stomach would hurt less.

“Don’t you dare,” he hears Dana scold from just beside him, when she catches the man about to follow after you when you walk by without a glance thrown his way — as if he were a ghost, doomed to watching the rest of the world move on without him. 

His head snaps to the side and finds the woman glaring at him over the top of her glasses. 

“Don’t what?” Robby scoffs.

“You know what,” the older woman answers. “Give the girl a break, Robinavitch— You put her through enough as it is.”

“Oh, my god!” Robby exclaims with a cynical laugh. Something manic and half-hurt glitters in his dark eyes as he argues, “I got a fucking motorcycle! Why is everyone acting like I shot someone?”

Dana’s eyes harden as she pulls off her glasses, crossing her thin arms over the chest of her grey scrubs. The look she gives him then nearly makes him cower — it’s not quite angry, just colder than ice, and it cuts through him like steel.

“It’s not just the motorcycle, Robby, and you know it.”

“Do I?” he scoffs a humorless laugh.

The woman shakes her head and turns away, sneering slightly to herself, ‘cause it’s almost like he’s trying to miss the point. “If I have to spell it out for you, Robinavitch, then you’re a bigger lost cause than I thought…”

Robby spends the rest of the day stewing in her words.

Because he thought he was doing both of you a favor, in truth. He thought leaving you would make it easier to leave all the rest of it — that not having to miss you the entire time he was gone might make the trip a little more bearable. And if he knew you weren’t missing him too, then maybe he wouldn’t be thinking about you every second of every goddamn day. 

That’s why he got that stupid fucking motorcycle; why he slipped up and told you he rode around without his helmet, just to pick a fight; why he told you about Noelle, because he knew it’d make you second-guess everything between the two of you. He wanted you to distance yourself from him — he needed you to distance yourself from him — because he wasn’t man enough to do it himself. 

But now his foolproof plan is biting him in the ass. 

And he’s missing you before he’s even left the building.

Robby asks around for you before he leaves, and Shen tells him that he saw you around back through sips of his iced coffee. So he goes to find you while the rest of the day shift trickles slowly out, with his metaphorical tail tucked between his legs. When he finds you sliding miscellaneous supplies into the back of Abbot’s truck, it feels a little like a punishment — one that he knows he deserves.

“So… About that offer from before…” Jack grunts as he slides another two cases of bottled water into the bed of his truck. “I was thinking maybe we could stop by the track tomorrow morning. You know, before your shift.”

Your eyes narrow despite the quiet smile pulling slowly on your face. “I wasn’t joking about you needing to sleep after this— You do need to sleep at some point, Jack, you know that, right?”

“And I will get some when we’re done out here,” he promises and takes the stack of hygiene kits off your hands. “So… What do ya say?”

You ponder for a long moment, with your lips pursed to the side of your mouth. You can’t help but think of Robby in that moment, if you getting this close to his best friend would break his heart — or what Jack would think about you, if he found out what had really happened between Robby and you. 

Because he knew the two of you were close — everyone knew, and everyone had their own speculations — but only a few knew the true extent of it; of how long you and Robby had loved each other, and of how it all crashed and burned in the end. 

“Well, we’d have to go pretty early,” you mutter sheepishly. “My shift starts at seven, so…”

“That’s okay,” Jack shrugs with a grin that makes your stomach do a backflip. “I like early.”

You feel your face flare. 

“I like early, too…” you mumble sheepishly as you turn back for the rolls of sleeping bags stacked on the sidewalk.

Your gaze locks with Robby’s from where he stands off in the distance. It’s like your pupils are made of magnets, like your eyes were created to be drawn immediately to his. He walks slowly through the parted double doors with his hands in his pockets and something sad in his eyes. Your heart drops at the sight of him.

“Hey, brother,” Jack greets. “I thought you’d be long gone by now.”

“Yeah, I’m… I’m headed that way…” Robby huffs with a slow nod. His brown eyes dart wildly between the two of you — from Abbot’s oblivious grin to your wide-eyed gaze.  “Where are you guys off to, hm?”

“Street team,” Jack tells him.

“Jesus,” the older man scoffs. “You never slow down, do you?”

“I would, but… No one ever taught me how,” Jack quips and takes a step forward to close the distance between them. You continue packing up while the two men share a brief hug. You vaguely hear them murmuring from behind you. “Make sure you come back… Call me if it gets too dark… I’ll take care of her, I promise…”

Robby knows it’s supposed to make him feel better, but it only makes the knife twist further. 

He can feel the blade piercing a lung when he asks to speak with you alone; he’s already close to bleeding out by the time he walks you to the edge of the dark sidewalk, leaving Jack to pack up all the rest.

“You gonna be alright while I’m gone?” he asks.

The smile you give him is cynical and doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “Yep… I’ve been doing alright without for a while now, so…”

Robby nods, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Yeah, I… I deserve that, I guess…”

“I’m not saying it to hurt you, Robby,” you sigh. “I’m saying it because it’s true— That’s the difference between you and me. I don’t take pleasure in making you feel like shit.”

“I was trying to— I just wanted to—” He stumbles over himself trying to get the words out. He huffs and runs his palms down the length of his bearded face. “I think I was just trying to make it easier on us, you know, me going away… I thought if we hated each other, I’d be able to leave, but now…”

“Now what?” you press.

“Now you hate me!” Robby answers with a laugh. “And I still don’t want to leave!”

You sigh hard through your nose. Though your stern stare never wavers, you soften visibly around the edges as you confess, “I don’t hate you, Robby… But I do want you to leave.”

He flinches like you’ve hit him “…W-What?”

“I want you to go. I want you to have the… best three months of your whole goddamn life. I don’t care where you go, who you see, or if you— take Noelle with you. I don’t give a shit, I just…” You trail off with a heavy sigh and firm glare. “I want you to come back. That’s all I care about.”

“Of course I’m coming back…” he tells you gently, hands aching as he fights the urge to hold you. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy, honey.”

His words make your stomach swirl with a warm feeling. He grins down at you like he knows it, too.

“Bye, Robby,” you deadpan and turn on your heel to walk away.

“Are you still gonna be here?” the man calls after you. You look at him over your shoulder and feel your throat closing at the look he gives you — dark eyes wet and squishy around the edges, glimmering gold beneath the amber streetlamp. “When I came back, I mean. Are you… Are you still gonna be here?”

“I’m always gonna be around, Robby,” you tell him. “You know that—”

“Yeah, but… Will you still be here?” 

Waiting for me, he doesn’t say.

You don’t have the right words to answer him.

“…Call me if you need me, okay?” is all you can think to say in the moment. “I’ll answer. I promise.” 

Robby feels his heart breaking when he watches Jack help you into the passenger seat of his truck. Because a part of him knows, not so distantly, that he’s bound to find you by Abbot’s side when he returns.

[basiccortez]

Just Exes || M. Robinavitch x F!Reader

Dr. Robby Masterlist || The Pitt Masterlist || Requests: OPEN

Synopsis: Robby's first day back from his sabbatical and he finds out what he missed during those three months on the open road. Based on this request: 'For the pregnancy prompts, "how far along are you?" + robby, maybe? I love your writing!"' || Prompts List!

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: pregnancy, unplanned pregnancy, morning sickness, mentions of vomiting, inaccurate medical terminology, mentions of gunshot wounds.

Robby felt the morning sun on his back as he rode his bike down the familiar streets of Pittsburgh. The city hadn’t changed at all in the three months since he left. Sure there were new lost and found signs taped to light poles. The Pirates Baseball signs had been taken down and replaced with Steeler Football signs. The air had grown cooler than it was in July when he took off without a second look back. Robby looked over his shoulder, like he had been doing for the last three months, and frowned. He wasn’t sure why he did it, or why he ever expected it to change. The second seat on his motorcycle had been empty for months. 

An ambulance was already parked in the bay when Robby found his usual parking spot. Though it was October now, the temperature was still warm, the leaves just starting to change. He took off his sunglasses, tucking them into the pocket of his coat. He looked around the parking lot, looking at the cars already there. A bit of anxiety settled into his stomach. It was his first day back since he took off on the Fourth of July. He had turned his phone off once he got outside of Pittsburgh city limits and it had remained that way until about a week ago, when he started to drive back. The hospital was still standing, and the emergency department was still open which had to be a good sign. 

Robby swung his bag over his shoulder, and took a deep breath as he walked through the doors of the ambulance bay. The smell of antiseptic hit him instantly. He had to squint a bit at the harsh bright lighting of the Pitt. His brown eyes scanned his department, seeing the quiet hustle of his staff moving about. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Robby wasn’t a cake and banners type of guy, but he was expecting. . . something? 

Instead, not a single person acknowledged him as he walked up to the nurses station. Dana was busy reading over a chart as Robby approached. A smile crawled across her face as she stood up, pocketing her glasses and crossing her arms over her chest. 

“Well, well, well, look who came crawling back to us,” Dana said, rounding the nurses station to greet Robby. 

Robby smiled and pulled her into a tight hug. “It’s good to see you.” 

“You too,” Dana said, pulling back and looking him over. “I see your head is still on your shoulders.” 

“Yeah,” Robby walked around to the other side of the nurses station to take off his backpack and coat. “I didn’t end up smashing my head open like some people thought I was.” 

“Can’t blame us for worrying,” Dana shrugged. “You look good, Robinavitch.” 

“Thank you. I feel. . .” Robby wasn’t sure what to say. Good? Better? Healed? He wasn’t so sure about all that. He wasn’t sure if the result of his sabbatical was exactly what he wanted. He felt refreshed, it was the first time in years he slept more than five hours a night. But he still felt like he was missing something. Instead of diving into all that, he picked a safe topic of conversation. “Where is everybody?” 

“Mm, Samira is in south five with an elderly head-lac. Santos is in central two with a five year old with an ear ache. Y/N is in-“

“Y/N?” Robby cuts Dana off. Dana winces at the hopeful sound in his voice. “She’s working today?”

Dana nods apprehensively, “She got called in. We’re short staffed.”

Robby nods, scratching the back of his neck. “H-how is she?” 

“Fine,” Dana’s eyes narrow at him. 

“Is she-” 

“If you’re about to ask if she’s seeing anybody, you’re asking the wrong person,” Dana puts her hands on her hips. Robby knew that she wasn’t going to air out any of your dirty laundry or tell him what you had been up to since he left. If there was one thing about Dana Evans, it was that she would take any and all secrets to the grave. She looked out for not only her nurses, but her doctors and staff. If you had told her anything, she was going to be harder than a safe to crack. “I’d just stay out of her way. Let her do her thing.” 

Robby scoffs, “I’m kind of the chief of the department. It's kind of hard to stay out of my residents’ way when it’s my name on the line.”

“Co-Chief,” Dana corrected. Robby had to refrain from rolling his eyes. He had checked his email last night and saw that the hospital had officially given Baran Al-Hashimi a permanent position as Co-Chief of the Emergency Department. 

— — — 

You gently pushed the exam room door open with your hip, grabbing some hand sanitizer on your way out. It was the first morning in about ten weeks that you had felt like yourself. You woke up to your alarm instead of the churning of your stomach. 

“You look better,” Dr Al-Hashimi said as you stepped out of an exam room. “Your color has come back.” 

You were glad that you seemed to finally get your morning sickness under control. It had been hell those first few weeks, spending most of your shift with your head in a toilet, or sleeping in a dark exam room with an IV in your arm. You were seriously starting to doubt if you could do this. Pregnancy was no easy feat, and you had gained a whole other level of respect for the mothers of the world. 

“I feel better,” You tucked the tablet under your hand to get some hand sanitizer, “Thank you for all you did during those first few weeks. You seriously helped me out, Dr. Al.” 

“Of course,” Baran gave you a soft smile. “It takes a village. I’m happy I could help. Now. . .” Her voice grew softer as she fell in step next to you. “As you know, Dr. Robinavitch is coming back today.” 

You sighed, “Yep.” 

“It’s not my job to disclose your condition, but. . . I think it would be beneficial if you told him.” 

Dr. Al had never flat out asked who the father of your baby was, but she put the pieces of the puzzle together rather quickly. She had only worked with Robby one day, but she could tell something was going on between you. She was intuitive like that. So when she caught you throwing your guts up one morning, she had made the conclusion of what your argument in the ambulance bay had been about on the day Robby left. 

It had been three months since you had even seen Robby, let alone spoke to him. You had heard from Jack that he had turned his phone off, so you knew it was useless trying to contact him. And you weren’t all that sure that you wanted to talk to him. The last conversation you had with him hadn’t been all that friendly. You said words that you regretted, he said words that he regretted. 

You glanced across the department, watching him fall easily back into place as chief, as if he had never missed a day. To everyone else, Robby looked refreshed. His skin still was still sunkissed from hours of riding his motorcycle to God knows where and back. His hair was lighter, and a bit fuller on top. His beard was trimmed to perfection. But to you, he still had that same exhausted, haunted look in his eyes. You had learned early on that Robby’s eyes told the story that he was always trying to hide. 

Robby had looked up briefly, catching your eyes. You blushed and quickly looked down at your shoes. Your stomach started to do flips and you put your hand on your belly, trying to will the baby inside you to still (even though they weren’t big enough to actually feel any kicks yet). 

You chewed on your lip, before looking up at Dr. Al, “Thank you, Dr. Al, but I don’t think I’m ready for that conversation yet.” 

Baran nodded her head, “It’s never an easy one. Let me know if you need help.” She squeezed your arm before walking off. 

— — — 

You had been dodging him all day. He knew it. You knew it. Hell, you bet even Myrna knew it. You had only laid eyes on him once, but it was enough for you for one day. He tried to talk to you, but you totally stiffed him. 

If Robby was walking to the nurses station, you were walking away. If he walked into a trauma room, you walked out of it. If you had to present a patient, you would search the entire ED for Dr. Al-Hashimi or swap the patient with one of your fellow residents. It was becoming increasingly obvious to everyone that you wanted nothing to do with Robby. The rumor mill was starting to turn. You swore you saw Ahmad building a betting board. 

You were currently sitting at the nurses station, sipping on a ginger ale. This had to have been your longest stretch of not having to rush to the bathroom to go throw up. You thought the nausea patches Dr. Al had prescribed you were finally doing their job, until you walked out of an exam room and the all too familiar twisting in your stomach started. You took a deep breath, giving your med student a task before running to the nurses station and chewing on a ginger tablet. 

“You going to make it?” Dana asked, eyeing you suspiciously. Though you hadn’t officially announced your pregnancy to everyone in the ED, you knew that the senior charge nurse knew. 

“I think so,” You said, leaning back in your chair. “Can I get swapped for triage?” 

“I’m not the one who makes that decision,” Dana pocketed her glasses. “You know who can-” 

You huff, sitting back up straight. A movement you deeply regretted as the room started to spin again. You blinked a couple of times, letting your vision even out before responding. “I’d rather suffer.” Dana chuckles, as her charge phone rings. You log back into your charting, hoping that maybe sitting down for a bit will help regulate you again. 

“Robby, Baran!” Dana calls out to the two attendings. You can feel Robby’s eyes on you as he walks up to the nurses station, but you keep your head down, hoping he doesn’t decide to strike up a conversation right now. You weren’t sure if you could stand fast enough to get away from him. “Two gunshot victims incoming. Looks like an attempted murder-suicide.” 

“Alright,” Baran says, her eyes scanning the department for extra hands. “McKay and Santos, with us.” 

“Y/N,” Robby’s voice calls out. You lift your head meeting his stare. 

Baran looks between the two of you. “Uh, she’s got-” 

“She’s been dodging traumas all day,” Robby justifies his choice. “She’s gunning for chief resident. She needs to stop hiding from the trauma room.” You clench your jaw at his words, but you know he’s right. Baran huffs, wanting to argue with him, but refrains. 

“Fine,” You say, pushing up from your spot at the desk. “Let’s do this.” 

Robby turns on his heel, grabbing a gown and gloves before walking out to the ambulance bay. You suck in a deep breath, taking one more swig of your ginger ale before following him out. He doesn’t even say anything as he stands waiting for the ambulance to arrive. You wordlessly stand next to him. This feels all too familiar to the both of you. He could smell your perfume and you could feel his body heat. 

Robby swallows as the first rig pulls up, and he’s quick to the back door. “What do we got?” 

“Male, 54 years old, gunshot wounds to the upper chest, stomach, and thigh,” The paramedic says, stepping down from the rig. The stench of blood hits you like a tidal wave. Your stomach lurches, your mouth starting to water with extra saliva as you walk behind the paramedics. 

“The victim?” Robby asks, using his penlight to look quickly at the patient’s reflexes. “How much blood loss?” 

“At least 600 milliliters," The paramedic said, “We kept losing him on the ride in, and then he quit bleeding.” 

“Which could mean, Dr. L/N?” 

You held your fist to your mouth to hide a gag. “It’s internal.” 

“Excellent,” Robby said, positioning the gurney beside the exam bed. “On my count. . . 1, 2, 3.”  They transfer the patient over, a rehearsed movement you’ve done so many times you’ve lost count. You stand back, taking deep breaths to try and settle your stomach. “Y/N, check for reflexes.” 

You nod, stepping towards the patient. You can’t even look at the wounds, without gagging, pressing your fist into his sternum. “Responds to pain.” You step away as your eyes begin to water. Black spots start to dance in your vision, as nurses and staff crowd around the patient. The walls started to cave in, your body feeling uncomfortably hot as you stepped back. 

“We need to tube him, he’s hardly moving air,” Robby instructs. “7.5 tube and a laryngescope. Y/N, intubate him.” 

You don’t even register that Robby is calling your name as you try to reach for the wall. You’re hoping to just slide down the wall and sit down. You can’t hear anything around you, your legs feeling like lead and your head swimming. 

“Y/N-“ The words fell on deaf ears as your knees buckled and you went crashing to the floor. Robby cursed quickly, handing off the instruments in his hands, and moving over to you. Jesse and Princess were already by you, Princess lifting your head up, and Jesse breaking an ice pack to put on the back of your neck. The cold slowly brought you back to the land of consciousness, your heart racing as you blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of how you were on the floor.

“You’re okay,” Robby said softly, as he grabbed your wrist and pressed his fingers to your pulse point. “Heart rate is elevated. Get her into a room, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Robby quickly turned back to the patient on the bed, jumping right back in, not missing a beat.

As Jesse stood to follow Robby’s instruction, you grabbed his hand. “I’m pregnant,” You whisper. Realization dawned on his face of what could be happening to you. Jesse nodded his head, as Antoine came in with a wheelchair. Your legs were still shaky as they helped you up and into the wheelchair, thankfully you didn’t have to go far and it saved you the embarrassment of being wheeled in front of the whole department.

“How far along?” Jesse asked as you sat down on the bed. Princess moved around you, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around your arm, and getting your pulse ox.

“10 weeks,” You flushed from embarrassment but Jesse just nodded in understanding. “Get Dr. Al, please. And keep Robby away.” Again, Jesse didn’t need to be told anything else or asked any questions as to why you didn’t want the chief of the department stopping by. He glanced up at Princess who did a small cross on her heart, as if to say that she wouldn’t say anything.

“Princess will start your IV, and I’ll go find Dr. Al.” Jesse asked softly.

“Please, keep this off the books,” Jesse gave you a small smile, squeezing your shoulder before leaving the exam room.

— — — 

“What happened?” Baran’s voice cut through the exam room like a knife. 

“She passed out during a trauma,” Jesse answered, finishing up hooking you up to the IV. “No LOC, but complaining of neck pain. Vitals are normal, BP 80 over 120, pulse 67, O2 98% on room air.” 

“And. . .” Baran glanced between you and Jesse. A silent question if you had told him. Jesse looked down at you and you nodded your head. 

“She’s 10 weeks pregnant, and has HG. No complaints of nausea or vomiting, no cramping or spotting. But ran a full lab panel, including hCG. Waiting on ultrasound,” Jesse added, handing the tablet to Dr. Al. 

“Sounds good,” Baran nodded, and looked at you, “How are you feeling?” 

“Just when I thought I had the morning sickness under control,” You let out a defeated chuckle. 

“You’re dehydrated,” Baran answers, her brown eyes narrowing at the screen in front of her. “And exhausted. When was the last time you had a full night's sleep?” 

“Three months ago,” You mumbled. You couldn’t help but worry every night when you closed your eyes about Robby. You had vivid dreams about walking into the hospital the next morning to the news that he had crashed his motorcycle. 

Baran gives you a sad smile, “I know this hasn’t been easy, but you need to make sure you’re taking care of yourself. I know you don’t want to have to repeat your R3 year. . . but maybe it’s worth it?” 

You lick your lips. This is a conversation that has definitely crossed your mind in the last three months, especially since you might be doing this on your own. Dr. Al had assured you that you could still work at The Pitt, even if it was just part time. But the idea of being a year behind in your schedule pissed you off, and made you even more mad at Robby and his stupid motorcycle. 

“I know, I just-” You were cut off by a single knock on the door, and then the curtain being pulled back. 

“Dr. Robinavitch,” Dr. Al scolded the man standing in the doorway, “I don’t think I have to tell you how inappropriate this is.” Robby didn’t even acknowledge her, his eyes were locked on you, “Dr. Robinavitch-” 

“It’s fine,” You said, looking at Dr. Al, “He can stay. I promise, I’m fine.” 

Baran clenched her jaw, looking between you and him. You could see her protective defenses up. It was one of the things you had come to like about her. “If you want him out of here, you say the word.” You nodded, and she stood up from the stool to leave. On her way out, she made sure to give Robby a death glare, and you couldn’t help but laugh. 

The door shuts with a loud click. Robby hesitantly took a step toward you. He sat down in the chair across from your bed, his eyes trained on the ground. He was lost in thought, and you could almost see the gears turning in his head. 

“How far along are you?” Robby asks after a beat. 

“Ten weeks.” Robby just nods, running his hands down his cheeks. Rarely ever have you seen Doctor Michael Robinavitch speechless, and it was honestly starting to scare you. “I didn’t know until after you left. I wanted to call and tell you, but I knew how much this sabbatical-” 

“I would’ve come back.” 

“And that’s what I didn’t want to happen.” 

Robby clenches his jaw. “You don’t get to be the judge of that.” 

“But I do, Michael. I’m the one growing this baby, therefore, I get to make the decisions. I didn’t want you to come back just because I’m pregnant. I wanted you to come back because you were ready to come back.” 

Robby licks his lips. “But I’m here now.” 

“Are you?” You snap your head towards him. “Because I’m giving you an out, right here. This isn’t something you can be half in on whenever it is convenient for you.” He knew that you weren’t just talking about the baby. You were talking about your relationship. Robby had always had one foot out the door when he was with you. He was too scared to settle down, too scared to give up the one thing he had control over. 

“I am,” Robby says, leaning forward and grabbing your hand. You let him take it, intertwining your fingers. “I’m all in with this. Whatever you want us to be.” 

You blink back tears. Fucking hormones. “Looks like we’re exes. . . having a baby.” 

Robby nods in agreement, “We’re exes having a baby.”

[optimisticplb]

What Happens in Vegas Never Stays in Vegas

Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch x Reader

Part 1, Part 2

Summary: After a drunken Vegas wedding, Robby disappears by morning, leaving you with nothing but a ring and a mistake that was supposed to stay in Vegas. But when a pregnancy and state paperwork force you to track down the husband who vanished, Robby learns the truth and this time, walking away isn’t so easy.

WC: 12K

Tags: Drunken Vegas Wedding, Runaway Husband, Unexpected Pregnancy, Forced Reunion, Second Chance Romance, Robby Wants to Stay, Romantic Comedy vibes with some Angst, No use of Y/N

You try not to think about Michael. Which would be easier if he hadn’t left traces of himself all over your shift. Not literally. That would at least be useful.

Instead it’s little things. Annoying things. The kind that catch you when you’re already tired and make you resent your own brain for being so stubborn about keeping him.

A man leaning one forearm against the bar in the same easy way. A low laugh cutting through the music at the wrong moment. A whiskey glass turning slowly between someone’s fingers.

The stretch of counter near the far end where he stood that night, half-shadowed under the warmer light, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else until you decided to make yourself his problem.

You hate that you remember it. You hate that out of everything the alcohol should have blurred, your brain kept him sharp.

Dark hair. Tired eyes. Dry little answers like he was trying not to give you too much and doing it badly enough that you kept pushing anyway.

Worst of all, this bar makes it impossible not to remember. Because this is where it happened. Not some random city you flew home from and never had to see again. This is your job. Your actual, current, humiliatingly necessary job.

You slide a vodka soda across the counter without looking up. “You’re closed out.”

The guy on the stool blinks at you. “I didn’t ask for the tab.”

“You asked for another drink. I made an executive decision.”

That gets a laugh from the woman two seats down and an offended little smile from him, like you’ve flirted instead of done your job. You do not have the energy to correct him.

The music is too loud, the floor is sticky in that specific way it always is after midnight, and somebody near the back is yelling at a slot machine. Neon bleeds across the bottles behind you in pink and blue streaks. Somebody spilled beer near the service well five minutes ago and, naturally, did not apologize.

Normal.

Or close enough.

You work through it on autopilot. Pour. Swipe. Smile when necessary. Ignore what you can’t fix. That part, at least, you’re good at. You’ve had practice.

A few months ago, you were a nurse.

Not in the soft-focus, inspirational-poster kind of way. In the real way. Long shifts. Sore feet. Charting until your eyes blurred. Knowing how to keep your voice steady when somebody else was scared. Knowing how to move quickly without looking rushed. Knowing when to talk and when to stand there and let someone have a bad moment without making it worse.

You worked at the VA long enough to get used to the rhythm of it. The routines. The regulars. The particular kind of patience it took to do that job well. Then the money started getting weird. Then staffing got thinner. Then the place shut down and took your paycheck with it.

There were other jobs, technically. Just not close ones. Not easy ones. Not ones that made sense once gas, rent, and plain bad luck got involved.

So for now, you’re here.

Full-time behind a bar, living off tips and bad lighting, telling yourself it’s temporary in exactly the same tone people use when they already know it isn’t.

A hand taps twice on the counter. You blink and look up.

“Hey,” the customer says, grinning like he’s about to become your problem on purpose. “You with me?”

“Tragically.”

He laughs.

You don’t.

“Another bourbon.”

“You’ve had enough bourbon.”

“That’s hurtful.”

“You’ll live.”

He leans in a little. “You always this mean?”

The answer comes to you before you can stop it.

‘Only to the hot ones.’

Your whole body goes still. It hits fast, the memory so sharp it almost feels physical. You had said that to Michael.

Right here.

In this bar. In this exact kind of light. One hand braced on the counter, already smiling before he gave you a reason to, watching him lift his eyes to yours like he hadn’t expected you and wasn’t sure what to do with that yet.

That same brief pause. That same mouth trying not to smile.

God.

You hate this. You hate that he’s still in your head at all.

More than that, you hate that he’s still this clear in your head when he is presumably somewhere else entirely, living a life untouched by any of it, while you’re still stuck working in the place where you met him, trying not to think about the man who married you and vanished before morning like some kind of coward with good timing.

You turn away before the guy in front of you can say anything else.

“One bourbon,” you say flatly, reaching for the bottle. “Then water. Then I stop being nice.”

“You were being nice?”

“Don’t push it.”

By the time your shift ends, your feet hurt, your shoulders ache, and you smell like citrus, beer, and other people’s bad decisions.

The crowd has thinned enough to make the place look more tired than lively. A few tourists still hang around like the night owes them something. It doesn’t. It never does.

You head to the back office to cash out. The room is cramped, over-air-conditioned, and somehow always smells faintly like receipt paper and old limes. You count your tips twice because the number the first time pisses you off.

Not enough.

Again.

Still not enough.

You flatten the bills on the desk, stack them carefully, and do the math in your head anyway. Rent. Gas. Groceries. The minimum on the credit card you keep pretending is not becoming a problem. You lock your phone after checking your account balance for all of two seconds.

Nope.

Not tonight.

You shove the cash into your bag, grab your keys, and head home with the kind of exhaustion that feels older than the hour. Your apartment is quiet when you step inside. Too quiet, maybe.

You kick off your shoes, drop your bag on the chair by the door, and head straight for the kitchen because you’re starving in that vague, irritated way that usually means you waited too long to eat.

The leftover coffee from this morning is still sitting in the pot. You make a face before you even pour it.

Weird.

You usually would’ve microwaved it without thinking. Instead, the smell hits you wrong. Bitter in a way that turns your stomach almost immediately.

You pull back, frowning.

“Seriously?”

You dump it anyway and stand there for a second with one hand braced on the counter, waiting for the nausea to pass.

It does. Mostly. 

You tell yourself it’s nothing. You’re tired. You barely ate. You worked too long. Bodies are weird. You do not let your brain go any further than that. Because any further than that leads in one direction, and you’ve spent the last few weeks doing a pretty decent job not going there.

Not to him. Not to the chapel. Not to the ring buried in the back of your dresser drawer under a tangle of receipts and old lip gloss. Not to the marriage certificate shoved into a box in your closet like paper can stop being real if you hide it well enough.

You are not thinking about any of that. You are especially not thinking about divorce.

Why would you?

It isn’t like you’re dating. It isn’t like you’re trying to get married. It isn’t like some great love of your life is waiting in the wings, desperate for your legal availability. And it’s not like divorce is some quick little errand you run between shifts. Divorce takes money, paperwork, time, and, inconveniently, a husband you can actually locate.

As far as you’re concerned, what happened with Michael was one reckless, humiliating disaster of a night that ended the second he walked out of that hotel room.

That’s it. That’s all.

You don’t wear the ring. You don’t say his name out loud. You don’t think about the fact that somewhere out there is a man who is technically your husband and apparently felt no particular urgency about that fact once the sun came up.

You’ve done a pretty solid job pretending none of it matters. Until your body starts being weird. Not in a dramatic way at first. Nothing cinematic. Nothing obvious. Just small, irritating shifts that would’ve been easy to brush off if they hadn’t kept happening.

You’re more tired than usual. Which shouldn’t mean anything. You work late. You sleep badly. You spend most of your shifts smiling through conversations that make you want to fake your own death. Being tired is not new.

But this feels different. Heavier. Like sleep isn’t actually touching it. Like no matter how long you stay in bed, you still wake up feeling like somebody switched your bones out for wet sand overnight.

You make it through the next few days on autopilot.

Work. Home. Shower. Bed.

You tell yourself the nausea is from stress. Or bad food. Or the fact that your sleep schedule is basically decorative at this point. You tell yourself your body is just being annoying because that is, historically, one of its favorite hobbies.

You do not tell yourself the truth. Mostly because you don’t want to know what the truth is yet.

By the fourth morning in a row that coffee makes your stomach roll, you’re actively offended.

You stand in your kitchen staring down at the mug like it personally betrayed you.

“Unbelievable.”

The coffee, unhelpfully, remains coffee. You try one sip anyway. Immediate regret.

You shove the mug away so fast it sloshes over the side and runs across the counter in a thin brown line. Your stomach turns hard enough that you have to grip the edge of the sink.

Nope. Absolutely not.

You breathe through it, eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the wave to pass. When it does, it leaves behind that strange hollow feeling, shaky, annoyed, unsettled in a way you can’t quite talk yourself out of. You rinse the mug out harder than necessary and leave it in the sink.

Your apartment is too quiet.

That’s the worst part, maybe. The silence. The fact that there’s no one here to distract you from your own thoughts. No music. No television. No drunks asking for another round like they’ve mistaken your patience for customer service magic.

Just you.

And your own brain starting to turn toward places you do not want it turning.

You open the fridge. Close it. Open it again like there might suddenly be a different answer inside. Nothing looks good. Nothing sounds good either. You settle for crackers because they seem neutral, which feels like a deeply humiliating way to choose a meal.

You eat three standing at the counter. Then stop. Then look at the box in your hand like it’s somehow become evidence.

You do not let yourself finish that thought.

No.

Your period is late. That, unfortunately, is harder to ignore. You know it is.

You’ve known it for days now, in that vague edge-of-your-consciousness way where you keep pretending you counted wrong. Maybe you’re off by a week. Maybe stress messed with it. Maybe you’re just tired, run-down, hormonal, unlucky.

Maybe your body is being weird because life is weird and not because one stupid, reckless, champagne-soaked disaster with a dark-haired man and a legal ceremony somehow followed you home.

You lean both hands on the counter and stare at the cabinet in front of you.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

Your voice sounds strange in the empty kitchen.

“Okay.”

But you’re not okay. Because now that you’ve let the thought in even a little, it won’t leave.

Late. Tired. Nauseous.

You know enough not to play dumb. That almost makes it worse.

You used to be a nurse. You’ve had this conversation with patients before, back when your job was still your job and not the thing you missed every time rent came due. You know how bodies work. You know what early symptoms can look like. You know exactly why your chest is getting tighter the longer you stand here pretending this could still be nothing.

And you know who it would be. That’s the part that really does it. Not some abstract possibility. Not some faceless hypothetical.

Michael.

Michael with the tired eyes and the dry mouth and the hand at your waist in that chapel while the officiant tried not to look embarrassed for both of you. Michael, who kissed you like he meant it just enough to make disappearing afterward feel ruder. Michael, who left before you woke up.

You press the heel of your hand against your forehead.

“No.”

The word comes out thin.

Then stronger.

“No.”

Because that would be insane. Actually insane. A joke so specific it circles back around to cruelty.

You push off the counter and start moving just for the sake of moving. Cabinet. Sink. Living room. Back again. Your apartment is too small for pacing, but that doesn’t stop you.

You try logic first.

Stress can mess with your cycle. Bad sleep can make you sick. You’ve been eating like shit. You work in a bar. You’re around alcohol, bad food, no routine. Of course you feel off.

There are explanations. There are a million explanations. There had better be a million explanations, because the alternative is—

Your gaze catches on the hallway leading to your bedroom. The dresser. The drawer. The ring. Your whole body goes still.

It’s ridiculous how much power that stupid little thing still has. Cheap silver band. Tiny fake stone. Light enough to feel like a joke in your palm.

You haven’t worn it since the first day after you got home. Took it off, shoved it into the back of the drawer, buried it under receipts and old chapstick and things that didn’t matter, like hiding it deep enough might somehow downgrade the whole thing from legally binding to deeply embarrassing misunderstanding.

You swallow hard. Then head for the bedroom before you can talk yourself out of it.

The drawer sticks the way it always does, catching for half a second before it finally opens. You shove past the tangle of junk until your fingers find cold metal.

There it is.

You stare down at it in your palm. Still ugly. Still real. Still enough to make something in your chest tighten.

You don’t put it on. 

You just stand there holding it, looking at it like maybe it’ll offer up some kind of useful answer now that you’re desperate enough to want one.

It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. It’s a ring. Not a witness.

Your thumb rubs once across the stone. A flicker of memory hits before you can stop it. Hotel light. Crooked tie. His mouth pulling at one corner while he looked at you like you were the strangest thing he’d seen all night and somehow not the worst part of it.

You close your hand around the ring so hard it presses into your palm.

“Asshole,” you mutter.

At him. At yourself. At the entire state of Nevada, honestly.

You drop the ring back into the drawer and shut it harder than necessary.

No. Not yet.

You are not spiraling over a late period and a few weird mornings. You are not.

You head for the bathroom instead, flicking on the too-bright light over the mirror. Your reflection looks tired. Pale around the mouth. Annoyed, mostly.

Which feels correct.

You lean in closer like your own face is going to explain something.

“When was your last period?”

The answer does not arrive in a helpful rush.

You try counting backward in your head. Shift schedules. Payday. That Tuesday you worked a double. The morning after the hotel. The week after. Somewhere in there, your thoughts start tangling.

That is not reassuring.

You let out one humorless laugh and brace your hands on the sink.

“Great.”

Because now you can’t even lie to yourself properly. You know enough to be scared and not enough to feel in control, which might be the most offensive combination possible. The drugstore is open twenty-four hours. That thought appears in your head fully formed and awful.

You stare at yourself for another long second.

You could wait. You could go to sleep and deal with it tomorrow. You could spend one more day pretending this isn’t happening.

But the second option presents itself, you know you won’t take it. Because waiting would be worse. Waiting would turn every hour into its own special kind of torture, and you are already dangerously close to your limit for the day.

So instead, you exhale slowly, grab your keys off the nightstand, and head back out the door before courage can become cowardice.

The drive to the drugstore is short enough to be rude. Vegas at this hour is all glare and strange quiet in between noise. Streetlights. Headlights. People still moving like the night hasn’t ended yet. It makes you feel weirdly detached from everything around you, like the city kept going without asking whether you were okay with that.

The parking lot is half full.

You sit there for a second with the engine running and both hands on the steering wheel.

This is stupid, you think.

Then, immediately after:

No, this is necessary.

Neither thought helps.

Inside, the fluorescent lights are mean. The whole place smells like floor cleaner and stale air conditioning. You head straight for the aisle without letting yourself hesitate because the idea of wandering around first, pretending you came in for toothpaste or shampoo or literally anything else, somehow feels worse.

You find the tests too quickly. Of course you do. Like the universe wants efficiency now. You stare at the shelf. One test. Two tests. Digital. Pink dye. Early response. All of it suddenly seeming way too cheerful for the situation.

You grab one. Then another. Then put the second one back because apparently you are still trying to perform sanity for no audience whatsoever.

At the register, you add a bottle of water and a sleeve of crackers you do not want, because buying only a pregnancy test feels too much like standing under a spotlight.

The cashier barely looks at you.

“Bag?”

“Yes,” you say immediately.

She bags it. You pay. The world does not end in aisle seven.

Rude, honestly.

Back in the car, the plastic bag sits in the passenger seat like a threat.

You do not start the engine. You just look at it. Then look away. Then back again. You think, wildly and with full sincerity, about throwing the whole thing in the backseat and driving anywhere else.

Instead, you drive home.

The apartment is still quiet when you walk back in. You set the bag on the bathroom counter and stare at it. Your hands have gone strangely steady.

That’s somehow the most irritating part. That your body can betray you all week and then go calm when it would actually be appropriate to fall apart.

You open the box. Read the instructions twice even though you already know how these work. Follow them exactly because at least one of you in this situation should be competent. Then you set the test on the counter. And step back. Immediately. Like distance might soften what’s coming.

You wash your hands even though they don’t need washing. Straighten the towel. Throw away the packaging. Pick it back up when it misses the trash. Check the time. Check it again.

The apartment is so quiet you can hear your own breathing. You keep your eyes on the mirror. Not the counter. Definitely not the counter. Because as long as you’re not looking, there’s still a version of the night where none of this followed you home.

As long as you’re not looking, Michael is just a bad decision with nice eyes and a worse exit strategy. As long as you’re not looking, the ring is still in the drawer, the certificate is still in the closet, and your life is still narrow enough to manage.

You curl your fingers against the edge of the sink. Then force yourself to lift your head. And turn.

Two lines. Bright. Immediate. Unmistakable.

For a second, your brain refuses to process what you’re looking at. It just stops. Like it hit something too hard and too fast and every thought in your head scattered on impact.

You stare at the test. Then closer. Then closer still, like proximity might somehow change it. Like maybe there’s some angle where two lines means not this. Some secret, magical interpretation they forgot to put on the box because apparently the universe hates you personally.

There isn’t. It just stays there.

Positive.

Your hand comes up over your mouth without you thinking about it.

“No.”

The word barely makes it out.

You grab the edge of the sink harder, eyes still fixed on the counter.

No. No, no, no.

Your heart starts pounding so hard it makes the whole room feel thinner somehow, sharper at the edges. The bathroom light is suddenly too bright. The air too still. The silence unbearable.

You stare at the test until the lines start to blur. Then you blink hard and they sharpen again.

Still there. Still real.

Your knees feel unreliable all at once. You sit down hard on the closed toilet lid because the alternative feels like hitting the floor, and for one long second all you can do is breathe through the tight, panicked pressure climbing up the center of your chest.

In. Out. Again.

It doesn’t help. Nothing helps. Because the truth is already there, sitting on the bathroom counter in cheap white plastic.

You’re pregnant.

The words land in pieces instead of all at once.

Pregnant.

You.

Pregnant.

And somehow that’s worse than if it had hit cleanly, because your brain has time to reject each part separately before it all settles in anyway.

Your stomach turns. Not nausea this time. Shock. Fear. And then, hot on the heels of both anger.

Michael.

The name doesn’t land soft this time. It hits. Hard.

Your jaw tightens immediately, something sharp and hot cutting clean through the shock.

Of course. Of course this is how this goes. He gets to disappear. You get to deal with the aftermath.

A short, bitter laugh leaves you before you can stop it.

“Unbelievable.”

Your voice sounds strange in the little bathroom. Thin at first. Then sharper. Because what, exactly, are you supposed to do with this?

He walked out. Didn’t leave a note. Didn’t leave a number. Didn’t leave anything except a legal mess and a memory you’ve been trying to bury since the second you got home.

And now—

Now this.

Your hand drops hard against the side of the toilet seat.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

It comes out louder this time, the anger finally catching up to everything else. Because he doesn’t even know. That’s the part that really does it. 

Somewhere out there, he is completely unaffected. Sleeping. Working. Existing. Completely untouched by the fact that his impulsive one-night decision just detonated your life weeks later in a bathroom with bad lighting and cracked grout.

“He doesn’t even know,” you say, sharper now, like saying it out loud makes it worse. “He just walked away.”

And you—

You’re here.

Holding this. Dealing with this. Alone.

The word lands heavier than you expect.

Alone.

Something in your throat tightens, but the anger comes back faster, pushing it down before it can turn into anything softer.

“Yeah,” you mutter, staring at your reflection. “No. That tracks.”

Of course you’re the one stuck figuring it out. Of course you’re the one sitting here doing math and thinking about doctor’s appointments and money and what the hell you’re supposed to do next. Of course he gets to opt out without even knowing he opted out.

Your laugh comes again, sharper this time.

“That’s convenient.”

You push yourself back to your feet and brace both hands on the sink, leaning in toward your reflection.

“Must be fucking nice.”

There’s something steadier in you now. Not calmer. Just anchored differently.

Anger instead of panic. Blame instead of fear. It doesn’t fix anything. But it gives you something to hold onto. Because if you let yourself sit in the other feeling, the one underneath this, you’re pretty sure you won’t get back up.

Your eyes flick to the test again. You hate it on sight now. Hate the shape of it. Hate the stupid little window. Hate the certainty of it.

You snatch the box off the counter and start digging through it with jerky, irritated movements like maybe you missed some fine print. Maybe there’s a margin of error. Maybe the whole thing is cheap trash and wrong and you are having the worst possible overreaction in recorded history.

Instructions.

You read them again. Then again.

Pregnant.

Pregnant.

Pregnant.

You let the paper drop back onto the counter.

“Oh, that’s bullshit,” you murmur to absolutely no one.

The bathroom remains unsupportive. You stare at yourself in the mirror. You look exactly the same. That feels insulting. Same face. Same hair. Same tired eyes. Same old T-shirt hanging off one shoulder. Nothing about you looks like somebody whose entire life just shifted six inches to the left.

You laugh once under your breath.

“This is fucked.”

Not dramatic. Not loud. Just true. Because now all the things you were not thinking about have become the only things in the room. The ring in the drawer. The certificate in the closet.

Michael.

Michael, somewhere out there, blissfully unaware that the worst decision of your life apparently had follow-through.

Anger flashes again, fast and clean. Of course. Of course this is what you get. He disappears. You get nauseous. He vanishes without a note. You get a positive pregnancy test in a bathroom with bad lighting and a hand towel that still doesn’t match anything.

You brace both hands on the sink and bow your head. You don’t cry. You think maybe you should. Maybe this would feel cleaner if you cried. More normal. But all that’s there is panic and anger and a strange, frozen little center of disbelief that still hasn’t caught up.

So instead you start thinking in ugly, practical circles.

How far along? What day is it? When was your last period really? How much money do you have? Who do you call? Do you call anyone? Do you call him?

That one stops everything. Your head lifts slowly.

“No.”

Immediate. Absolute. You do not call him. You don’t even have his number. Which somehow feels both helpful and deeply offensive.

You blow out a breath and look away from yourself, away from the test, away from everything. The shower curtain has a tear near the bottom hem. There’s a water stain on the ceiling just above the vent. Ordinary apartment things. Ordinary life things.

Except nothing feels ordinary now.

You grab your phone off the counter and sit back down on the toilet lid. Search history fills the screen before you even type. Your thumb hovers.

Then:

early pregnancy symptoms

You stare at the words after you hit search like somebody else typed them. Fatigue. Nausea. Missed period. You look up from the phone and let out a thin, disbelieving laugh.

“Well, great.”

You scroll.

How many weeks pregnant am I? First prenatal visit. How soon do I need to see a doctor?

You stop there.

Because the answer to that is going to cost money. Money you don’t have. Your throat tightens. You lock the phone and set it face down on your thigh. Then stare at the floor again.

This cannot be the reason you go looking for him. That thought arrives slow and stubborn. Because that would be worse somehow. Worse than the test. Worse than the panic. Worse than all of it.

You cannot be the woman who tracks down the man she accidentally married in Vegas just to tell him she’s pregnant.

You can’t. You won’t.

The refusal settles in immediately, fierce and defensive.

No. Absolutely not.

You are not going to chase a man who left. You are not going to beg for help from someone who made disappearing look easy. You are not going to hand him this and let him decide how much it matters. If he wanted to matter, he should have stayed long enough to leave a damn phone number.

That thought burns hot enough to keep you upright.

Good.

Anger is useful. Anger is easier than fear.

You stand again, slower this time, and pick the test up between two fingers like it’s something mildly contagious.

Still positive. Still rude.

You set it back down and stare at it one last second.

Then you open the bathroom cabinet, shove it behind a bottle of aspirin and an old box of bandages, and close the door.

The result doesn’t disappear with it. Obviously. But hiding it buys you half a breath of distance, and right now that feels like the most mercy you’re getting.

You turn off the bathroom light and head into the bedroom. The apartment feels different in the dark. Smaller. Too aware.

You sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the dresser for a long time. At the drawer where the ring is. At the closet where the certificate is. At all the things you were doing such a good job not dealing with.

Then you lie down without changing clothes, one arm over your eyes, and listen to your own heartbeat for what feels like an hour.

Sleep doesn’t come. Neither does clarity. Just the same thoughts, circling.

Pregnant.

Married.

Alone.

By the time the sun starts bleeding thin and colorless around the edges of your blinds, you still haven’t decided what to do. But you know one thing with perfect, miserable certainty. You cannot unknow this now.

—

Three months is enough time for shock to lose its drama. Not its weight. Just its shape.

In the beginning, everything had felt sharp. Immediate. Like your whole life had split open in one ugly, fluorescent-lit second and left you standing there staring at the mess of it.

Three months later, it’s different. Less explosion. More grind.

The panic doesn’t hit as often now. Not because things are better. Just because your body apparently got bored waiting for you to process it and moved on without your permission.

So you do too. Or something close enough to it. You go to work. You come home. You sleep badly. You wake up tired anyway. You learn the rhythms of this the same way you learn anything else you didn’t ask for, by surviving it long enough for it to become routine.

You keep bartending because rent does not care that your life got complicated. You smile at customers. You carry trays. You ignore the smell of tequila on bad nights because sometimes it still turns your stomach if it hits too strong and too fast. You eat what you can when you can. Crackers in your bag. Granola bars. The occasional piece of toast when your body is willing to negotiate.

You get good at moving around it. At hiding. Loose shirts. Crossed arms. A strategic apron tie. The practiced expression of someone who does not want comments from strangers who think your body is community property the second it starts changing.

Because it is changing now.

Not dramatically. Not in some movie way. Just enough. Enough that you notice it getting harder to suck in your stomach without thinking. Enough that your jeans stopped being worth the argument. Enough that one night in the bar’s employee bathroom, you catch your reflection sideways and have to look away before the reality of it hits too hard.

You are pregnant.

Still.

That sounds stupid, even in your own head. Of course you are still pregnant. But some part of you keeps expecting to wake up and find out the whole thing was a clerical error by the universe. A cosmic mix-up. Somebody else’s life filed under your name by mistake.

It never is.

Every morning you wake up in this body. Every day it’s a little more real. And somehow, impossibly, Michael is still nowhere in it. You don’t say his name much, even in your head. You don’t need to.

He lives in the shape of the problem without you naming him. In the ring still buried in the drawer. In the certificate still shoved in the closet. In the ugly practical questions you keep punting down the road because each one feels like it comes with a price tag you can’t afford.

You do what you can first. You buy prenatal vitamins after standing in the pharmacy aisle long enough to feel ridiculous. You stare at the price, put them back, pick them up again, and buy the generic ones because they’re three dollars cheaper and right now that matters.

Everything matters. Gas matters. Groceries matter. Whether you can justify buying real orange juice instead of the store brand matters.

You stop looking at your bank account unless you absolutely have to, because the number there is never good news and somehow always manages to feel personal.

The bar helps, sort of.

Tips are unpredictable, which means every decent night gives you just enough relief to make the next bad one feel worse. One weekend you make enough to breathe a little. The next you’re counting singles at your kitchen counter at one in the morning, trying to decide whether paying the full electric bill this week is optimism or irresponsibility.

It turns out pregnancy is expensive even before it becomes visible. That part pisses you off more than feels reasonable. The vitamins. The tests. The quiet mental math every time you think about a doctor. Because that’s the part you can’t keep circling forever.

You know that. You know too much not to. And that’s the cruel little joke of it all. You are exactly qualified enough to scare yourself properly. You know what early care matters for. You know the timelines. You know that “I’ll deal with it later” is a stupid plan dressed up as denial.

Which is why you finally make yourself try. Not because you feel ready. Not because you have suddenly become brave. Because avoidance, unfortunately, does not count as prenatal care.

So three months later, you’re sitting in a plastic chair that sticks slightly to the backs of your thighs, staring at a laminated sign about eligibility requirements like it might suddenly rewrite itself into something more helpful.

It doesn’t. Nothing here does.

The waiting room smells stuffy. There’s a TV mounted in the corner playing something muted with subtitles no one is actually reading. A toddler is crying somewhere behind you. Someone coughs. Papers shuffle.

Normal. Government-office normal. You hate it immediately.

Your name gets called before you can talk yourself out of being here. You stand, smooth your hands over your shirt without thinking about it, and follow the woman down a short hallway into a small office that somehow feels even more airless than the waiting room.

“Go ahead and have a seat,” she says, already pulling up your file on her computer.

You sit. Perch, really. Like you’re ready to leave at any second.

“I’m just going to go over a few things with you,” she continues, polite but efficient. “Then we’ll see what you qualify for, okay?”

“Okay.”

Your voice sounds normal. You’re almost annoyed by it.

She starts with the easy stuff.

Name.

Address.

Employment.

You answer those without thinking. You’ve had practice. You’ve been surviving on autopilot for three months now. You can recite your own situation like it belongs to someone else.

“Full-time bartender,” she repeats, typing. “And no current insurance?”

“Right.”

“Okay.”

More typing.

“Are you currently pregnant?”

Your fingers curl slightly against your knee.

“Yes.”

She nods like that’s just another box to check. Because to her, it is.

“Alright. And approximately how far along are you?”

“About twelve weeks.”

You say it clean. Like it doesn’t mean anything.

She clicks something, then scrolls.

“Okay. And your household size would be…?”

“One.”

Your answer comes too fast.

She pauses. Looks up.

“Just you?”

“Yes.”

Another pause. This one is longer.

“And the baby, once born, would count toward household size, but for now we also need to account for the other parent if applicable.”

Your stomach drops. You keep your face neutral.

“There isn’t—” you start, already trying to step around it. “It’s just me.”

She gives you a small, practiced smile.

“I understand. I just need to ask, are you currently married?”

There it is. You feel it hit before you answer. That same tight, trapped feeling from the kitchen. From the test. From seeing the word sitting there like a dare.

You hesitate. Just for a second. But she notices. They always notice.

“Yes,” you say finally.

The word tastes awful.

Her fingers move again across the keyboard.

“Okay. And is your spouse currently living with you?”

“No.”

“Are you separated?”

“…Yes.”

That one comes out slower. Less certain.

She nods, still calm, still professional.

“Alright. I’m going to need some information about him as well.”

Of course you are.

Your jaw tightens.

“I don’t have that.”

She glances up again, this time with a little more focus.

“You don’t have any of his information?”

“I have his name.”

It sounds worse out loud. More ridiculous. More real.

She tilts her head slightly, not unkind, just assessing.

“Okay. We’ll start with that. What’s his full name?”

You swallow once.

“Michael Robinavitch.”

She types it in.

“Do you know where he’s employed?”

“No.”

“Approximate income?”

“No.”

“Last known address?”

“No.”

Each answer lands flatter than the last. The room feels smaller with every one.

She pauses typing. Looks at you again.

“Okay,” she says carefully. “In order to determine eligibility, we do need to consider spousal income unless you’re legally separated or in the process of divorce.”

There it is. The part you were hoping to avoid.

Your fingers press harder into your knee.

“I’m not—” you start, then stop. “We’re not… together.”

“I understand,” she says gently. “But legally, you’re still married. So unless there’s documentation of separation or divorce proceedings, we have to include him in your case.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it. Short. Sharp.

“Include him?” you repeat.

Like he’s a person you can just reach out and grab. Like he didn’t disappear. Like he exists anywhere in your life outside of paperwork and a memory you didn’t ask to keep.

Her expression softens slightly, but she doesn’t back off.

“If you’re unable to provide that information, it may delay or affect your eligibility. Another option would be to begin the process of legal separation or divorce. Once that’s documented, we can reassess based on your individual income.”

There it is. Clean. Simple. Unavoidable.

Your chest tightens. Because suddenly this isn’t theoretical anymore. This isn’t something you can keep shoving into drawers and closets and the back of your head.

This is real. This is paperwork. This is access to care. This is your life narrowing down into one very specific, very inconvenient truth. You are still married. And it matters now.

Your gaze drops to her desk. To your file. To your name sitting there next to his. Tethered. Whether you like it or not.

“Okay,” you say, quieter now.

But steadier.

“What do I need to do?”

You don’t remember standing up.

One second you’re sitting there staring at your file on her desk like maybe if you look hard enough it’ll rearrange itself into a life you actually recognize, and the next you’re on your feet with your bag over your shoulder and a polite, numb little smile stretched across your face like you borrowed it from somebody more functional.

The woman says something about documentation. About bringing in what you can. About calling if you have questions.

You nod like any of it is reaching you. It isn’t.

The hallway feels too bright on the way back out. Too narrow. Too hot.

The waiting room is still full of the same terrible little sounds it was making before, the television no one is watching, the crying toddler, papers shuffling, somebody coughing like they’ve committed to making it everyone else’s problem.

And all of it feels wrong somehow. Off. Like the room kept going while something in your life quietly shifted underneath it.

You push through the front doors and the air outside hits you hard and dry. It should feel better. It doesn’t. It just feels different.

You keep walking anyway. Past the bench by the entrance. Past the sad little patch of landscaping with the dying shrub somebody probably planted with good intentions and no budget. All the way to your car.

You unlock it on the second try because your fingers are shaking just enough to piss you off, then slide into the driver’s seat and shut the door.

Silence. Not real silence. Parking-lot silence. Distant traffic. An engine starting two rows over. Someone’s bass too loud through rolled-up windows. But compared to inside, it feels empty enough to break in.

You drop your bag into the passenger seat and just sit there. Hands still on the wheel. Eyes straight ahead. Breathing like you ran here.

You are still married.

The thought lands different now. Cleaner. Meaner. Not a stupid secret tucked into a drawer. Not a funny story gone bad. Not something you can ignore because you’re not dating and you’re not trying to remarry and it doesn’t matter in any practical, adult way.

It matters. It matters when somebody behind a desk looks you in the eye and asks for your husband’s income. It matters when your access to care gets tied to a man you cannot locate. It matters when your own life gets reduced to required fields you can’t fill in because the person attached to them walked out before sunrise and apparently took the rest of himself with him.

A laugh slips out. Short. Sharp. Ugly.

“Unbelievable.”

You say it to the windshield. To the steering wheel. To the whole idiotic situation.

Because of course. Of course it comes down to paperwork. Of course the thing that finally makes this real isn’t the chapel or the ring or even the test. It’s a woman in a county office saying, gently and professionally, that your husband counts.

Your husband.

The phrase makes something hot twist under your ribs.

You let your head fall back against the seat.

“Husband,” you mutter, staring at the roof of the car. “That’s insane.”

But it is. It’s insane and humiliating and apparently legally relevant, which feels like a personal attack.

You close your eyes. The office comes back in ugly little flashes.

I’m going to need some information about him as well.

We have to include him in your case.

Unless you’re legally separated or in the process of divorce.

That last one digs in the deepest.

Divorce.

The word lands heavier now than it ever has before, because until this moment it was theoretical.

A someday problem.

A thing normal people handled when they had time, money, clarity, and maybe a marriage that lasted longer than a hotel minibar tab.

Now it isn’t theoretical. Now it’s a gate. A locked one. And Michael is standing on the other side of it without even knowing it exists.

Your eyes open again. Anger comes back fast.

Good.

Anger is better than embarrassment. Anger is better than the other thing threatening underneath it, the panic, the helplessness, the horrible little pulse of, “What am I supposed to do now?”

Because what are you supposed to do?

Call him?

You bark out another laugh.

No.

Can’t call a man whose number you do not have. Can’t ask questions you have no way of asking. Can’t file paperwork with a ghost.

That thought hardens something in you.

You sit up straighter.

Look out through the windshield at the rows of parked cars shimmering faintly in the heat.

A legal husband who might as well be a rumor.

Great. Fantastic. That’s sustainable.

Your fingers tighten around the steering wheel.

“He really just left,” you say out loud.

Hearing it makes it worse. Not because you didn’t already know it. Because now it sounds exactly as pathetic and infuriating as it is.

He really just left. Left you in a hotel room. Left you with a certificate. Left you with his name and nothing else.

And now somehow you are the one stuck doing all the humiliating parts, sitting in a benefits office, admitting out loud that you don’t know where your own husband works, what he makes, where he lives, how to reach him.

Your face burns just thinking about it. You grip the wheel harder.

“No,” you mutter.

Not no to the facts. 

No to this. 

To sitting here and letting him stay abstract. To pretending it’ll somehow fix itself if you keep ignoring it.

Because it won’t. It’s already not.

Your gaze drops to your bag. To the folder sticking half out of it with the paperwork they handed back to you.

The neat stack of forms.

The calm little checklist of things you need.

Proof.

Documentation.

Information.

As if any of that is just lying around waiting for you to get organized.

You stare at it for a long second. Then look away. Then back again.

And there it is.

Not clarity, exactly. Nothing that generous. Just a hard, bitter sort of inevitability.

You have to find him. Not because you want him. Not because you’re suddenly interested in reopening the worst night of your life and examining it from all angles like maybe there was secret meaning hiding in the minibar peanuts and chapel lighting. Not because you need emotional closure.

God, no.

You need paperwork. You need this fixed. You need him to stop being a legal problem and start being a person with an address, a job, and a signature.

That’s it. That’s all.

The lie settles fast and easy because it’s practical, and practical feels safer than honest. You don’t need anything from Michael except cooperation.

Maybe a completed form. Maybe divorce papers. Maybe the decency he didn’t bother showing you the first time.

You swallow hard and reach for your bag. Your hands are steady now. That almost annoys you more than the shaking did. You pull the folder out. Flip through the pages without really reading them. Your own name. Blank spaces. Notes in the margin. A list of documents they’ll need.

Then, underneath that, your eyes snag on the line you already know is there.

Spouse information.

Your jaw tightens.

“Yeah,” you mutter. “I got it.”

The paper, unsurprisingly, offers no apology.

You shove the forms back into the folder and toss it onto the passenger seat.

Then you start the car. Not because you know exactly what comes next. You don’t. Not fully. But because sitting in this parking lot isn’t going to turn him into a divorced man with a forwarding address. And because for the first time since that hotel room, pretending it doesn’t matter has stopped working.

By the time you pull out of the lot, one thing has settled into place with ugly, perfect certainty:

You are going to find Michael Robinavitch.

And when you do, he is going to fix this.

—

You go home. Not because you have a plan. Because anger gives you momentum, and you know better than to waste it.

The second you stop moving, this might turn back into humiliation. Into panic. Into that trapped, sick feeling from the office when a stranger looked you in the eye and calmly explained that your husband still counted.

So you keep moving. Through traffic. Through red lights that feel longer than they should. Through the same city that looked exactly the same this morning and somehow doesn’t now. By the time you get back to your apartment, your jaw aches from how hard you’ve been clenching it.

You let yourself in, kick the door shut behind you, and head straight for the closet. No pause. No hesitation.

You yank the box down from the shelf hard enough that one of your old heels topples sideways and hits the floor. You leave it there. The marriage certificate is still folded inside. Still real. Still official. Still just as stupid as it was the first time you read it. You carry it to the kitchen table and flatten it out with both hands. The paper crackles under your palms.

Your name. His name. A government seal. Signatures. Proof that one reckless night apparently had stronger follow-through than most actual relationships.

You stare at his name.

Michael Robinavitch.

Your jaw tightens.

“Unbelievable.”

Then you reach for your laptop. The search bar blinks at you. For one second, you just sit there, fingers hovering over the keys, hit by the very irritating reality that this is what your life has come to. Googling your husband.

A man you barely know. A man who walked out before morning. A man you now apparently need in order to get basic medical care.

Humiliating.

You type anyway.

Michael Robinavitch Pittsburgh

Search.

The page loads.

And there—

You go still.

A hospital result.

You click it.

The page opens clean and clinical, all neutral colors and polished formatting, like the kind of place that has its life together in a way yours currently does not. 

And then you see it. A photo. Him. No question. No hesitation. It’s him. Same face. Same eyes. Just sharper somehow. Pulled together. Professional. Contained.

Michael Robinavitch, MD

Emergency Medicine — Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center

You stare at the screen.

A doctor.

The word doesn’t settle right.

Not because it doesn’t make sense. You remember the way he talked, the way he carried himself. But because of the timing of it. Because while you’ve spent the last three months stretching tips and cutting corners and pretending everything is fine—

He’s this. A doctor. At a trauma center. With a hospital profile and a professional headshot and what looks like a life that did not pause for even one second after that night.

Your mouth tightens.

“Wow.”

It comes out flat. Sharp. 

Because of course. Of course the man who disappeared on you has a stable, high-paying, respectable career while you’re standing in your kitchen doing mental math over groceries and gas. Of course he does.

Your eyes flick back to his title.

Emergency Medicine.

You let out a short, humorless breath.

“Yeah. That fucking tracks.”

Because something about that makes it worse.

He shows up for strangers. He builds a career on responsibility. He gets to be the kind of man people trust in an emergency and he could not even stay long enough to say goodbye.

Your hand presses flat against the table. Hard.

“He’s a fucking doctor,” you mutter, disbelief twisting into something hotter. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Because that changes things. Not emotionally. Practically. Because if he’s a doctor, then he has income. Insurance. Stability. Everything the woman in that office just made painfully clear you do not have access to without him.

Your jaw sets. 

So no. He does not get to disappear. Not anymore. Not when his name is the reason you got stalled trying to get care. Not when his life is stable enough to be listed neatly on a hospital website while yours is barely holding together with tips and denial.

Your gaze drops back to the screen.

To him.

Michael Robinavitch, MD.

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

You say it under your breath once, committing it.

Then lean back slowly in your chair.

Pittsburgh.

The distance hits you a second later. Not close. Not convenient. Not something you fix on your lunch break.

Your eyes flick to the hospital number on the page. You stare at it. For one second. Two.

Then shake your head.

“No.”

You are not calling. You are not giving him the chance to ignore you from a safe distance. Not giving him a voicemail he can put off. Not giving him a receptionist to hide behind. Not giving him the option to decide when or whether to deal with you.

He already disappeared once. You are not handing him the chance to do it again.

If this is happening—

When this happens—

It happens in person.

That decision settles into you fast. Heavy. Certain.

Not because it’s easy. Because it’s the only version that doesn’t make you feel completely powerless.

You close the laptop halfway.

Then open it again.

New search.

Vegas to Pittsburgh drive time.

The map loads. Long. Inconvenient. Completely unreasonable. Doable.

You stare at it.

Then let out one short, disbelieving laugh. Because of course. Of course this is what it’s come to. A road trip across state lines to track down your legal husband because the government needs his information and he couldn’t even be bothered to exist in your life long enough to give it to you.

Your fingers tap once against the table. Decision already forming.

Because what’s the alternative?

Wait?

Keep struggling?

Keep getting blocked because of a man who walked out of your life like it meant nothing?

No.

Your jaw tightens again. You look back at the route. Then at his name still open in the other tab.

Michael Robinavitch.

You nod once. Sharp. Resolved.

“Yeah,” you mutter. “No. We’re not doing this long distance.”

You close the laptop. Push back from the table.

And just like that—

Your life changes direction.

—

By the time the Vegas skyline disappears in your rearview mirror, you’ve already had three separate chances to turn around.

You don’t take any of them.

The first is when you stop for gas just outside the city and stand there at the pump with the nozzle in your hand, staring at the numbers climbing higher than you want them to.

The second is twenty minutes later when your phone reroutes around traffic and the blue line on the map suddenly looks even longer, stretching east in a way that feels almost mocking.

The third is quieter.

Meaner.

It happens somewhere out on the highway when the city finally drops away behind you and there’s nothing left but open road, the low hum of your tires, and the deeply irritating reality that you are actually doing this.

Actually driving to Pittsburgh. Actually crossing state lines to track down the man you accidentally married in Vegas because the government needs his information and apparently your life now runs on administrative humiliation.

You tighten your grip on the steering wheel.

“Nope,” you mutter to the windshield. “Still stupid.”

The windshield offers no argument.

Outside, the desert stretches wide and flat and sun-bleached in every direction, all washed-out beige and heat shimmer. The road unfurls ahead in one long ribbon, endless and indifferent. You keep your eyes on it.

There is no romance in this. No impulsive-freedom montage. No cinematic sense of reinvention. You are not a woman boldly reclaiming her life on the open road. You are tired, pregnant, underfunded, and angry enough to weaponize a Honda Civic.

That’s it.

That’s the vibe.

Your overnight bag is in the backseat next to a grocery bag full of snacks, bottled water, prenatal vitamins, and the folder with all the paperwork that started this in the first place. The marriage certificate is tucked inside, because of course it is. Because apparently you are now the kind of person who travels with legal proof of catastrophic decision-making.

The thought almost makes you laugh. Almost.

You flick on the turn signal, pass a semi, and settle back into the right lane. The road noise fills up the car. It leaves too much room to think anyway.

That’s the problem with driving. There is nothing to do but move and think and move and think, and your brain has never been a particularly cooperative travel companion.

So naturally, it starts in on him.

Michael.

His face in that hospital headshot. Too calm. Too polished. Too professional.

Michael Robinavitch, MD.

Emergency Medicine.

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

The title still makes your jaw tighten every time it drifts through your head. A doctor. A whole emergency medicine doctor.

You blow out a breath through your nose, somewhere between a laugh and a curse. 

Because of course he is. Of course the man who vanished before sunrise has a respectable career, a hospital profile, and probably health insurance good enough that he has never once had to sit in a county office being told his spouse counts.

Meanwhile you are out here rationing gas station snacks and trying not to think too hard about your checking account.

That part burns all over again. Not because you want his money. You don’t. You want him to stop being a problem. You want him to fill out whatever needs filling out, sign whatever needs signing, and stop existing as this infuriating little legal knot in the middle of your life.

That’s all. That’s what you keep telling yourself, anyway.

You shift in your seat and adjust the air vent, angling it away from your face. The last thing you need is to feel car-sick on top of everything else. The morning nausea has mostly backed off these days, but it still likes to ambush you when you get too warm, too hungry, or too cocky.

You reach blindly into the passenger seat for the water bottle you left there and take a sip.

Warm already.

Gross.

You drink it anyway.

A green highway sign flashes by overhead. You don’t read it fast enough to keep it.

Good.

You don’t need landmarks yet. You need distance. Hours. Progress. Something you can measure without getting emotional about it.

You glance at the clock on the dash. Still early enough that the day feels enormous. Still early enough that Pittsburgh doesn’t feel real.

Right now it’s just a destination on your phone and a tightening in your chest every time you remember why you’re headed there.

You wonder, not for the first time, what exactly you’re going to say when you see him. The thought arrives uninvited and immediately starts making trouble.

Do you walk in calm? Do you throw the paperwork at him? Do you start with the marriage certificate? Do you start with the fact that you needed him and he was nowhere? Do you say “Hi, remember me?” Do you say “Congratulations on the medical degree and the abandonment issues?”

You snort once despite yourself.

It’s not funny. It’s just that at some point the sheer absurdity of your life becomes impossible not to acknowledge. 

You’re road-tripping to Pennsylvania to confront your husband.

Your husband.

That word still sounds fake in your own head.

It sounded fake in Vegas too, honestly, but Vegas had the decency to make everything sound fake. Neon does that. Champagne does that. Chapel music and a clearance bridal veil definitely do that.

The problem is that none of it stayed fake. The ring in your bag isn’t fake. The certificate isn’t fake. The test definitely wasn’t fake. And the baby shifting the shape of your life mile by mile is about as real as anything has ever been.

Your hand moves to your stomach before you think about it. A quick, unconscious press through the fabric of your shirt. You catch yourself and pull it back to the wheel almost immediately.

It’s still strange, that instinct. Still a little startling. Still something you don’t know what to do with.

You keep driving.

The radio stays low, more background than actual listening. Every so often a song comes on that annoys you for reasons you can’t articulate and you switch stations. Then switch back. Then finally turn it down until all you can really hear is tires on asphalt and the occasional rattle from something in the backseat every time you hit a rough patch of road.

A few hours in, you stop at a gas station somewhere ugly and forgettable. The kind of place that looks tired even in daylight. You park near the side, sit for a second, then gather your phone and wallet and step out into air that feels different than Vegas but not better. Just less familiar.

Inside, the fluorescent lights buzz softly overhead. The coffee smells burnt. The roller grill is an active threat. You head straight for the bathroom. When you catch your reflection over the sink, it throws you a little.

Not because anything dramatic has changed since this morning. Because you look exactly like someone driving across the country fueled almost entirely by spite. Hair pulled back badly. Tired eyes. Mouth set hard.

You wash your hands longer than necessary and stare at yourself in the mirror.

“This is insane,” you tell your reflection.

Your reflection, annoyingly, does not disagree.

Back in the store, you buy crackers, a bottle of juice, and one of those little peanut butter snack packs you know you’re going to resent later but buy anyway because the alternative is nausea and self-pity.

At the register, the cashier barely glances at you.

“Long drive?”

You freeze for half a beat.

Then force your face neutral. “Yeah.”

He nods like that explains everything.

You want to ask him if it explains “tracking down my estranged Vegas husband because state assistance says he counts,” but you suspect that might slow the line down.

So you take your bag and leave.

Back in the car, you eat three crackers before you even start the engine again. Then four more. Then sit there chewing and staring out through the windshield while a pickup truck pulls in crooked two spaces over.

This is really happening. You are really doing this. There is no plan beyond get there. No real script beyond anger and paperwork and the certainty that whatever happens next, Michael Robinavitch is going to have to look at you and deal with the fact that he does not get to be theoretical anymore.

That thought steadies you better than anything else has.

You start the car. Pull back onto the highway. Keep going.

By the time afternoon starts fading toward evening, the road has changed shape a dozen times. Flat to hilly. Open to crowded. Long stretches of nothing broken up by exits with chain restaurants and gas stations and the same three hotel brands pretending to be different in increasingly depressing color palettes.

You pass trucks, towns, weathered billboards, churches, overpasses, construction zones, and enough license plates from enough states to remind you that the whole country is apparently in motion except the one man who should have been easy to find.

You keep thinking about the first thing you’ll see when you get there. Not Pittsburgh. Him.

Will he look the same in person as he did in that headshot? More tired? More real? Will he recognize you right away? Will his face change? Will he look guilty? Will he look confused? Will he have the nerve to look inconvenienced?

That last thought spikes so hard it makes your pulse kick.

“Oh, don’t even,” you mutter.

You can already feel the fury that would bring.

If he looks at you like you are the disruption here, like you are the one who showed up dragging trouble behind you instead of the woman he married and abandoned with a legal mess and a baby on the way, you may actually lose your mind in a hospital hallway.

Good to know in advance, at least.

You drive until the light starts going gold and thin around the edges. Until your shoulders ache. Until your lower back starts complaining. Until the blue line on the map gets shorter in ways that still don’t feel fast enough.

You’ll need a motel soon. Maybe food. Definitely a real bathroom that doesn’t smell like industrial cleaner and despair. But for now you keep going. Hands steady on the wheel. Eyes on the road. Anger packed neatly under your ribs like fuel. Because turning back is not an option anymore. 

And somewhere ahead of you, in Pittsburgh, Michael Robinavitch is still living like none of this has reached him.

Not for much longer.

—

By the time Pittsburgh finally rises up around you, your whole body feels wrung out.

Not just tired.

Used up.

The kind of exhaustion that settles into your shoulders and behind your eyes and makes every red light feel personal.

The city comes at you in pieces first, bridges, overpasses, concrete, flashes of skyline caught between buildings, then all at once, dense and gray and real in a way Vegas never is. Vegas performs. Pittsburgh doesn’t seem interested in that. It just exists. Heavy. Working. Unapologetic.

Your GPS keeps talking in that calm, neutral voice that makes you want to throw your phone out the window.

In half a mile, keep left.

At the light, turn right.

Like this is normal. Like people do this every day. Like it’s ordinary to drive across the country to confront the man who married you in Vegas and then disappeared before morning.

Your fingers tighten on the wheel.

“Great,” you mutter. “Fantastic.”

You haven’t slept enough. You haven’t eaten enough. Your back aches, your hips ache, and your patience burned off somewhere around Ohio. What’s left is adrenaline, stubbornness, and a thin, mean edge of anger that has kept you moving this whole time.

Because if you stop being angry, this becomes terrifying.

And you do not have the energy to be terrified yet.

Traffic thickens as you get closer. Cars hemming you in. Brake lights flashing ahead of you. The city narrowing around you with every turn your GPS makes. A bridge. A tunnel. Another light. Another turn.

Then—

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

The sign appears so suddenly it almost doesn’t register.

Until it does.

And then your stomach drops. Not because you didn’t know where you were going. Because now it’s here.

Real.

A building.

A place.

His place.

You pull into the hospital drive more slowly than you mean to, eyes tracking over the entrance, the ambulance bay, the people moving in and out under fluorescent light and late-afternoon gray. Families gathered in little tense knots. Staff in scrubs walking fast enough to say they’re busy without having to tell anyone.

A real hospital.

His hospital.

Of course.

Of course while you’ve been stretching tips, dodging bills, and getting lectured by caseworkers about your husband’s income, he’s been here.

Being a doctor.

Saving people.

Having a normal, respectable life with a hospital badge and a salary that probably covers more in a month than you’ve seen in a long time.

Your jaw tightens hard enough to hurt.

Of course he has.

You park in visitor parking and kill the engine. Silence drops around you. Not real silence. Never real silence. There’s traffic somewhere, a car door slamming, the cooling tick of your engine, somebody laughing too loudly two rows over.

But inside the car, it feels close enough.

You don’t move right away. Your hands stay on the wheel. Your eyes stay on the hospital.

Because getting here was one thing. Walking in is another. Seeing him is another. Because in another minute, maybe less, this stops being paperwork and turns back into a person. And if that person has the nerve to look at you like you’re the complication here, you’re going to say something neither of you can take back. 

That thought cuts clean through the nerves. You can work with that.

You reach for your bag, then the folder. The paperwork is inside. The marriage certificate is inside. The whole reason you’re here is inside.

Your hand brushes your shirt on the way back and catches on the ring.

You look down.

Cheap silver band. Tiny stone. Still tacky. Still real.

Good.

Let it be seen. Let him see it. Let anybody in that ER with functioning eyesight see exactly what this is before he gets the chance to act confused.

You shove your door open, get out, and slam it harder than necessary.

The air is cooler than Vegas. Damp in a way that sits differently on your skin. The hospital looms ahead of you all glass and concrete and motion, and for one ugly second you feel very small in front of it.

Then the anger comes back as you start walking. Fast enough to keep from thinking.

The emergency department is chaos the second you step into it. Not dramatic chaos. Not television chaos. Just real ER chaos. Too many people, too much noise, too much waiting and movement happening in the same space.

Every chair in the waiting area looks occupied. A little kid is crying somewhere off to your left. Somebody’s coughing. Somebody else is arguing with a clerk at the far end. Phones are ringing behind the desk. A television bolted to the wall is on, but nobody is really watching it. The lights overhead are fluorescent and unforgiving, flattening everything into the same tired shade of too much.

The air smells like disinfectant and stress.

It hits you hard.

Not because you’ve never been in an ER before. Because you have. Because your body knows this place even when your brain doesn’t.

Not this hospital.

But enough.

Enough that you clock the pressure points without meaning to. Who’s been waiting too long. Who’s about to snap. Who behind the desk is handling too many things at once. Where not to stand if you don’t want to be in someone’s way.

For one disorienting second, it knocks against something in you that still remembers working at the VA. The pace. The pressure. The constant low-grade triage of everybody’s needs, including your own.

Then that’s gone too.

Replaced by the sharp, ugly reminder that you are not here to work.

You are here because of him. 

You head for the desk.

The woman behind it looks up right away. Middle-aged. Hispanic. The kind of face that has seen a hundred versions of panic, anger, grief, and entitlement in one shift and knows how to meet all of them with the same steady eyes.

She looks directly at you.

Not rude. Not warm either. Just attentive.

“Can I help you?”

You open your mouth.

Nothing comes out.

For half a second, you just stand there, exhausted and furious and suddenly aware of how insane this probably sounds.

You didn’t drive across the country to choke now.

You swallow once.

“I need to see Dr. Michael Robinavitch.”

Her eyes stay on yours.

“Do you have an appointment?”

A short, disbelieving breath leaves you.

“Not exactly.”

“Is this about a patient?”

“No.”

Too fast. Too sharp.

You see her take that in without reacting to it. She glances down briefly, then back up.

“Dr. Robinavitch is busy right now,” she says. “If this isn’t urgent, I can take a message.”

There it is.

That calm, professional distance. That easy little wall hospitals are good at putting up. The kind that might have worked on anyone else.

Not today.

Your fingers tighten around the folder so hard the edges bite into your palm. You can feel the ring on your other hand like a pulse.

“No.”

The word comes out flat.

Then steadier:

“Then let him know his wife is here.”

That gets her.

Not dramatically. She doesn’t gape. She doesn’t recoil. But her eyes flick down for the first time, straight to your hand resting on the counter.

To the ring.

Then back up to your face.

Good.

Let her see it.

You wore it for a reason. Not because it belongs there. Because today it’s proof.

For one beat, she says nothing.

The sounds around you keep going, but they feel farther away now. Or maybe your pulse is just louder.

“I’m sorry?” she says carefully.

“You heard me.”

Your voice is colder now. Cleaner. Less shaky than you feel.

“Tell Dr. Robinavitch his wife is here.”

That changes the air.

Not silence.

But a shift.

A couple people in the waiting room glance over. Somebody behind the desk pauses. Another staff member looks up and then very deliberately looks back down.

The woman studies you for one more second.

Then nods once.

“Alright.”

She stands.

“I’m Lupe.”

“I’m not leaving until I see him.”

“I figured,” she says.

Still calm. Still making eye contact. Still not rude. Just certain.

“Come with me.”

For half a second, you almost refuse on instinct. Not because you don’t want to go. Because you don’t want to be moved. Handled. Managed.

But there’s something in the way Lupe says it that makes it clear she’s not brushing you off.

She’s taking you to him.

So you nod once.

Lupe leads you straight back.

No elevator. No clean separation between waiting room and whatever this is. Just through the open churn of the ER and deeper into it, like stepping across an invisible line.

The noise changes as you go.

Gets closer. Sharper.

Phones. Voices. Monitors. The clipped pace of people who are working too fast to afford mistakes.

Your body starts adjusting automatically. Small things. Staying to the side. Not blocking a path. Reading who’s moving where without really trying.

You hate how natural it feels.

Lupe glances back once like she notices.

Then she slows. Not enough to make it obvious. Just enough.

“Right there,” she says quietly.

You follow her gaze.

And there—

There he is.

Turned halfway away from you, talking to someone with a chart in his hand. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. Familiar in a way that lands before your brain can catch up.

Everything in you goes still.

Lupe lifts her voice just enough.

“Dr. Robby.”

He turns.

And there he is.

Not a photo.

Not a memory.

Him.

More tired than the headshot.

More real.

And for one long, awful second, the whole room narrows down to his face as recognition hits.

You see it happen.

The pause.

The stillness.

The way something drops out from under his expression before he can cover it.

Good.

Let him feel it.

His eyes go to your face.

Then your hand.

The ring.

That lands too.

He says your name like it slips out before he can stop it.

Barely above a breath.

And that—

That lights the match.

Because he remembers.

Of course he does.

You step forward.

Then again.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

Low. Controlled. Stunned in that careful way people get when they are trying very hard not to let a room see them unravel.

For a second, you almost laugh.

“What am I doing here?”

Then you step closer.

“You have got some nerve.”

Around you, the ER keeps moving.

But not like before.

Close enough now to feel people listening.

His jaw tightens.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

That almost makes you smile.

Not because it’s funny.

Because it’s unbelievable.

“Oh, I shouldn’t be here?”

He glances around once, quick, taking in exactly how many people are absolutely not paying attention.

And that’s when you do it.

You lift your hand.

The one with the ring.

High enough for him to see it clearly.

High enough for anyone else nearby to clock it if they want.

Then you flip him off with your ring finger.

Sharp.

Deliberate.

Mean enough to feel good.

His face changes.

There it is.

That hit.

That recognition he cannot talk his way around.

You don’t lower your hand right away. You let him look at it. At the ring. At the finger. At the reality of what he left behind.

Then you meet his eyes.

And say, low and cutting—

“You have the fucking audacity,” you say, looking him dead in the eye, “to leave your wife in Vegas without even saying goodbye.”

Tags: @kitkat1690 @little-mini-me-world @marisol4k @shashasimba1996 @karlawithacapitalk @robinavitchswhore @borbalalikesdocs @3-smi

[somethingeh]

Paging Dr. Worrywart

pairing - michael “robby” robinavitch x reader

word count - 7.1k

summary - you love your husband. you just don’t need him breathing down your back.

cw - pregnancy, contractions, hint of sub robby if you squint (totally sfw)

a/n - reader is older, sorry if it’s not your thing. tbh i HATE age gaps and will never do an explicit one, but i’m not here to shit on anyone’s parade so i try to make readers as ambiguous as possible. But for this it was part of the story. i think this turned out really cute and lmk if you want more, like it could become a little collection of one shots in the same universe for girl dad robby if ppl are into it. love a reader who takes no shit from this man, he needs to be humbled sometimes. also i used google translate for the tagalog, so apologies for the errors. enjoy!

—

You hadn’t always wanted a family. You weren’t one of those little girls playing house, rocking baby dolls and picking out your future children’s names. You didn’t put a pillowcase on your head and walk down the “aisle,” or wrap twist ties around your ring finger.

It wasn’t that you were opposed to such things. You just had other things on your mind.

You remembered getting your first doctor play kit on your seventh birthday, and falling in love. Your stuffed animals and barbie dolls might not have been lined up to watch a wedding, but they did get routine checkups; you didn’t often pull out the princess dresses, but you’d put tinkerbell wings over your lab coat. Your little sisters learned to run to you when they bumped their heads or skinned their knees. You’d get an ice pack or a bandaid, then listened to their heart and lungs with your plastic stethoscope, “just in case”.

So the second you turned eighteen, you took off running. You finished your undergrad early, went to Harvard for four years, completing rotations at some of the most prestigious institutions in the country. It was halfway through your residency you decided to freeze your eggs. Having kids sounded nice, with the right person, at the right time. But you knew you didn’t have the time or motivation to put the amount of energy into parenting or a relationship that it would need, and that you wouldn’t anytime soon. You also wanted someone different than the young boys you had been dating, someone committed. You wanted someone with more free time, who could look after the kids and the house, and still support your career.

Perhaps you didn’t quite get that last bit. Because when you walked into PTMC, your first attending shift all those years ago, it was Michael Robinavitch who greeted you. He was rough around the edges, a workaholic, with a spotty dating record. Not exactly the stable presence you were looking for.

Even still, through your hesitancy, he had proved himself to be a real sweetheart. He had also quickly become infatuated with you. He’d watch you with those puppy dog eyes across the ER, call you to consult on cases he didn’t need you for, offer you rides home, which you never accepted. You didn’t like the idea of losing all your limbs in a gruesome motorcycle crash, funnily enough.

You didn’t make it easy on him. You didn’t say yes the first time he asked you out, nor the second, nor the third. You knew his reputation, and you knew what you wanted. And you were not in the business of wasting time so some guy could get his rocks off only to ditch you a few weeks later. No matter how cute that guy was.

“I need someone to have kids with,” you’d said on his third attempt. “Not someone who’s still a kid himself.”

Jack and Dana had laughed themselves silly, and despite Robby’s pride, and the pretty pink blush spreading to the top of his ears, he smiled so softly at you it made your knees weak.

It was a good thing you were born with a strong will — it got you through med school, through residency, and now, through keeping a strong front in the face of Robby’s gorgeous, pleading eyes, and kissable, soft-looking lips. 

But he rose to the occasion, surpassing all your expectations and more. He stopped going out as much, walking in in the morning wearing the same clothes he left in last night. He no longer spent an hour nursing hangovers near the coffee station at the beginning of shifts. He even started going to therapy.

But it was really the way he changed practicing medicine that turned the tides. No longer rushing and rushing, hungry for the next patient, the next trauma, the next bloody case to dig into. He started taking his time, treating the patient as a whole. Maybe his patient satisfaction scores didn’t go up by much, but you could see the difference in the way he carried himself and the heavy experiences you must gain with the job.

When you finally said yes to him, his eyes lit up and a grin filled his face. He practically bounded out of work that day, with a promise to call. And he did, with a fifteen step date plan, that interestingly enough didn’t end with the two of you in bed together. It was a true testament to both his growth, and yours, when it was you who invited him in.

“I just didn’t want you to think that was the only reason I wanted to go out with you,” he had panted against your lips. “I don’t care if it takes one date or twenty. I don’t care if we never have sex.”

You did, though. And as you pressed him against your bedroom door, hands in his hair and his lips on your neck, it was hard to care if you ever saw the man again, as long as he didn’t stop doing what he was doing.

You were eternally grateful you did, however. One date turned into two, which turned into five, which turned into years under your belts.

None of this was to say it was perfect. He left dishes in the sink, and you argued over small things. But never once over the years, as his beard became speckled with gray and he needed reading glasses to see charts, did you think about your relationship ending. You knew it was forever from the first date. He knew it was forever from the moment he met you.

You never got around to documenting your relationship with HR until you showed up one day wearing a sizable diamond on your finger. Gloria wasn’t too happy about it, but Jack and Dana were thrilled. You got married in a small ceremony, in a synagogue, mostly to appease his grandparents. He looked so good with a wedding band, you hardly spent any of your honeymoon out of bed.

With the love of your life secured, it didn’t take long for the next step to become a frequent topic of conversation. Surprising you, as he so often had, Robby was the first to bring up kids. It was when your youngest sister had her second baby, your fourth nephew, that he found his heart aching for a little one of your own. A little baby, half him, half you — or preferably, like 20% him, 80% you. 

The two of you made several trips up the coast to bring frozen lasagna, clean the house, and cuddle little Albie, and each time, Robby felt his heart grow a size. He hadn’t yearned for something so much since he started working with you. 

You were the oldest sister, but the last to settle down. With Robby’s constant moon eyes, and your middle sister begging you to give her daughter a girl to play with, what with all the nephews at family gatherings, not to mention your 40th birthday approaching, you decided to start talking with the fertility clinic about unfreezing some of your eggs.

Robby was ecstatic. You moved out of your city apartment and into a big suburban home with a sprawling back yard and a sunroom, not to mention a fireplace in the primary bedroom, or the clawfoot tub in the ensuite bathroom. The major selling point was good schools and a two car garage. And, as Robby was too quick to point out, plenty of space for a second or third child, if you so chose. 

Robby sold his motorcycle  in return for a sensible SUV with lane protection and a built in vacuum. You found yourself on mommy blogs researching the best strollers, and despite his already extensive anatomical and physiological knowledge, Robby was loading up on baby books, all he could get his hands on — about birth, about pregnancy, about parenting, even some books of baby names.

And suddenly, the phase of life you once found so mundane, was consuming your every thought. You were alive with excitement at the mere prospect of a little babe in your arms, picking out onesies and cribs, pondering your birth plan, whether you’d want to breast or bottlefeed. 

But then came COVID. And the natural progression of things, the path you’d been following so perfectly, was interrupted. 

You and Robby were working double after double, risking your lives, and barely seeing each other. You were more like caffeine depraved zombies, circling each other, than husband and wife. As soon as one of you got home and collapsed into bed, the other was due at the hospital.

Then Dr. Adamson passed away. You watched helplessly as Robby went through all stages of grief. Despite what they teach you in psych rotation, it was hardly a linear process. When you lost someone as close to you as Adamson was to Robby, you felt everything at once, and nothing at the same time. You’d deny, then bargain, then explode with misplaced rage, then go backwards.

Robby kept the anger with him for weeks, and threw himself into work rather than process it. He became a hazard. Too often, Dana would tag you in just to calm him down before he lashed out at another poor med student. But soon, even you got snapped at. You had to draw the line.

It wasn’t until months later, as precautions were just starting to lift, that Robby let himself be truly vulnerable with you. He broke down, crying like you hadn’t seen in a while. Through tears and gasps, he admitted to you that he needed help, and he wanted to go back to therapy. You cried with him that night, tears of relief, and you knew he would be okay; you would both be okay.

He started weekly sessions again, and you included a monthly couples session for good measure. You had agreed to wait, with heavy hearts, on the baby front. You knew it wouldn’t be good for anyone involved, including the baby, to get into it now. You needed time to heal.

Then one night, as you were reading in bed, one leg hooked over his, he told you. He was ready if you were.

The process was long. The eggs had to be shipped from their original site back in Boston, where you’d been when you’d harvested them, then carefully thawed, inseminated, and placed back into your uterus. Robby made sure you didn’t have to worry about missing out on the old fashioned way, as he said. That man was a whore through and through, and would say anything to get into your pants. To his credit, it usually worked.

Two or three embryos were put in at once, because it wasn’t a guarantee any of them would stick and they wanted the best chance possible. Of course, truly in your fashion, Robby said, ever the over achiever, you managed not only to get pregnant on the first try, but with twins.

You would have laughed at the look on Robby’s face if you weren’t so shocked yourself.

The thing about two babies was, not only would you have to get double the furniture, double the equipment, double the diapers, and double the clothes, that was really no problem — but it also came with higher risk. You were already a “geriatric pregnancy”, a term that never failed to enrage you, but twin pregnancy opened even more doors for complications. Twin-To-Twin Transfusion Syndrome, low birth weight, preterm labor, preeclampsia… 

And you could see all the possibilities, all the worst case scenarios, speeding through his head at the speed of light. From the moment he saw the ultrasounds, with two little sacs, and later, two little heart beats, two little faces, four little hands and four little feet, he carried his anxiety with him in the back of his mind. 

“It’ll be fine, honey,” you said that night, as he lay atop you, with his head against your bloated stomach. “Plenty of people get through twin pregnancy just fine. We’ll be okay.”

He grumbled, pushing your sleep shirt up to press kisses to your stomach.

“I’m supposed to be the one reassuring you.”

“When has that ever been the case?” you asked cheekily, running a hand through his hair.

You were nervous too. You were nervous about giving birth twice, back to back, or if not, a C-section. But as time went on and you progressed through the trimesters, your anxiety started to wane. Or perhaps not wane, but shift. From pregnancy and all it entails, to parenthood, and all that entails.

You passed with flying colors. Good iron, good placental perfusion, good blood pressure at every checkup. You didn’t have HG, or gestational diabetes. With every positive lab result, your worries lessened. But somehow, Robby’s seemed to heighten.

He called Dr. Atwood from OB everytime you so much as hiccuped wrong. She was an old friend, working at PTMC for almost as long as Robby had been, and she made the mistake of telling him to call with any questions. Surely a reasonable grown up and seasoned doctor would have some self control and peace of mind? Wrong.

“Her heart burn keeps her up at night.”

“They babies haven’t kicked in three hours!”

“I know she’s pregnant, but her feet shouldn’t be that swollen, should they?”

And every time, Dr. Atwood told him, “it’s perfectly normal. Schedule an appointment if you’re really worried.”

It’d placate him for a while, but more than once he’d woken up in the middle of the night, restless, and decided to make an unnecessary appointment afterall. Being high risk meant you already had a checkup due every month, twice a month when you reached the third trimester. Robby had the two of you rushing upstairs to Dr. Atwood’s office nearly once a week on top of that.

He allowed himself to be distracted sometimes, to truly enjoy the excitement of becoming parents. There were maternity photos, clothes shopping, names, although that last one could get kind of heated. There was the moment you found out you were having two little girls. He’d cried all night after that. 

Then there was the hormone surge during the second trimester, where all it took for you to jump his bones was the sight of him carrying the groceries, or rolling up his sleeves in the middle of a trauma. You never quite crossed the line on hospital grounds, but there was one time you convinced him to go down on you in the car in the parking lot. Like he needed much convincing.

And he was a doting partner, you knew he would be. He hadn’t been shy about letting you know, when you were pregnant or breastfeeding, you wouldn’t be lifting a finger. He cooked, cleaned, did the laundry, bought the groceries. He insisted on building all the furniture for the nursery, and repainting the nursery, twice, when you suddenly changed your mind. He ran you a bubble bath after every shift, rubbed your feet, and washed your hair. He got up at one in the morning just to fulfill your cravings, whether it was some apple slices and peanut butter from the fridge, or a burger, fries, and shake from the Five Guys 25 miles away.

He was a dream in every other way, so what if he was a little overprotective? You didn’t mind staying off your feet and eating whatever he put in front of you.

The one thing you seriously disagreed on was your working up to your due date.

The realistic due date you were given was 36 weeks, maximum. Assuming you didn’t go into labor before then, which it was beginning to look like you weren’t, you were set to go on maternity leave the very day you reached gestation. You had agreed to that. Robby had tried tirelessly to get you to start it earlier, but you hadn’t budged.

You just couldn’t stand lying around at home with nothing to do. If you laid in bed, your back hurt. If you sat on the couch, your hips hurt. If you stood, your feet hurt. You figured if you were going to be uncomfortable no matter what, you might as well keep things moving and make yourself useful.

Robby knew very well that your body was yours, and therefore what you decided about the pregnancy, went. He just thanked his lucky stars that you didn’t want a home birth — he wasn’t sure his heart would have been able to take the stress.

But if you insisted on working yourself right to the end, he’d have to take some measures to ensure your safety.

Well, that’s what he told himself. To you, it ensured nothing but his piece of mind, if that. See, Robby couldn’t be sure that you weren’t actively dying, bleeding out, and/or in labor unless he had his eyes on you at all times. It didn’t matter that you were constantly surrounded by doctors and nurses, most of whom you already trusted with your life. It didn’t matter that you wore his Apple watch just so he could keep an eye on your heart rate, respirations, and body battery. It didn’t matter that you assured him time and again that he’d be the first person called if he wasn’t around in the case of emergency.

He could not chill the fuck out.

There was no “you” any more. “You” didn’t do anything. It was always “we,” or “us.”

“Oh, the labs are back? Let’s go check.”

“No problem, we can see her.”

“Just let us handle that.”

He was constantly at your shoulder, blocking your path whatever way you turned. Every three hours, on the dot, without fail, he’d pull you into a chair and feed you carrots and hummus, or cheese and crackers, or a granola bar. Every six, it was a full lunch with protein, grains, fats, and plenty of fiber. Every thirty minutes he checked the progress you’d made on your water bottle. He’d marked it with stickers for the amount you were supposed to have drank — 8:30 - 300 mL, 9:00 - 360 mL, on and on. 

You felt like a lab rat. You could feel his eyes on you constantly throughout the day, more than he probably even realized he was glancing over. If he had to take his eyes off of you for an extended period of time, he wanted you close enough to touch. He “suggested” you knock out some charting together.

You didn’t feel disrespected, or babied. He didn’t stop you from performing procedures or examining patients, just so long as he was there to supervise. And there were disqualifying factors to every patient Dana suggested. If they were loud, erratic, or unpredictable? Forget it. If they needed lifting? Yeah right, with the strain already on your ligaments? Got forbid there were unknown infectious disease symptoms. He had even blocked you from common colds, just because “you never know.” 

Unfortunately, that last constraint kept your numbers down by at least half. Anybody who commented had Robby to deal with.

Many onlookers, who could spot an anxious dad-to-be from a mile away, wondered: how could you allow this? You were fundamentally independent, competent, and outspoken. You’d never hesitated to put a man in their place, husband or not. Why did you let him get away with it?

Well, most of the time, whenever Robby could sense your patience wearing thin, he’d remove your belly band, encircle your waist from behind, and lift the weight of the twins off of you. It was a release better than sex. You lean back against him, sighing borderline pornagraphically, and take a truly deep breath.

It wore on throughout the day, the ache of your swollen feet, the heft of the babies pulling at your sore muscles, pressing on your bladder. Your bladder was strong, after so many years holding it until the next scarce break. Yet with increased body volume and decreased bladder volume, you were rushing off to the bathroom about as often as Robby checked  your water bottle. And just to fuck with you, no matter how much time you spent on the toilet, you probably shit once a week. 

Safe to say, by the time you reached 35 weeks, you were fed up. Not just with being pregnant, but with Robby.

“Hey, Mama,” said Princess as you waddled towards the nursing station. “We’re coming along, huh?”

She, Perlah, Dana, and Javadi rounded the counter to crowd you, stroking your belly and commenting on belly size, how big they thought the babies would be, when they thought they’d be born. Ahmad already had a betting board running in the security office, for weight, date, and how many hours you’d be in labor. Robby refused to participate, said it was a gross breach of boundaries and insensitive to your suffering. You had twenty bucks on 36 weeks, eight pounds each, and over 24 hours of labor. The nurses had their own side bet on the color of the baby’s eyes — you’d bet Robby’s brown, but that could have been wishful thinking.

Strangely, you didn’t mind the fussing at all. Having people fawn over you and your belly reminded you of the nice parts to look forward to. You were incredibly lucky to have made it even as far as you had, to even have the babies in the first place, and there was a lot to be excited for. Having your girls with you, watching them grow up, their first Christmakkuhs, birthdays, kindergarten, dressing them up.

Today, though, you were too exhausted even to fawn over teeny tiny baby socks.

“You look exhausted,” said Dana sympathetically, rubbing your shoulders.

The other women hummed in understanding.

“Yeah,” agreed Langdon, who was leaning against a desk munching an apple.

Instantly, everyone’s heads snapped to him, glares set.

“Why would you say that?”

“Inconsiderate, ignorant…”

“Manahimik ka tanga!”

He raised his hands, confused.

“She just said —!”

“Just get out!” said Dana, shoving his arm.

He didn’t hesitate, dodging more punches and sending an incredulous “what’d I do?” look to a passing Donnie, who just shook his head.

Watching Frank get run out of the hub certainly lifted your spirits a bit, but not enough to make you forget or ignore the myriad of aches and pains riddling your creaky body. Robby helped lower you into a chair while you groaned.

Perhaps if you didn’t have two babies, the third trimester could be a magical time, one like the posters of the women at the OB office looked like they were having. But you had to make room for both if you wanted both, and they weren’t petite. Robby had warned you he made big babies, and it didn’t surprise you. And if the heartburn wives tale was any indication, they’d come with Farah Fawcett hair.

Though Robby insisted he didn’t believe any of those old legends, he did start practicing his braiding on you after you mentioned that. Well, that and the fact that lifting your arms behind your head to do your own hair made you short of breath. It was easier to keep them in braids and avoid styling for the most part.

“You okay?” he asked, one hand still on your back.

“I’m fine, Michael,” you said, annoyed. “I’m just sitting down.”

“Okay,” he said calmly.

“Why don’t you go put our stuff away?” you said. “Dana will look after me.”

Dana nodded as Robby hesitantly parted, one bag over his shoulder, the other in the crook of his elbow. The others dispersed as well. As soon as he was gone, you leaned your head back and moaned tiredly. Dana sat down opposite you, hands on your thighs.

“You doing okay, kid?”

You grunted, not lifting your head.

“He’s driving me up the wall,” you hissed. “Can’t leave me alone for five fucking seconds.”

Dana rubbed your knee in comfort, but couldn’t help the small smile.

“He’s just worried about you,” she reasoned. “He wants to make sure you and the babies are okay.”

“Well, I survived just fine before him,” you said, turning in your chair, wincing at the movement of your tight hips. “I’m not gonna drop dead the second he’s not around.”

She shook her head.

“You know that, and I know that,” she said. “And he knows that, in his head, but not in his heart. Sometimes we all let our anxieties control us.”

You leaned your elbow on the desk and rested your cheek in your hand.

“I know,” you said. “Of course, I know. I mean, I’m a mess of hormones and exhaustion, I’ve been a little less rational lately. But I have a better reason. And he has to do what I say!”

Dana chuckled.

“That’s true, he does,” she conceded. “So, talk to him about it. Until you do, why don’t I try and keep him away from ya, huh? I think he’ll be particularly busy today.”

You sighed, gripping her hands as she stood.

“Bless you, you miracle woman you!” you said, just as Robby reappeared.

“What’s up?” he asked. “What did Dana do?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” she joked, grabbing her glasses and a tablet. “Robby, I need you in Central 8. Some guy’s being real resistant, I think talking to the chief attending will calm his nerves.”

“Okay, let's go,” he motioned for you, but Dana stopped him.

“Actually, I need her in South 9,” she said, sending you a wink behind Robby’s back. “Screaming baby, probably just colic, but we’ll see.”

He hesitated.

“Whitaker can do that,” he said, yanking the young man into the conversation by the shoulder. “Can’t you Whitaker?”

He stuttered.

“I don’t know what you're talking about,” he said nervously. “But yes.”

Robby was about to steer you to Central 8 when you grabbed Whitaker by the arm, and started pulling him towards South before anyone could object further.

“Great learning opportunity!” you said behind your shoulder, moving faster than you had in weeks. “See you later, hon!”

You didn’t slow down, didn’t look back, just speed-waddled Whitaker to the right room. He looked incredibly uncertain, but let you drag him around like a ragdoll.

“You have a lot of experience with babies, Dennis?” you asked, pulling on gloves.

“Yeah, actually, a good amount,” he said, grabbing gloves of his own. “All my brothers have kids, and I’ve had my pedes rotation —”

“Well, if Robby asks, you really needed the experience,” you said, shoving the chart into his chest. “Got it?”

He nodded quickly and you entered the room.

You enjoyed pedes cases nowadays. You could sense the parents calming down when they spotted your pregnant belly. Like you knew what you were doing more than a childless doctor. You didn’t need to mention it was your first.

The baby in question, a little seven months old named Elliot, luckily seemed to have nothing wrong with him but a little gas. Still, as he had just started being introduced to solid foods, you suggested the parents take him to an allergist, just to rule out any reactions. If they could identify a food to avoid, it might save them a lot of sleep. Whitaker was barely needed.

You managed to avoid Robby for a few more patients, by ducking in and out of empty exam rooms and supply closets. Dana was your greatest ally, drawing Robby’s attention away from you at every possible opportunity. You survived in chairs with McKay for a while, seeing as Robby rarely ever showed his face out there.

Still, it seemed he was determined enough, as you brought a girl with a sprained wrist back and were met at the doors with his towering figure. His arms were crossed, though you could see the pure fear behind his attempt at a stern expression. You glanced at Lupe through the glass, and she sent you an apologetic shrug.

You skirted around him, but he waved McKay over as he hurried after you. He stepped in front of you again and addressed the patient.

“You’re gonna be helped by Dr. McKay today, okay?” he said, foisting the poor girl off on Cassie. “She’s the best of the best, don’t worry.”

The girl could only nod as Cassie led her away. You fumed, but tried to keep your cool. Once she was gone, you turned to Robby, hands on your hips. He bit his lip.

“Don’t be upset,” he said. “It’s just… we need you more back here, with the traumas.”

That was bullshit. A tame wrist sprain was exactly the type of low risk injury he’d want you to be doing. You took a deep breath. He watched you apprehensively.

“Fine,” you sighed. “Fine. Okay? You can make all the calls for the rest of the shift, and we’ll talk when we get home.”

You turned and walked towards Central, and he hurried after you. You stopped to look up at the board, and he planted himself next to you. He swallowed thickly.

“We’ll talk?” he inquired.

You just spared him a glance, expression neutral.

“We’ll be talking,” you said.

You barely spoke two words to him the rest of the shift outside of patient care. You ate lunch in near silence, while he watched you tentatively, as though waiting for you to explode. You didn’t. You let him dangle in uncertainty all day, until you walked through the door. He followed you into the bedroom and helped you get undressed, then ran a hot bath like usual. He helped you lower yourself into the suds and presented you with a nice, ice cold, caffeine-free Dr. Pepper in a scotch glass with a straw.

You took several long gulps as he watched you, before finally breaking the silence. You set down the glass and took one of his hands in yours.

“Mikey,” you said. “I love you so much. You are absolutely my soulmate. I will always love you, no matter what.”

He eyed you.

“It sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself,” he said, a bit of amusement pulling at his lips.

You smiled.

“But,” you said. “I can’t go on any longer with you hovering the way you do. I know, I know, you’re ensuring safety! Checking in!”

He bit back the words you knew he was itching to say, and rolled his lips. You let go of his hand to take another sip of your soda, knowing that no matter how many words were on the tip of his tongue, he knew better than to cut you off. You licked your lips as you removed the straw.

“I just need space to practice like normal,” you said. “How am I supposed to talk to the young teen about birth control when there’s a man peering over my shoulder? How am I — either of us — supposed to deliver the best care we can, to as many people as we can, if we have to do everything together?”

You gave him a second to choose the reasonable route of thinking, which you knew he would, however reluctantly.

“You’re right,” he said. “You’re right. I’ll back off. But” — he placed his palms together and looked at you with his best puppy eyes — “could you maybe, just, avoid patients with mysterious symptoms? Like anything that could be mono, or RSV, or pneumonia, or —”

“Alright, alright, yes,” you chided fondly. “I’ll steer clear of as many contagious things as I can. But!” you held up a finger. “You can only check my water bottle every three hours! And it’s just for your knowledge, I don’t want any passive aggressive ‘placing it in my field of vision’ stuff for being a few milliliters behind. Got it?”

“Got it,” he said.

“And you don’t need to wait near the door while I pee, either!”

“I don’t do that!”

You sent him a look.

“I’ll try to stop,” he said, picking at his cuticle.

“Good,” you said. “I can walk, you know. And you know I’ll find you if I need you?”

“I know,” he said, rubbing your forearm that rested on the tub.

You narrowed your eyes.

“So you’ll be good?”

“I’ll be good,” he said, turning just slightly pink. “Promise.”

You smirked.

“Well in that case, take off your pants and get in here.”

He placed a kiss on your forehead.

“Yes, ma’am.”

***

To your surprise, as you started your shift the next day, Robby seemed to be sticking to the agreement. You could see in his eyes just how little he wanted to leave you, but he pushed through. You went off to abdominal pain in one room, he went off to a concussion in another.

It was weird, you’d admit, at first. You’d gotten used to his constant presence at your side. But it was nice to have something to talk about at lunch, something that you didn’t experience together. And it was nice not having to check your feet and make sure you wouldn’t back up onto his toes.

So when you started feeling an ache, low in your back, you didn’t say a thing.

You knew it was kind of wrong. You knew you promised to get Robby the second something changed. But you also knew that if you did, he’d point to it and say, See?

And you weren’t afraid of some mere Braxton Hicks contractions. You’d had them on and off since week 32, and you were no stranger to painful period cramps, either. It was disturbingly easy for you to ignore the pain and continue work.

By 1:00 pm, you weren’t breaking a sweat. By 3:30, you were breathing deeply. They didn’t seem regular enough to track, but as you were coming back from a repeat vital check in chairs, you had to take a minute to lean against the counter. You glanced around before you propped a hopefully-casual elbow at the chest height ledge, resting your weight against the side, and placing a hand subtly on the back of your hip.

From afar, you’d look like any tired pregnant person taking a break. You knew if Robby came by and caught a glimpse of the slight sheen along your hairline, or the way your knuckles bent in on each other, gripping the fabric of your scrub jacket, he'd see right through your efforts.

“Um, are you okay?” said a soft voice from behind you.

You turned around and saw Mel King, eying you with worry, hands together like she was trying not to break a sterile field. You put on a smile.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine, hon,” you said, forcing yourself to straighten up.

Good thing, because not a second later, Robby came around the corner. The moment he spotted you it was a B-line.

“Let me know if  you need anything,” said Mel kindly, waving awkwardly as she parted.

Robby’s brow furrowed as he reached you, eyes doing an automatic once over.

“You all right?”

“Peachy,” you said, trying not to sound too different than normal — the pain was ceasing again already. “Just tired. That Mel is just such a sweetheart, I swear.”

He chuckled. Neither of you were too keen on PDA at work, so his hand found your elbow.

“Well, it’s time for a snack,” he said, pulling a packet of roasted edamame beans out of his pocket. “Am I still allowed to do that?”

Your smile softened.

“Yes, very much.”

You let Robby look after you for about ten minutes, which you both needed. He got some peace of mind, you got a bit of a break.

But then you were back to it, and the pain was becoming more frequent. By the time the clock read 5:00 pm, and you knew it was dark outside, the contractions had pain radiating up your back, twinging low in your pelvis. When it got to the point where you could no longer walk through it, you started timing them. 35 seconds, 8 minutes apart. And you knew they weren’t just Braxton Hicks.

You decided it was time to find Robby. No doubt he would have you up to the OB floor in under 20 seconds, so you decided to fill Dana in first.

“Hey,” you said, walking carefully over to her desk in between contractions. “You got a sec?”

She turned to you. It wasn’t surprising that she immediately clocked your predicament; hunched posture, hands over belly, slight grimace on your face. She shot out of her chair, pocketing her glasses.

“Is it time?”

“I think so,” you said.

Your hands were shaking, just slightly. It didn’t feel real. You had thought about this day for longer than you’d even been pregnant, planned it out to a T, talked it over with Robby more times than you could count — yet it was hard to believe it was really here.

Dana took your hands in hers, smiling.

“Just breathe,” she said. “I’m gonna call Abbot in, alright? Donnie!”

Donnie, passing by, turned his head towards you and lit up.

“Is it time?”

“Go get her some heating packs and 1,000 milligrams Tylenol,” she said, getting down to business.

“Yes ma’am!”

He patted your belly excitedly before running off. You couldn’t wait to see your girls playing with his daughter. Dana was scanning the area.

“Where the hell is Robby?” she said to no one in particular. “Mel! You seen Robby?”

Mel looked up from curtain 3.

“No, sorry,” she said.

“Well, if you see him, tell him to get over here, fast.”

The young woman nodded. You took out your phone and sent off a text to Robby.

I think it’s time.

Where are you?

They delivered, but weren’t read. You tried not to panic. It had only been a few minutes after all, but with how on top of everything he’d been, it was odd, him not checking his phone. You let Dana push you into a chair, as you fidgeted with your phone, willing it to buzz with a text from him. You looked around.

“Why don’t we do some deep breathing?” asked Dana, leaning against the desk across from you. “I sent Whitaker to look for Robby.”

“Okay,” you said, trying to stay calm.

You went through a few cycles with her. One in, slow, two out, fast. You tried to remember everything your instructor had said in the prenatal yoga class. Breath through the pain. 

You sucked in a gasp as another contraction hit. Maybe it was just that you were only now letting yourself focus on them without distraction, or perhaps they were progressing, but it felt sharper, deeper, than the others. Dana gripped your hands.

“It’s okay, honey,” she said, keeping her eyes on her watch. “It’ll be over soon.”

You leaned forward, then back, then to the side, but nothing could ease the pain. Donnie returned with your Tylenol, which you swallowed gratefully. He went ahead and tucked the heating pads into the back of your belly band.

“Thank you,” you breathed as the contraction tapered out. 

“No problem,” he said. “I got a patient, but keep me updated.”

As he left, Ahmad approached, rubbing his hands together.

“What’s going on here?” he asked. “Will we be getting some answers soon?”

“Not the time,” said Dana. “Contraction lasted 39 seconds. Still 8 minutes apart.”

You nodded.

“Ahmad, you wanna be useful?” you hissed. “Go find my husband, and drag his ass over here right. Now.”

He went to run, but Dana grabbed his arm.

“Here’s Whitaker!”

He was jogging towards you, without Robby. As he slowed to a stop, he raised his hands.

“I can’t find him anywhere!” he said. “I’m sorry.”

You gritted your teeth and tried to dampen the flare of both anxiety and anger in your chest.

“Well, he better be dead,” you spit out. Then tears pricked at your eyes. “Oh my god, what if he’s dead?”

Dana wrapped an arm around you, best she could, and shushed your welling cries.

“He’s not dead,” she said resolutely. “He’s just not that bright.”

A few tears escaped your eyes and rolled down your heated cheeks. Space was all you wanted a couple hours ago. Now you were cursing him for giving it to you. You pulled your phone back out and texted again.

Michael

Where are you

I’m in labor

“He’s not seeing the texts!” you wept, with an edge of frustration. “I can’t get him off my back for months, and now he’s nowhere to be found?”

Dana rubbed your arms soothingly, while Whitaker and Ahmad looked at each other with matching “get me out of here” expressions. You wiped your eyes. Whitaker jumped to hand you a box of tissues.

“Whitaker, you’re the bloodhound!” said Dana harshly. “Do not come back unless you have Robby with you!”

“You’re looking for Robby?” said a passing Samira. “He’s up in surgery.”

You all collectively groaned, and simultaneously sighed in relief. You wiped your eyes furiously, heaving yourself to a stand.

“Why the hell is he up there?”

“He had a pedes patient who was scared,” she said. “Asked him to stay. Left his phone, though.”

She handed over his plain black cased phone, and there was practically steam coming from your ears. Dana shook her head.

“Whitaker —”

“I’m on it,” he said, and he took off running again towards the elevators.

Samira came closer, realization dawning.

“Oh, are you in labor?”

“Yes, yes, it’s a magical time,” you grunted. “I’m gonna chop that asshole's balls off, I swear to god…”

She blinked, and smiled rigidly.

“I’ll see you later!” and she hurried away.

You were just about to start a real tirade, when a pain washed over you again.

“Oh,” you gasped, clutching Dana’s hands again. “Ah, shit.”

Dana glanced at her watch.

“They’re getting a little closer,” she said. “Only about 7 minutes and 10 seconds, that time.”

“Great.” 

Despite the rage in your heart, the second you saw Robby sprinting in your direction from the other end of the hall, the waterworks started up again and all you wanted to do was hug him. He was only too happy to oblige, as he swept you up into his arms as soon as he reached you. Whitaker trailed behind him.

After a good few minutes of crying, you pulled back and smacked him hard in the chest.

“Where were you!”

“I’m so, so sorry, honey,” he said, looking on the verge of tears himself. “I didn’t realize my phone was gone, and I —”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” you sniffled. “Just don’t go anywhere, okay?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, kissing your sweaty forehead. “Hey.”

You looked up at him.

“You ready to go have a baby?”

You smiled.

“Are you?”

He thought for a second.

“Not really,” he said, rubbing your tummy. “Let’s go.”

---

all i want is you masterlist

requests open! lmk if you want more of this fam <3