Hey, so let’s be mindful of stereotypes and the way we talk about actors that are part of historically persecuted groups when criticizing them and their behavior.
An actor being part of a minority group does not make them exempt from saying bigoted things. Also, an actor saying bigoted things is not an excuse for you to be a bigot towards them. Both things are true and it should not be that hard to understand.
Wyle saying something biased is not and will never be an excuse for you to make the decision to be antisemitic. Calling a Jewish man power hungry is disgusting when there is practically zero evidence to support that.
He has done so much great work for healthcare workers. He has gone to Capitol Hill twice now to push for their rights. He has been an advocate for mental health for a while, and he is doing incredible work with The Pitt bringing awareness of mental health matters, the abuse of healthcare workers, and so many other problems going on in this country right now.
It is not an attack on him to say he is coming across as misogynistic with the way he talks at times. It is also not discounting the incredible things he has done. It is also not an excuse for you to use that to be an antisemitic dick and use stereotypical language to describe your views on Wyle.
summary: reconciliation, labels, i love you's and a dinner alone together
a/n: sometimes im maybe good sometimes im maybe shit. they sound like teenagers fucking talking it's a little embarrassing. BUT i will defend my honor here and say that although there was compromise it was due to the power of love that they can't stay away from each other. trauma bonded for life. also i only have two more chapters planned so this series is winding down. thank you and enjoy :)
tags: mentions of suicidal ideation!!!
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Robby can't sleep. He sits on the couch in the dark as his mind races. The hotel's channel service plays on the television as his only light source. He rubs his hands over his face as he thinks about you. He was so sure something was wrong and he took the letter at surface value.
Now, you could be anywhere, doing god knows what. He tried looking for you around the hotel. Walking the dark path to the pool and around the bar and even checked Crystal's bungalow but everything was closed. He returned to the bungalow feeling helpless. A particular looming feeling of dread burrows in his heart.
He goes into your room and looks into your suitcase to see Monty's urn. He sits beside it your luggage and he sighs, "Let her come back safe." He sniffles, "Please."
The next morning, you wake up feeling awful. Your body is cold and the clothes you were wearing are still wet. It looked to be sunrise now, the sun's rays peaking just over the mountain behind you. You sit up and hold your head feeling a headache. You also feel an itch in your throat and a runny nose. "What a fucking train wreck." You mutter to yourself.
"Excuse me Dr. Adamson?" A steward from the hotel approaches you.
"Yes?" You put on your sunglasses as you look at him.
"Glad to see you okay. Your husband has been looking for you this morning." He says.
"He has?" You expression softens.
"Yes, ma'am." He smiles, "Would you like a towel? We can escort you back to your bungalow where he's waiting."
"Yeah, that would be great, thank you." You stand up and take a towel from him before following him to a cart taking you back to your suite.
You knock on the door and after the second knock, it swings open quickly. "Hi…" Is all you can muster. You probably looked a hot mess to him. Hair damp, make-up running, and wrinkled clothes. He didn't look any better. Dark circles around his eyes and the clothes from yesterday still on. He steps to the side and lets you in.
You walk into the room and set your purse on the counter with your sunglasses. He walks slowly behind you and the guilt starts to settle in. You look outside to see dinner was still sitting on the table in the yard.
"I am going to take a warm shower if you don't mind." You fiddle with your fingers nervously as you shuffle to the bedroom. Your eyes are trained at the ground. If you dared to look at him, you just might cry.
"Where did you go?" He asks.
"The beach… I went for a late night swim." You purse your lips as you turn your head to him. "I think I needed it?"
"Yeah?" He stands behind the kitchen counter with his arms crossed.
"Yeah. I'll be right back." You enter the room and peel the cold wet clothes off your body. You enter the bathroom and take a much needed warm shower to rinse off the salt and sand from the beach. You don't feel as bad when you get out but still have the soreness in your throat and the guilt in your chest.
You come back out of the room in fresh clothes and purse your lips. Robby is still standing in the kitchen leaning against the counter facing the rest of the living area. "Feeling better?"
"I may have gotten a little sick." You clear your throat.
"Let me check you over." He goes to the living room and digs in his bag for his penlight.
"You don't have to, some home remedies should suffice."
"Let me just check." He pats the couch cushion. You comply and sit down. He checks you eyes and throat with the light. He clicks it off and puts it in his pocket, "It could develop into a cold so we should get some juice for you."
"Thank you for that." You fiddle with your fingers. "I haven't been kind to you. Or my dad. All I ever wanted was justification; that what ever I was doing was the right thing. I think my dad knew that and… and he knew that giving that to me wouldn't do anything… I am constantly letting my emotions get the best of me and I have tried to cut them off. I wrote that letter 2 years after my dad died. I was drowning in grief and loneliness; I wrote it all down. It was in case of emergency. In case I couldn't carry the weight anymore." Tears well up in your eyes again. You look over at him bite the side of your lip. "I'm sorry."
"I've felt that way too." He clears his throat, "After your dad died, I realized I had no one left. You were living your life and I was living mine. We felt worlds apart. COVID was taking people away. People weren't coming back. Things started to get difficult to manage as chief. Everyone is looking to me for help and I can barely help myself."
You gaze softens and you place your hand on top his, "Have you felt like… hurting yourself?"
"Sometimes. I've thought about not coming to work. Walking into the river with concrete shoes. Driving until I run out of gas in the middle of nowhere." He turns his hand over so your hand rests on his palm, "I was not kind enough to think about leaving a note."
"I would have missed you." You whisper.
"I would have missed you too." He whispers back. "I'm sorry that it seemed like I was only being nice so you wouldn't want to die. I meant what I said. I always cared about you. I knew I wanted you in my life."
"I'm sorry I thought that. I couldn't fathom the idea that you wouldn't have an ulterior motive." You rest your head on his shoulder. He spreads his fingers and yours sink between them, locking your hands together. "Did you really try to look for me all morning?"
"And all last night. They cut the lights at like eleven so I couldn't keep looking. I stayed up waiting for you."
"God, I feel like an ass." You sigh.
"Don't" He kisses your forehead, "You feel better,don't you?"
"Mhm. Emotionally yes. Physically I feel like I slept on a bag of rocks." You chuckle, "I ended up on those lounge chairs and it wasn't the most ideal sleeping spot."
He laughs with you, "Let's lay in bed for breakfast."
"I like that idea." You both stand up and go to bed.
About mid afternoon, you wake up to find Robby holding your waist and spooning you. You turn over to face him. He adjusts his positions still holding on to you but he still sleeps like a stone. You take a sharp inhale through your nose. Guilt sinks into your stomach now as you think about him staying up all night waiting for you. It reminds you of when you were med-students together and he would wait for you to walk together to your car.
You smile as you remember every grievance you've had with him. How it all seemed to melt away now that you knew his true feelings for you. He said it himself, he always cared. While you were busy fighting your inner critic, he was there trying to support you. With your cold nature, there was only so much he could do.
You lean in and place a kiss gently on his lips, "Thank you for not hating me." You feel him tighten his grip, pulling you closer.
"How could I?" He mumbles, "I love you."
"You're sleeping, you don't mean that." You whisper.
"I love you." His eyes open quickly as he says it again, "I'm awake now, so does that count?"
"I… I guess so." You trace the lines on his face, "But how do you know?"
"I've known for years and years." He kisses your neck. "It's what happens when you repress your feelings."
"Well, you already know how I feel. It was in my letter after all." You circle your fingers your fingers around the nape of his neck.
"Hm, I did get in trouble for learning that information so I may have disregarded it."
You click your tongue and swat his shoulder, "You just want to hear me say it."
"Is that wrong? You had me think you weren't coming back." He looks into your eyes with his deep brown ones.
You take a deep breath, "I don't think I realized how much I loved you until we were both old and wrinkled. Often, I would look at you and think about what could have been. Had I not been so self-centered, maybe we could have been something."
He grabs your hand and laces it with yours, "We can be something now." He kisses your knuckles.
"You're okay with having a wreck as a girlfriend?"
"I'm okay with that. As long as you're okay with all the paperwork that comes with dating your superior." He presses his lips against yours.
You groan back, "I was kinda hoping we keep it low key for a bit. That's what I was getting at last night before… you know. I hate change and paperwork. And the fact that everyone would know."
"Is there something wrong with people knowing you're dating me?!" He looks at you taken aback.
"No, well, what I mean is we have this reputation about us."
"Uh huh."
"And I would hate for it to change immediately."
"You still want to hate me at work…"
"If that's okay? A couple pokes and prods here and there. I just don't want people thinking I've gone soft with you after sleeping with you."
"Sure, how dare anyone think you have a heart." He squeezes you tightly, making you laugh out the air in your lungs.
"Just for a bit. A month maybe?" You giggle. "I'll let you walk me to my car after work. Ease everyone into. Get a rumor started."
He chuckles, "Fine. But how about you walk me to my car?" You scoff and roll back over. He hugs you tight and kisses you ear. "That wasn't a no…"
"Yes it was. Chivalry is dead anyways." He chuckles as he holds you tight against his chest.
You spend the rest of the day in bed until both of your stomachs growl to life. You head to the restaurant for dinner in more leisure clothes and get sat inside in a rather secluded booth inside the restaurant. You feel a bit grateful because you did not want to confront Crystal today. You sent her a text while you were in bed but you didn't really want to talk.
The two of you sit on the same side. You decide against alcohol for the first time this entire trip and decide to drink some pineapple juice instead. Robby sticks to water, making it a sober night for the two of you.
As you pick your plate, you speak, "I think I want to do it tomorrow."
"It?" He cocks an eyebrow, "There are a lot of things that could be 'it.'"
"You know what I mean," You elbow him, "I want to spread dad's ashes. Finally get the closure I want. Lay him to rest."
"Sounds good." He nods, "And it's okay for me to join?"
"No, actually, I want you to stay at the bungalow and keep an eye on our stuff." You say sarcastically, "Yes come. I don't think I can do it without you."
"Would you have? If I hadn't come on this trip?"
"Yeah. I probably would have done it the first or second day and been alone with my dark thoughts the rest of the trip. But with you here, I felt like it needed to be more serious. You've made me do a lot of reflecting."
"A teacher never stops teaching."
"Don't let it get to your head." You roll your eyes, "You've only got a year on me okay. And based on review I am a better mentor than you."
"Based on review?! Based on review, you are cold-hearted and your criticism is borderline personal and derogatory."
"That came from one review and that spoiled brat deserved that criticism. He was being pompous and deprecating to patients." You mutter into your cup. "Completely unfit for the internship."
He chuckles, "I'm glad you are my second pair of eyes."
After dinner, in the bungalow you take a bath in the jacuzzi tub to relax. The only light illuminates the sink and toilet area leaving you in near darkness. There were some electric tea light candles giving you a comfortable atmosphere as you sit in the jets.
Robby comes and sits on the landing beside the tub. He watches as you sit in the bubbles. You look back at him, "Worried I might sink in?"
"I wasn't thinking about it until now," He purses his lips, "I was just checking on you though. Make sure you're okay."
"I'm okay. I'm not going to get better instantly but I'm better than last night."
"Good."
"You should get in. It's big enough for the both of us." You smile.
Robby twists his lips in thought but you give him the biggest puppy dog eyes you can do. With the will of your pout he complies. He stands up and undresses, "Move over." You grin with excitement as he steps into the tub. You lay between his legs with your back against his chest. He rests his hands on your shoulders and starts to massage you.
You hear the wind against the glass as you make a satisfying sound. He leaves light kisses on your neck as warm water from his wet hands trickle down your shoulders over your chest. There is a small window above the tub. You can see the moon from where you lay. A small smile spreads on your face as you slowly doze off in the comfort of Robby's arms.
i hate to be the one to make a post like this, but i’m not sure where to go anymore.
my husband & i lost our jobs this past month & we are quickly running out of groceries. (our fridge/freezer is almost empty). it may be weeks or another month or so before we get any income in & our local food banks are over-booked in our town.
if anyone could spare absolutely anything, i’d be beyond grateful. i understand that the world is fucked & we are all struggling out here, so if you can’t, reblogging this post will also help a ton. thank y’all sooooooo much in advance. 🫶🏻🤍
Chapter Thirty-Two: Broke Your Heart, I'll Put It Back Together
Summary: It’s Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch’s last shift before a three-month sabbatical, and the Emergency Department is already bracing for endless commotion. So are you. After years of loving him quietly and surviving louder things, you’ve finally started choosing yourself — therapy, healing, and a life beyond the Pitt. With job offers in New York and nothing tying you down but habit, leaving no longer feels impossible.
What happens when the person who always stayed… stops staying?
Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader
Warnings: 18+ Unrequited Love, Second-Chance, ANGST, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow Burn Romance, She falls first, but He falls harder, Yearning, Delayed Hurt to Comfort, Depression, PTSD, Flashbacks, Medical Inaccuracies, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Age-Gap (Robby is in his 50s, what did you think?), Insecurities, Longing, PittFest, Blood, Needles, Death of a patient, Reader has a nickname (Ducky), Gossip, Passive Aggressiveness, Sassy!Robby, Sad!Robby, Dark Humor, Jokes about unaliving (its unserious I swear), Medicated!Reader, Hospitals, EMTs, Lots of medical jargon, Miscommunication, Flirting, Slight Jealousy, Teasing, Awkward Flirting, Scratching, Grief, Crying, Reader has Allergies, Gun, Reader can sing, Reader has hair to pull back and away from her face, Abandoned Baby, Freak Accidents, Bruising
Word Count: 12.7k
A/N: Lots of italics in this one… uhhhh and uhhhh a lot of implied love here, but they don’t actually say those three words… yet.
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/Pinterest. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. I’m dyslexic, and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Pahina by Cup of Joe, How You Get The Girl by Taylor Swift, and I Love You, I’m Sorry by Gracie Abrams
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4 MONTHS LATER…
CRUISE SHIP — DAY
The sea does something strange to grief. It doesn’t erase it or cure it. But it loosens its grip enough for a man to hear himself think again. And for the first time in years, Michael Robinavitch lets silence exist without trying to outrun it.
He takes Jack’s advice, actually takes it. Not the spirit quest or the endless highway.
A cruise. A ridiculous, almost embarrassing cruise Jack had half-joked about in Trauma One. He can still hear Jack Abbot saying it—Go on a cruise, man.
Somehow—he did. The first week, he hates it, all the floating buffets and retirees line dancing at sunset, the aggressively cheerful steel drum music. He feels like a man haunting a vacation brochure.
But then, eventually, something changes. Maybe it was the salt air or the mornings he drinks coffee on the deck before dawn, wrapped in a windbreaker, watching the horizon bleed pink. The long, anonymous miles of ocean where nobody needs anything from him.
No trauma calls or overhead pages. No alarms and no dying. Only water, the sky, and breathing.
He starts sleeping, albeit at first in pieces. Then in real hours. He starts meeting with a therapist over Zoom from the ship’s wifi, awkwardly balanced in a tiny cabin while the ocean rolls outside the porthole.
At first, he treats it like a consult, detached and clinical. Then one day, he says too much, and doesn’t die from saying it. So he keeps talking about his mother, the abandonment, the dead, the guilt that clings to survival.
About how being needed became indistinguishable from being alive. Eventually, as time goes, he begins to talk about you. He doesn’t say your name at first. Then he does, and once he starts—he can’t seem to stop.
He writes in the journal every day because he promised you. At first, it was only scraps. Room numbers. Coordinates. Bad drawings of ports. Finally, it all bleeds out, his thoughts, and confessions. Things he never says aloud. He tapes postcards inside, and buys you souvenirs at every stop.
So far, he has a pile of trinkets accumulated for you. A pressed flower bookmark in Lisbon. Sea glass earrings from Santorini. A tiny painted saint medal in Naples—ridiculous fridge magnets. A fountain pen in Marseille because you once complained hospital pens were instruments of torture.
He buys things with your laugh in mind, with your hands in mind, and with imagined futures in mind; he still does not trust himself to name. And when he finishes the last page—truly finishes—months later in a small cabin while rain needles the window—he remembers.
Your voice.
If you finish all the pages, there’s something for you at the end.
His pulse stutters. At the back sleeve—taped carefully—there’s a letter. His fingers begin to shake as he unfolds it, and your handwriting, immediate as touch.
He reads:
If you’re reading this, you kept your promise. Now keep one more.
Check the false bottom of the box.
He freezes.
The box, the one you made him swear to keep. The one still tucked in his bag this whole time. Because he kept his word, and you made him do so. He pulls it out, turns it over. Studies it, and there—almost invisible—a seam. A hidden panel. His breath catches as he pries it loose, and beneath it is another journal.
Yours, more worn and lived in. It’s recent, and incredibly personal. For a long moment, he only stares in such a way that touching it may alter reality. He opens it, and everything changes.
He reads one page, then another, and then all of them. Through the night, until dawn. He reads about stairwells and panic attacks. About wanting him and pretending not to. Watching him unravel and loving him anyway. His laugh and his hands. His damage and his cruelty to himself, and his goodness.
There are pages where he is barely discussed and pages where he is the whole subject. Entire entries written after shifts he barely remembers—and you remembered all of it. He finds lines underlined so hard they nearly tore paper.
I am more afraid of losing him for the rest of my life than losing his affection.
It may seem desperate and pathetic, but this is love, too.
Another, in your writing, “He keeps trying to save everyone but himself.”
He stops reading, stands up, and walks to the cabin sink to stare at himself. He laughs once in disbelief, before he cries, truly cries. Because—holy shit.
He was on every page, as he had been living inside your heart and never really knew. All those glances and almosts. Moments he thought he imagined are real. He goes back and reads every word… twice.
At some point, whispers to the empty cabin, “Jesus Christ, Ducky.” As it were, hymns or grief or wonder. Like regret arrived all at once, and when he reached the pages about the last few weeks of June, early July, and New York. About the thoughts of leaving and the offers you’ve received… and his stomach drops.
No. No no. He grabs his phone. Calls immediately, and it went straight to voicemail. Again. Voicemail. Again.
The number you have dialed is not in service…
He hangs up. Redials, again, and again, then every day after that. Ports. Airports. Hotel rooms. Layovers. Morning. Night. Always, voicemail, or disconnected silence.
He leaves messages anyway. At first, it’s awkward. “Hey… it’s me.” Then, desperate and raw. “Please, pick up. I read it.” His voice shaking, “I should’ve known.”
Then the one he says with tears on a hotel balcony in Barcelona: “I love you.”
Words he has never said to you, not once. Spoken to a machine, and still no answer.
He starts carrying both journals together. Yours and his, bound by a rubber band. Presumably, if it were something sacred, and entirely unfinished. For the first time in years, Robby doesn’t want to run. He wants one thing… one person. To get back and find you. Ask around where you are, if you’ve left. To tell you, he read every word. Admit it to you, he has been in love with you, too—terribly. For longer than he understood.
Somewhere over open water, holding your journal against his chest, he realizes with a kind of awe that terrifies him—the trip did not save him.
You did, and now you are gone.
DANA’S HOUSE — DAY
November comes to Pittsburgh in shades of smoke and rust. The trees have changed color, leaves skitter across sidewalks in little dry spirals, gathering in gutters and along curb lines. Tiny ghosts appear in between words when people talk outside.
After four months away—after sea salt, foreign ports, therapy sessions whispered over unstable Wi-Fi, after sleepless nights rereading your journals until the spine softened from use—Robby comes home.
He comes back firmer, a little darker from the sun, and less haunted in some places. The tan does something unfair to him, makes him look healthier than he feels. But the exhaustion sits too deep in his face to hide.
The first thing he does—before going home and unpacking. Before even stepping foot in the hospital, is for him to drive to Dana’s. Because if anyone knows where you are, it’s her.
Inside, a kettle whistles, and a sitcom plays low in another room. The house smells faintly of coffee and toast with cinnamon. Domestic and warm. The sort of warmth Robby has spent years orbiting but never quite entering.
Dana is in the kitchen when the knock comes, and Benji looks up from the paper. “I’ll get it,” she says. Wiping her hands on a dish towel as she goes. She opens the door—and just stares.
Because there he is, on her porch. Duffel slung over one shoulder. Hair a little longer, bearded, still graying. Windblown, and eyes hollowed out with something close to panic. And before she can even smile, he says, “Where’d she transfer to?”
Zero preamble, just straight to the point.
Dana blinks, then folds her arms. “Well, good morning to you, too, Robinavitch.” A beat passed before she added, “Welcome back. How was your sabbatical?”
His jaw works, impatience barely leashed. “Wonderful.” He thrusts a paper bag at her. “Here. Souvenirs. For your family.”
She takes it, peeks in, and there are little trinkets and magnets. A toy for Benji’s niece. Very him, somehow, and very not him, too.
And before she can thank him—
“Where’s Ducky?”
The words come out rough, as though he’s been holding them through the whole drive. Dana stares at him, sees too much at once, the desperation, the sleeplessness. The man who has clearly come straight here because he couldn’t bear one more minute not knowing.
Because she’s Dana, tenderness usually arrives in sarcasm first—she steps aside and says, “Come in before the neighbors call the cops.”
He obeys automatically, as if being ordered into an exam room. Inside, he hovers in the entryway instead of sitting. Still wearing his jacket, ready to leave whenever.
Dana shuts the door and turns, studies him, “You check her apartment?”
He laughs once, humorless. “Locked. No answer, and her mailbox stuffed.” He scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I called every day.” His voice cracks around every.
Dana’s expression shifts and softens despite herself while Benji pokes his head in from the kitchen. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He grins. “The ER cowboy returns.”
Robby barely manages a nod, distracted, his eyes already back on Dana. “Dana.” That tone. Please. She hears it and feels it. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out the leather journal. It’s yours. Then, he sets it on the hall table like evidence. “I found this.”
Dana looks at it, then at him. Oh. Oh. Now she understands. “You read it.”
His laugh this time is broken. “I read all of it.” A pause, quieter, “She wrote about me on every damn page.”
Dana exhales through her nose, almost smiles. “Well. About time you caught up.” He ignores that, or can’t process it, while his voice drops, raw. “Did she transfer?”
Dana leans against the wall and lets him squirm for a second. Maybe because he deserves it, and because she’s enjoying this slightly, she needs to see how much this matters.
He steps closer. “Dana.” For once, not attending to charge nurse. Not friend to friend. Simply, a man begging. “Where is she?”
The room goes still, and even Benji quietly retreats, sensing this is sacred territory. Dana looks at him for a long time. At the journals he has now tucked under his arm and at the panic in his face. At the love, he somehow managed to miss until it nearly left him.
She says carefully, “What exactly are you planning to do when you find her?”
Robby stares, as if the answer should be obvious. “I don’t know. I just…” He stops, and swallows, then starts over. “I need to see her.”
Dana catches it, and she raises a brow. “Why?” And this—this is the test. He could joke, deflect, or run. Well, the old Robby would. Instead, he looks wrecked enough to confess, because he is.
“Because I think I made the biggest mistake of my life.”
Silence. Then—so quietly it nearly disappears, “I think I’m in love with her.”
Dana’s mouth opens, then shuts. Because after years of wanting to shake both of you, there it is.
Fuckin’ finally.
She mutters toward the ceiling, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Then points a finger at him. “You listen to me… You do not get to show up after a sabbatical tan and emotional breakthrough just to screw this up.”
He almost looks offended. “I’m trying not to.”
She squints, and then, finally, mercifully smiles. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone. Starts dialing, and Robby frowns, confused. “Who are you—”
Without looking up, “Shut up, Robinavitch.” And somehow he does, which makes Dana snort. The phone rings. Once. Twice. Then—pickup.
Dana lifts it to her ear, “Hey.” A second ticked by, then, casually, like she isn’t detonating his entire nervous system, “Robby’s here at my place.” His head snaps toward her. “What—”
She lifts a finger at him. After a moment, there’s a burst of voice from the other end, too fast to catch, and Dana’s grin widens, then she taps the speaker, and suddenly, a familiar voice fills the kitchen: your sister, your terrifying older sister.
“Spit it out, Robinavitch.”
Robby freezes. “Oh shit.”
Dana folds her arms, far too pleased. Benji peeks from the kitchen, sensing blood in the water. Robby straightens unconsciously, like he’s been called into an attending review. Because your sister has always somehow had that effect. The woman once threatened to break his fingers when you pulled three doubles in a row, and he forgot to make sure you ate.
He clears his throat. “Hi.” Dead silence… before your sister exclaims, “That’s what you got?”
Dana nearly chokes laughing while Robby rubs his face. “I’m trying to find her.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
He shoots Dana a look begging for backup. She gives him none; it’s sink or swim. Your sister keeps going. “You disappear for four months, come back looking like some emotionally improved pirate, and now suddenly you’re here asking about my sister?”
Robby blinks. “…That sounds worse when you say it.”
“It is worse.”
Even Benji laughs; there is no surviving this. Then, he just says it, because apparently, there’s no dignity left to preserve. “I love her.”
Everything stills, and Dana goes silent, even your sister, because he decides to say it plainly. After a long beat, “…You better.” Then she pivots. “She’s at my apartment in Murray Hill, Manhattan.”
His whole body stills. “She is?”
“Don’t sound so shocked.” She continues. “My boyfriend and I are in Vermont for a wedding. She’s dog sitting.”
You were dog sitting… didn’t transfer or leave. Relief hits him so hard he has to brace a hand on the wall as your sister keeps talking. “I’ll text you the address.” Then her voice drops. “And Robby?”
He goes still. “Yes?”
“If you fly your ass to New York and hurt her again…” Dana mouths oh boy. “—I will literally find a way to murder you and get away with it.”
Silence. He answers, dead serious, “That’s… fair.”
Dana barks out a laugh, and Benji has to look away, but your sister isn’t finished. “I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“She cries over you, I bury you.”
He nods before realizing she can’t see. “Understood.”
“And don’t make me regret giving you my sister.”
His voice roughens. “I won’t.” A pause. Then unexpectedly, she adds, “She loves you, you know.” His eyes close, and hearing it hurts. Like he has wanted and feared those words in equal measure. “I know.”
Maybe he didn’t, not fully. Not until missing you hollowed him out. But now—he knows. His phone buzzes. The address, and he stares at it as if it might vanish. Dana leans in. “Well?”
He’s already moving, but Dana catches his sleeve before he bolts. He turns, and she fixes his collar like he’s sixteen, or heading into battle. “Don’t say anything stupid.”
He looks wounded, “That narrows my options considerably.” She smacks his arm. Then softer, “Go get my girl.”
A part of him in his expression breaks. He feels open, young, terrified, and… in love. He turns for the door… but stops, looks back at Dana. “Thank you.”
She waves it off before she gets emotional. “Go.”
Cold November air rushes in when he opens the door, sharp and alive. He steps onto the porch. Heart pounding like a trauma alarm. Already halfway to LaGuardia in his mind. Behind him, through the speaker, your sister calls out one last time. “Robinavitch?”
He pauses. “Yeah?”
“If you make me come home early to kill you—”
He laughs, pure actual laughter. “I won’t.”
He runs down the steps. Into the cold, toward you, who’s in Manhattan, somewhere above the city lights, probably walking a spoiled dog, completely unaware the man you love is coming.
YOUR SISTER’S APARTMENT, NEW YORK — NIGHT
It had been one of those strange New York nights where the weather seemed to lose its mind. One minute, the city had been holding itself together in damp November cold—taxi lights smeared gold against wet pavement, the distant hum of traffic drifting up through Murray Hill.
Next, it rains biblically hard. Rattling against the tall windows of your sister’s apartment in sheets. The kind of rain that made the city feel submerged.
Inside, soft music played from your phone on the counter, it’s low and aching and warm. The apartment lamps were dimmed. The dog—Bowie, spoiled rotten and aware of it—was sprawled across your feet while you folded laundry in sleep shorts and an old, oversized shirt. Devoted and quiet, the sort of peace you only ever borrowed.
Then—a knock. You freeze. At this hour? Another knock, then Bowie lifts his head and barks. “What the hell?”
You shuffle to the door in your house slippers, confusion knitting your brow, one hand still absentmindedly rubbing sleep from your eyes as Bowie trails after you, toenails clicking over hardwood. You unlatch the door and pull it open, and the breath leaves you.
Robby stands in the hallway, soaked to the skin, rainwater running from his hair in slow rivulets down his temples, dripping off his jaw, his jacket and backpack blackened and heavy with storm. His chest rises too fast, too hard, as if he ran all the way through Manhattan just to get here before he lost his nerve.
For a second, you only stare because your mind cannot make sense of him standing on the other side of your sister’s door like something pulled from longing. As if misery hallucinated a man.
His eyes move over you just as stunned, and stop. Not at your face first, but your arms. The half-healed scabs near your wrist, and the angry little crescents where nails had broken skin, faded silver scars older than tonight. Evidence of all the anxious picking and scratching you never managed to hide from him, though you always tried.
Something fractures in his demeanor as it changes shape.
It’s not pity, but recognition. He sees every quiet war you fought while he was gone, and he hates that he wasn’t here for any of it. His gaze lingers a fraction too long on the marks before lifting back to your face, and there is something almost devastated in his eyes.
That undoes you more than if he’d touched you. Your heart knows him before your thoughts can catch up, and then it comes out of you in a breathless rush, “Are you insane?”
It comes out half laugh, half gasp.
He looks wrecked, beautifully wrecked. Water pooling at his boots and somehow—hopeful. “How did you even get in here? There’s a doorman.”
His mouth twitches. “Your sister called ahead.”
Of course she did. Traitor.
His voice goes rough. “Please come back.”
The words hit you square in the ribs. Too raw, and because crying at the door feels risky, you grab his wrist and yank him inside. “Can you get inside first, Jesus fucking Christ.”
The door shuts behind him, the storm mutes, only rain on glass now, and both of you breathing. Bowie circles him immediately, tail wagging hard enough to take out furniture.
Robby crouches automatically, wet and smiling for the first time. “Well, hello.”
The dog all but climbs into his lap, and you cross your arms. “Unbelievable.” Robby glances up. “What?”
“Even the dog likes you.”
He rises slowly. And for one suspended moment—you’re just looking at each other. Months of distance in one silence, and then practicality saves you. “You’re freezing.”
You move first, pull towels from a closet, and push one into his hands. “Take a warm shower.”
You disappear toward the guest room, rummage through drawers, and return with sweatpants and a cotton shirt. Holding them out, you clear your throat. “My sister’s boyfriend is… a bit shorter than you.” Your eyes do an up and down. “A lot shorter.”
His smile deepens. “I’ll make it work.”
You gesture toward the bathroom. “There are toiletries in there. Toothbrush under the sink.” You add, softer, “Ignore the mess in the room. I’ve been sleeping in there.”
You turn before he can answer. Because being looked at by him right now makes you feel vulnerable. The dog follows you back into the kitchen.
Robby lingers a second.
Watching.
You're wearing slippers over hardwood, and talking to Bowie under your breath. Living in a space that somehow already feels like you. Warm, cluttered, and tender.
He steps into the guest room and sees your half-unpacked suitcase. A pile of sweaters. Books are stacked on the floor. Your new journal on the nightstand. A cardigan draped over a chair. Evidence of you everywhere, and something in him wrinkles. Because even your mess looks gentle, as if being let into a life.
He showers, the steam, and silence calm his racing thoughts. Trying to slow a heart that has not been steady since he left Pittsburgh.
When he emerges clean, hair damp, borrowed shirt a little too small—you nearly short-circuit. He looks… dangerously domestic. Seemingly belonging here, which feels somehow more intimate than seeing him half-undressed ever could.
You busy your hands at the stove, heating leftovers, and Bowie sits begging shamelessly. You tear off a little piece of beef and feed him. “Your mom is going to murder me if you gain any more weight, buddy.”
Robby watches you with something almost helpless in his expression. Yeah. That makes sense.
You glance up and try not to stare. Obviously, you fail. “I bet you’re hungry.” You nod toward the food. “They’re leftovers but they’re good.” A pause. “Do you eat rice?”
He almost laughs, “I’ll eat whatever you’ll give me. Your cooking’s the best.” You shrug, trying to hide how much that warms your heart. “Eh. It’s okay.”
He eats, like actually eats, as if he hasn’t in days, all while you sit opposite him at the table. Rain against the windows and the music low with the dog asleep at your feet. It all feels so heartbreakingly ordinary.
Eventually, your curiosity gets the better of you, and you ask, “How did you find me?”
He wipes his mouth. “I went to Dana’s.” A beat. “She called your sister.”
You shut your eyes. Of course.
“That bitch.” There’s no venom in the way you said it, only affection. He smiles into it as he finishes eating.
You reach for his plate, but he catches your wrist lightly, declares, “No, I’ll wash.” But you shake your head, replying, “Not a chance.”
“I’ll wash, you dry?”
You arch a brow. “Are you even in a position to negotiate?” He looks up at you—those impossible brown eyes gone soft. “Please.”
And damn him, you melt.
“Okay.”
So you stand side by side at the sink as he washes and you dry. Passing plates back and forth. Shoulders brushing. Tiny accidental touches that are electric every time. Neither of you speaking.
Because the silence is saying too much already. Water runs, and rain falls. The dog snores. And in the small domestic hush—with dish soap on his hands and your fingers warm around a towel—it feels almost impossible that two people who nearly lost each other can stand here now arguing quietly over plates like this was always where they were meant to end up.
Robby breaks the silence first, barely above a whisper. “I read the letter… and your journal.”
Your hands stop, and the plate in your grip goes still, damp dish towel forgotten between your fingers.
The room somehow grows quieter than silence. Outside, thunder rolls over Manhattan, low and distant. Inside, your heart does the same. A storm answering a storm.
You don’t turn around right away. Because you knew this moment would come the second you hid that false bottom in the box. Still, knowing doesn’t make being seen any less terrifying.
“I know,” you say after a beat, too casually. A small shrug. “Well… I figured.”
His breath catches like he wants to say ten things at once. “I—”
You cut him off too quickly. Coward, or self-preservation. Maybe both. “How do you feel about hot chocolate?”
It startles him enough that he blinks. As if you’ve changed the subject so violently he can’t find the road back. “…I’d like that.”
You nod once, grateful for something ordinary and something safe. “Go wait for me in the living room.” You force a small smile. “I’ll make us some.”
He obeys. Because of course he does. And maybe because he senses you’re buying time. Maybe because he needs it too.
Eventually, you’re both sunk into opposite ends of the couch, mugs warming your hands. Rain threads down the windows, the dog sleeps with his chin on your foot and the apartment hums softly around you.
It feels almost too intimate.
Steam curls from your cocoa, and you stare into it as if answers might rise there. You clear your throat as you say, “I didn’t transfer.”
The words sit between you, while Robby goes still. “What?” He turns fully toward you. “But I thought—”
“No.” You shake your head. “I got offers… and I came close… really close.” Your thumb traces the ceramic rim. “Especially after the Fourth of July shift. I thought maybe leaving would fix something.”
You give a crooked little laugh. “Go to NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital. Start over.” Then softer, “But I couldn’t.”
He watches you like moving would break the moment.
“I liked the Pitt too much.” A sad smile. “As fucked up as that is.”
You huff out, “There is definitely something wrong with me.”
That finally pulls a smile from him.
You continue. “I like the people there.” A beat. “I…” Your throat tightens. “I liked having somewhere I belonged.” His expression changes at that, into something wounded. Because he knows exactly what you mean.
You take another sip. “I just took leave. Needed it anyway.” You look toward the rain-smeared windows. “It’s nice coming back here. During November, the Fall… Y’know, with everything changing. It’s nice.”
Robby opens his mouth. “I just thought I—”
You shake your head gently. Don’t let him say whatever apology he’s building. Not tonight. “I don’t think we should be having this conversation right now.”
He looks almost startled.
You stand, mug in hand. “You’re exhausted. Probably crashing from enough adrenaline to kill a horse.” A small attempt at humor.
You fail to hide concern. “We can talk about the letter. And the journal. And… everything else. Tomorrow.” Your words feels kind, merciful.
He studies you, as if trying to decide whether you’re sparing him—or yourself. You clear your throat. “I can change the sheets in the guest room.”
“You don’t have to,” he says quickly. “I can tell you’re exhausted.”
“Are you sure?”
He nods, because he’s very sure. What he doesn’t say is that those sheets smell like you. Laundry soap, skin, everything that makes you home. You don’t know that, or maybe some part of you does. “Okay…”
You glance around, “I need to find another pillow for you. One sec.” And you disappear down the hall, leaving him alone in the living room.
He looks around at the life around him, and all the places you exist. Little trinkets on shelves, ceramic birds, books with your dog-eared tabs, and a candle burned halfway down.
Somehow—even in your sister’s apartment—he can tell where your hands have been. You are all over this place. There’s a framed photo of you and your sister at a beach. Younger, with wind-tangled hair and salt-happy. Laughing so hard the camera caught you mid-collapse.
He stares too long, and there’s another—you grinning beside an alpaca at some animal sanctuary, with your arms wrapped around its neck. Ridiculous joy.
He laughs softly under his breath. Of course. There are photos of you with dogs. One kissing your cheek and one asleep in your lap.
He feels something ache open in him. Then, paintings on the walls. He knows your signature, recognizes the small mark in the corner. Your hand in every brushstroke. And scattered among them are photos of your sister in foreign cities.
There are award ceremonies, mountain ranges, conference stages. A whole life. Big, brilliant, and threaded through all of it—you.
Loved and included, completely held.
He sees it instantly, that your sister loves you fiercely, as fiercely as you love her. And for some reason that undoes him. Because he had spent so long imagining you alone. Waiting. And instead he sees something far more precarious. A life full enough without him; a life he may have to ask permission to enter, and he wants to.
God.
He wants to.
You come back carrying a pillow and catch him staring at the beach photo. “That was Cape May.”
He looks up, saying, “You look happy.”
You pause, then smile, “I was.”
The words come soft, almost shy, and linger in the room longer than they should. Robby keeps looking at you. Not at the photograph anymore, but at you. As if he’s trying to memorize the version of you standing here now against lamplight and rain.
You hand him the pillow, and your fingers brush his. A small thing, but not small at all.
You clear your throat, suddenly awkward in a way you haven’t been around him in years. “Um…” You gesture vaguely toward the hallway. “I’m gonna sleep in my sister’s room, so—”
You mean to say goodnight, you really do mean to keep this simple. But his voice stops you. It’s tentative, almost boyish, and fragile in a way you’ve never heard from him.
“Can I…” He swallows, and looks almost embarrassed asking. “Can we… hug?”
The question lands so gently it nearly breaks you. Not may I hold you. Not even I need you. But… Can we.
As if it belongs to both of you and he’s asking permission to need comfort.
Your throat tightens, and you nod before you can trust words. Then manage, barely above a whisper, “I’d like that.”
For a second neither of you moves. Then he does, slowly. As if approaching something sacred, and then his arms are around you, and yours are around him.
Full body, no polite half-embrace or brief goodbye squeeze. A real one. The kind people fall into when they’ve been starving. His chest against yours and your cheek at his shoulder.
His arms wrapping so fully around you it feels less like being held and more like being gathered up and kept. His hand presses between your shoulder blades, and the other at your waist, secure, and protective. As if he’s afraid if he loosens his grip even slightly you’ll disappear again.
You feel his breath leave him against your hair, shaky, relief hurts. And God—he smells like soap and rain and borrowed cotton. You clutch the back of his shirt, and fist the fabric, without meaning to or pretending anymore.
Neither of you lets go as seconds stretch, then keep stretching. Until time feels embarrassed to intrude. And somewhere in it—you realize neither of you is comforting the other. It’s that you’re both being saved a little.
His chin brushes your temple, you feel it when he exhales. Feel his body soften into yours. As if this simple human closeness has taken some unbearable weight off his spine.
You don’t know who moves first. Maybe neither, and the hug just slowly becomes less desperate. Less clinging, though not by much.
When you finally pull apart, it feels wrong. Like surfacing too soon. Your hands linger at his arms, while his stay at your waist a second longer than they should. Eyes meeting, with too much in them and a lot unsaid.
You manage a smile, small and tender, as you say, “Goodnight, Robby.”
His answer comes roughened, he knows sleep won’t touch him for hours. “Goodnight, Ducky.”
You turn before staying becomes all too much. You walk down the hall, and don’t look back. Because if you do, you might crawl into bed beside him and never recover.
The bedroom door closes softly behind you, and he stands there alone in the living room for a long moment. Touching the place on his chest where you had been. As if checking it happened.
Then he moves to the guest room, well your room, tonight.
He shuts the door, dim lamp, and rain still tapping glass. He sits on the edge of the bed. Exhaustion crashes over him all at once, but he doesn’t lie down immediately. Instead looks at the traces of you everywhere, it feels impossibly intimate, as if being let into worship.
He finally lies back. And the pillow—fuck. The pillow smells like you, not perfume exactly. Something softer, skin, laundry soap, your shampoo, warmth, it’s all… you.
It undoes him, actually undoes him. He turns into it before he can stop himself. Presses his face into the pillow like a man half feral with relief. A little pathetic. He’d be embarrassed if anyone saw.
Instead he rubs his cheek there, eyes shut, breathing you in as though scent could anchor him. As if he were some lovesick dog, and maybe he almost laughs at himself. But then his chest tightens, because for the first time in months, even maybe years—he doesn’t feel like running.
Tomorrow exists, and that tomorrow has your face in it. Your voice. Coffee maybe along with hard conversations. Possible forgiveness, and maybe even something more sincere.
Hope.
He lies there in your scent and lets that thought settle over him, not as fantasy, but as possibility.
YOUR SISTER’S APARTMENT, NEW YORK — DAY
Morning arrives quietly, not with alarms or trauma pagers or overhead codes. But with light. Thin gold November light spilling through linen curtains, the kind that makes dust look holy.
You wake slowly, tangled in blankets, confused for one suspended second by the unfamiliar softness of the bed—then remember.
Robby.
Your chest gives a startled little thud, memory returns in fragments. His rain soaked jacket, his face in the doorway, and the hug.
The way he asked Can we hug? like asking for mercy.
You stare at the ceiling a moment, almost afraid last night was grief dreaming. Then you smell coffee, and something buttery.
Your brows knit.
What—
You drag yourself up, hair a mess, sleep shirt wrinkled, shuffling half-awake down the hall with the peculiar little waddle of someone not yet fully vertical. Mentally you’re already cataloguing the morning.
Feed Bowie, then take Bowie out and figure out breakfast later.
Pretend not to be catastrophically aware there is a man you love sleeping under your sister’s roof. You round the kitchen corner—and stop.
Robby is already up, at the stove in a gray borrowed shirt with sleeves pushed up. Making breakfast, actually making breakfast. Eggs, toast, and there’s coffee poured. Your coffee, with exactly the amount of cream you take.
How—
He glances over his shoulder, and smiles softly, “Morning.” You blink at him, because your brain needs evidence. “…You can cook?”
He gives you a look, deadpan. “I live alone.” A short pause. “Of course I can cook.”
You stare harder, skeptical and a little suspicious. Almost offended by how domestic he looks. Who is this man and what has he done with Robby?
“You’re messing with me.”
He snorts. “Nope.”
There is something so unfamiliar about this version of him—gentle. Rested, almost playful—that it leaves you slightly disoriented. Similar to handling a creature you thought was wild only to find it purrs.
You move to the pantry in a daze, scoop kibble for Bowie, and the dog circles your legs, ecstatic.
While you’re pouring food, you ask a little too casually, “Do you have a flight back or…”
Robby flips something in the pan. “It’s next week.” You pause and turn. “What? You just got back. How’d you get time off so soon?”
He shrugs like it’s obvious, “Chief emergency physician attending perks.” Then, with a crooked smile, “Besides, Jack said he’d cover for a little bit.”
You stare, “He knows you’re here?”
Robby grins. “Yep.” A beat. “Pretty sure everyone in the ED knows by now.”
You close your eyes, “Jesus.”
Of course they fucking do.
You move instinctively toward the stove, “I can help—” He points with the spatula. “Go sit.”
You laugh. “Are you sure?”
“I can—”
He cuts you off. “Go sit there…” His eyes flick over you. A dangerous little pause. “…and look pretty.”
Your whole face goes violently hot at that as you just stand there. Broken, because what the hell is that.
He smirks, knows exactly what he did. And you—who have stared down crashing patients and violent psych holds—cannot survive one flirtation over scrambled eggs.
So yes, you obey.
Mostly because your knees forgot how to work.
You sit at the table and watch him, which somehow feels even more intimate. His shoulders move as he cooks, the ease in his body. The ordinary miracle of a man you almost lost making you breakfast barefoot in a Manhattan kitchen.
You could cry over it, but instead, Robby plates everything and says, quieter, “I have a question.”
You look up. “Mm?”
He hesitates before asking, “Why weren’t you answering your phone?” A pause. “I tried calling but…”
Your stomach drops. “Oh.” And you look down, embarrassed. “My phone got stolen a few weeks ago.”
His face changes, almost offended on your behalf. “What?”
You nod. “Yeah. All my stuff wasn’t backed up.” You grimace before your voice softens. “And I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”
That last part hangs there because it reveals too much. That you knew he’d worry and maybe some part of you hoped he would. He says nothing for a moment, only looks at you, and he quietly adds, “I did.”
Two small words, but they’re huge. You look away first, because your heart cannot be trusted.
You eat, and the food is actually good, annoyingly, and you point with your fork. “This is suspiciously decent.”
He looks offended. “Suspiciously?”
“Very.”
He laughs, and the sound settles into the kitchen like sunlight.
Bowie barks, demanding his walk, and you glance down. “Well.” You stand and you clip the leash, and look up at Robby, trying to sound casual but failing. “Wanna go for a walk with me?”
He doesn’t even pretend to consider. “Yes.”
You smile before you can stop it, and he catches it. You reach for your coat, but he reaches for yours first and holds it open for you.
You freeze, again. Fuck, this man is a serious risk.
You slip into it mutely, and he helps adjust the collar, his knuckles brushing your neck. A tiny touch with catastrophic consequences. You lend Robby a coat, and he laces up his shoes while Bowie whines impatiently.
Eventually, Robby hands you the leash, “You ready?”
You look at him, morning light in his hair and Coffee still warm on the table. Your whole life somehow suddenly feels… movable, and you answer softly, “Yeah.”
For the walk… and for him. Maybe for something else too. Outside, New York hums awake, and for the first time in a long time—neither of you is running.
PETER DETMOLD PARK — MORNING
The East River glints silver beyond the railing, restless and bright under weak November sun. Wet paths shine beneath your sneakers. Leaves skitter over the promenade in little bursts whenever the wind rushes through. Somewhere, a ferry horn moans low over the water.
Bowie pulls ahead on the leash like his life depends on reaching every smell before another dog can.
You and Robby walk side by side through the quiet of the morning, not speaking much. Not because there’s nothing to say, but because there’s too much. The kind of silence that breathes.
Your shoulders brush now and then, while his hand swings close enough that once, his knuckles graze yours. An accidental touch, too brief and electric. He pulls his hand back almost immediately. As if he touched something sacred he hadn’t earned.
You notice, and you notice too, the way, a few minutes later, his hand drifts close again before he deliberately hooks his thumb into his coat pocket instead. Restraining himself, because he’s trying to do this right, and that softens something in you.
At one point, Bowie attempts to drag you toward a man eating a bagel. “Absolutely not,” you scold.
Robby laughs. “He has criminal impulses.”
“He gets that from me.”
He looks at you sideways, “That worries me.” You smile before you can stop yourself, and walking beside him begins to feel terrifyingly natural. Maybe you’d once imagined this and forgot.
Then the dog run appears, chain-link fencing. It’s complete chaos, along with happy barking and tennis balls flying. The familiar corner of Peter Detmold Park Dog Run buzzing with neighborhood regulars.
You unclasp Bowie’s leash, and he launches into the pack like a torpedo. Immediately making reckless social choices.
You and Robby move off to the side by the fence, watching. His shoulder almost touching yours. Then, you hear your real name get called. You turn and Mia waves with Evie beside her, both with their dogs.
You brighten, and pull them into quick hugs. Dog chatter along with morning gossip. Evie’s eyes flick immediately to Robby, then to you and then back. A knowing smile.
“Well,” she says. “This is interesting.”
You mutter, “Don’t start.”
Too late.
Connor arrives with Paris, a giant golden retriever who crashes into Bowie like a linebacker, and then Alex enters in with Fern.
Alex with his rolled sleeves and easy smile and vaguely insufferable handsome-neighbor energy. He spots you and lights up. “There she is.”
Robby goes quiet beside you, very quiet as Alex strolls over, ablivious. “Thought you abandoned us.”
You laugh. “Temporary exile.”
He leans casually near you. “So… you owe me coffee for disappearing.”
Mia nearly bites through her lip, and Connor looks ready to explode but Alex keeps going. “I was actually gonna ask if you wanted to grab some this week.”
And Robby—who has clearly reached some invisible threshold—thinks: absolutely the fuck not.
One smooth motion, his arm comes around your waist. It’s every bit warm and certain. Not tentative or friendly. Possessive enough to announce itself, as his hand settles at your side as though it belongs there. As though it has always belonged there.
You forget how breathing works and Alex finally notices. “Oh.”
Robby nods politely, “We’re catching up.”
We.
Your stomach flips, but Alex recovers admirably. “Well. Good for you.” Then to you, with a small smile, “Coffee offer stands.”
Before you can answer, Robby says mildly, “She’s pretty booked.”
Connor chokes laughing, while Evie literally turns away, and Mia looks heavenward.
Alex grins, message received. “Got it.” He backs off with Fern trotting behind him. The second he’s gone, you hiss, “What was that?”
Robby blinks. “What?”
“You just claimed me like a Victorian duke.”
He looks almost offended. “He was flirting.”
“Yes.” A second ticked by. “And?”
He looks down at you, very serious. “I didn’t care for it.”
God help you—you laugh, can’t help it. And because you lean into him laughing—his arm tightens. Just slightly, as if it were instinct.
Connor calls across the run, “Doc got jealous!”
Robby without missing a beat replies with a flat, “Yep.”
Everyone erupts, even you. When the teasing fades, the dogs resume their chase. The river moves beyond the fence, and the world narrows strangely. Just the two of you. His hand still warm through your coat.
You murmur, almost teasing, “You jealous?” He leans close, mouth near your ear and voice low enough only you hear. “Yes.”
You turn your head, meet his eyes. Brown gone almost gold in winter sun. Too open and soft. And for one suspended second—everything pauses.
Then Bowie slams muddy paws into both of you, breaking it… well, sort of. And Robby laughs. Real laughter, his head tipped back. And you think—you could get addicted to making him sound like that.
Beside the East River, dogs barking, cold wind cutting through the morning—his arm still around your waist—it feels absurdly, terrifyingly like the beginning of something.
EAST RIVER ESPLANADE — DAY
Eventually, the dog run empties around you. Mia and Evie head off. Connor leaves with Paris, dragging him like a hostage. Even Alex disappears with Fern, though not before giving Robby a long, amused look that makes you want to evaporate.
Bowie, gloriously mud-streaked and smug, is leashed again, and somehow the morning keeps unfolding. As if neither of you wants to be the first to say it should end.
So you walk down toward the river. Past iron railings and benches slick from last night’s rain. The East River churns beside you in gray-blue ribbons, sunlight breaking over the water in shards. Across it, Queens hums, behind you, Manhattan clatters on, indifferent.
Ahead—a bench. Half in the sun. Half in shade. You sit with Robby beside you, close enough that your knees nearly touch. Bowie settles at your feet, apparently committed to people-watching as a spiritual practice.
For a while—nothing. Only gulls, wind, and a cyclist passing, along with the city breathing. You look out at the skyline. Glass towers rising, steam drifting from rooftops. November light is soft over everything.
Robby is looking at you. Not the skyline. You. You feel it before you turn, and when you do, he says quietly, “I’m sorry.”
It isn’t rushed or defensive. Not one of those apologies meant to end discomfort. A real one. Heavy and earned. You hold his gaze and somehow smile. “I know.”
His mouth twitches, as if he expected punishment, but you decide to give him mercy instead. After a beat, you ask, “How was your sabbatical?”
He leans back, looks out at the water. “Good.” A breath. “Saw a lot of places. Took a cruise.”
You grin, “As Jack suggested.”
He huffs as he clarifies your statement, “As Jack aggressively insisted.” You look him over, the sun-browned skin, the softer edges in his face, the rest in him. “Good. I’m glad.” And you add quietly, “Nice tan, by the way.”
That gets a laugh.
“You seem like you got some rest.”
He studies you. Maybe hearing more in that than you meant. Then you ask, a bit too casually, “Did you meet anyone special while you were off sailing the world?”
A jealous question wearing a joke’s coat, and he hears it exactly as intended. His mouth softens, and he shakes his head. “No.”
Instead, unexpectedly, he shares, “I met a couple of Filipino families.”
You blink. “What?”
He smiles, “On the ship. One big extended family. Loud and really friendly.”
You laugh, “Oh no.” He nods solemnly. “They basically told me to get my head out of my ass. In a very loving way.”
You laugh harder, “Sounds right.”
“They fed me, scolded me, and then one Lola threatened to haunt me if I let you go.”
Your hand flies to your mouth. “No.”
“Yes.” He looks down, almost embarrassed. “I kept talking to strangers about you.” The wind seems to pause, as he says, “And then I read your letter.”
Your throat tightens. “You don’t have to—”
“And then I read the journal.”
His voice roughens. You glance from the corner of your eye—and realize he has fully turned toward you. Body and soul, facing you. And before you can think, his hand lifts. Touches your face, cups your cheek, warm palm, rough thumb, gentle enough to ruin you.
You lean into it before pride can intervene. Instinct that something in you has waited years. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, and his voice lowers. “I was too afraid to tell you what I wanted.” He swallows, as he admits, “Because you deserve so much better than me.”
You shake your head already, but he keeps going. “Someone without all this fucking baggage. Someone younger and less broken.” His mouth twists. “You deserve more than some worn-out old man.”
Suddenly, your eyes burn because he believes this, still, even now. Then his voice breaks. Because some part of you has been braced for years against never hearing those words, and now they’re here.
Your mouth parts before you know what you mean to say. “I…” Your voice shakes, then you laugh once, helplessly, through tears. “I kept telling myself maybe I deserved someone else.”
A pause. “But…” You look at him fully then, no hiding and no more cowardice. “I always wanted you.”
You watch it happen as his whole face changes. He looks almost shocked. Breathless. As if he has spent so long preparing for rejection he has no idea what to do with being chosen.
A small, aching smile trembles at his mouth. It's lovely enough to cause pain and sad enough to destroy you. And then—God—his eyes fill. He laughs once under his breath like he can’t believe what he just heard. “You…” He shakes his head. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
You’re trembling, and he is too. His forehead nearly touches yours, close enough that your breaths keep tangling.
“There’s… something I need to show you.” His hand slips from your cheek but lingers at your jaw, unwilling to leave. He looks suddenly nervous. “In the apartment. I brought something for you.” A crooked little smile, self-conscious. “Before you decide I’m too old and damaged and emotionally catastrophic to keep around.”
You let out a wet laugh, and he almost smiles wider. Then, quieter, he adds, “Before you decide what to do with me…” His voice nearly breaks there. “…I want you to read what I wrote.”
He looks down for a second, then back up. “I need you to know who I became when I was away from you.”
His thumb brushes once under your eye, catching a tear. And in a whisper that sounds almost ashamed to want this much, “I came all this way to ask if there’s still a place for me with you.” Your chest throbs so hard, you can barely speak. And all you manage is, “Show me.”
And the way he looks at you then, like a condemned man offered pardon, makes your knees weak.
YOUR SISTER’S APARTMENT — DAY
The apartment is quiet when you come back. Afternoon light spills across the hardwood in long gold bands, warming the rugs, catching on dust motes drifting lazily in the air. Somewhere outside, the muffled pulse of Manhattan carries on—horns far below, a siren in the distance, somebody laughing on the sidewalk.
Inside, it feels suspended. Bowie is asleep in a patch of sun, twitching through some dream, and Robby stands near the dining table with that look he gets when he is about to do something emotionally reckless and medically unadvised.
He disappears briefly into the guest room, and when he returns, he is carrying the journal you gave him before he left. Only now it hardly looks like a journal anymore. It looks lived in.
Its leather cover is softened and worn, swollen with tucked papers, postcards, folded notes, and photographs jutting from the edges. The spine bows from overuse. It looks like something carried close to the body.
But that isn’t all.
In his other hand is a small wooden chest—weathered, carved, no bigger than a shoebox. Something old-fashioned and improbable, like it belongs in an attic or a ship’s cabin.
He sets that down first, almost shy. “I, uh… this too.”
You look at him, confused, and lift the lid. Inside, you find a life gathered in fragments. A pressed flower bookmark from Lisbon, still holding the faint ghost of summer. Sea glass earrings from Santorini, pale blue and green, catching the light. A tiny hand-painted saint medal from Naples. Ridiculous fridge magnets—a goat from Crete, a crooked lighthouse, and one that simply says Wish You Were Here.
A fountain pen from Marseille, heavy in the hand, because once during a night shift, you’d cursed hospital pens as instigators of pain, and he remembered.
A little tin of tea. Foreign coins. Shells. A folded map with certain ports circled. Polaroids banded together with twine, and tucked at the bottom, a few postcards unsent.
All of it collected for you. Not random souvenirs, but offerings. Proof he had been thinking of you in every strange corner of the world.
Your chest tightens so suddenly it hurts. “Oh my God,” you whisper. His mouth twitches. “I might have overdid it.”
You laugh through the twinge rising in your throat. “You think?”
But then he lifts the journal, and that changes the air. He holds it almost reverently, as if it’s something alive and afraid to hand over. “I… wrote in it.” His voice is quieter now, barely above a whisper.
He offers it to you. “You don’t have to read it now.” A beat. “Or at all, really.” His eyes drop. After everything I did. After what I put you through. He doesn’t say it outright, but it lingers there.
He forces himself through it anyway. “I just…” An exhale. “I hope you do.”
You take it with your hands that are shaking, and then you sit. Open the first page, and the breath leaves your body. Because there—written across the top—is your name. Not Ducky or a shorthand of some nickname to soften the feeling.
Your real name, written slowly and carefully, as if he was afraid of getting it wrong. And beneath it are polaroids, a sunrise at sea. A crooked Lisbon street drenched in gold. A ferry ticket pressed flat. Foreign stamps. Postcards. Receipts. Small scraps of living.
And every page—you. Mentions of you. Thoughts of you. Things he wished he could text. Observations, memories… and confessions.
There are entries from good days to bad days. Days he almost turned around and came home early. Pages where the handwriting goes jagged with grief. Pressed too hard into paper, ink blotting where he must have stopped.
Other pages lighter… looser and healing. And through all of it—you. Intertwined through everything.
You, a compass point. His north star.
Your vision blurs, and tears spill before you can stop them.
One page reads:
“Today I heard a woman laugh in Naples and thought of the way she snorts when she laughs too hard.”
Another:
“Bought a postcard she would’ve liked. Kept it because I didn’t know if I’d be brave enough to give it to her.”
Another:
I am beginning to suspect loving her has been the healthiest instinct I have.
Your mouth trembles, and you crumble. Silently crying over pages and over ink. The unbearable intimacy of being loved in handwriting, of being studied this closely. Remembered this faithfully.
Robby does not interrupt or explain. He leans against the kitchen counter across the room, arms folded loosely, watching. Waiting. Because he understands this moment belongs to you now. To both of you.
There is something almost unbearably vulnerable in how he stands there letting himself be read. As if he has taken his ribcage apart and handed it over. This is bigger than apology, and larger than romance.
This is witness, repair, and devotion in paper form.
You turn another page.
One entry is after therapy. “Today I admitted I love her.”
Your breath catches, you go completely still. Another page writes, “I thought distance might make me less ruined for her. Instead it taught me every beautiful thing I see turns into wanting to show her.”
Another says, “Bought sea glass earrings because she would call them mermaid trash and then wear them anyway.”
A wet laugh escapes you. Then, on another page, tucked there is a tiny pressed bougainvillea bloom. Below it says, “There are women I have admired. Women I have wanted. There has only ever been one I have wanted to come home to.”
You cover your mouth, sobbing now, and yet you still keep reading. Because now you can’t stop. Pages on therapy. On grief. On the things he has never told anyone. His mother leaving. His shame, fear, and loneliness.
Then it’s you again… everywhere.
“She makes bright hospital lighting look merciful.”
“She scratches at her arm when anxious and I keep wanting to catch her hand.”
“I think she sees every broken thing in me and stays anyway.”
Your tears fall onto the paper, and you don’t wipe them. Let them stain the ink, and somewhere across the room, his voice comes quietly, almost afraid.
“I thought if I wrote it down…” He stops, swallows. “…I might finally deserve to say it out loud.”
In every page that fate has ever penned, it's you—it's always you again. The chapter he keeps returning to, on and on.
You lift your eyes to him, through tears, and he looks almost undone by being seen. Suddenly, you understand—he didn’t bring you back a travel journal. He brought you the record of becoming a man brave enough to return to you.
How do you sit still after that? How do you keep reading when the person who wrote every trembling word is standing only feet away, breathing like he’s waiting to be sentenced?
You can’t.
Your hands close the journal gently as you set it down. And before you can think better of it—you’re moving. Crossing the room, as if you two were magnets.
Robby barely has time to straighten before you are in front of him, and then your arms are around him. A full-body collision of longing.
You throw yourself against him, and he catches you with a sound that almost isn’t a sound at all—something punched out of him. His arms come around you hard, as if he’s afraid that if he loosens his hold, you’ll disappear again.
And then he actually folds into you. His face presses into your shoulder, your cheek against his neck. His hands spread over your back, trembling.
You can feel the shake in him, the breath hitching. The way he’s trying and failing not to cry. And then you realize—you are both crying. The kind of crying that comes from surviving too much, and that wrings a person out.
His chest heaves against yours, and warm tears slip into the collar of your shirt. You feel them, and somehow that undoes you more.
Because this man—this stubborn, impossible, guarded man—is letting himself break in your arms. Your fingers clutch the back of his shirt, holding on. As though you are trying to keep every fractured piece of him together with your hands.
His voice comes rough against your shoulder. “I thought I lost you.” The words are so small. Nothing like the man who runs trauma rooms.
You pull back just enough to look at him; his face is wet, eyes red, nonetheless beautiful and wrecked.
You cup his face with both hands, your thumbs catching tears. “You found me.”
That almost makes him cry harder. He gives this breathless, disbelieving laugh through tears. His forehead drops against yours. And for a while—that’s all there is.
Foreheads touching, shared breath along with the city humming beyond the windows. The dog lifting his head from the rug and settling again. The soft clink of a radiator. And two people who have wanted this for too long finally no longer pretending otherwise.
His hands slide up your back, gentler now, one settling at the nape of your neck. Seemingly, he still needs proof you’re real.
He whispers, voice cracking, “I wrote all that because I didn’t know how else to tell you.”
You shake your head, crying again. “You told me.”
A pause. Then, so honest it hurts, “I felt every page.”
His mouth trembles, and he presses his face briefly into your hair. Breathes you in, similar to relief or prayer.
This is not one of those dramatic reunions that people write about, you know, now. This is more subdued, even more destructive. Because it feels like coming home after assuming home was gone. He holds you as though grief itself might steal you if he lets go. And you let him.
You see, true love might occasionally look just like this. Standing barefoot on wooden floors, two weary individuals sobbed in each other's arms because one of them had returned.
Once it is spoken—or maybe not even spoken so much as finally allowed—everything changes with a softness neither of you had expected. The aftermath is the strange, almost miraculous easing of something that had been tight for too long. It’s two people setting down heavy things at the same time.
After years of orbiting each other in careful ellipses—glances held too long, feelings swallowed at the nurses’ station, almosts stacked atop almosts—there is suddenly no need for tiptoeing.
No more pretending not to reach or disguising tenderness as banter. No more acting like longing is a private wound. It is out in the open now, and because of that, bravery starts looking ordinary. The kind that sneaks in quietly and makes the little things feel enormous.
YOUR SISTER’S APARTMENT — DAY
By the second morning, the apartment has taken on that lazy, lived-in softness that only comes when people have stopped performing around each other. Coffee gone half-cold on the counter, a dish towel over your shoulder, and Bowie asleep in a stripe of sunlight.
Robby is standing in your sister’s kitchen in an old, faded T-shirt that fits him just a little too snug across the shoulders, sleeves pushed up, looking absurdly serious over a cutting board.
A trauma attending preparing for an onion-related catastrophe. You hand him garlic cloves and point the wooden spoon at him. “Okay. Rule number one.” He glances up. “There are rules?”
“There are many rules.”
He braces himself.
You narrow your eyes.
“Don’t disrespect the garlic.”
He stares.
Then deadpan—
“I didn’t know garlic had civil rights.”
You choke out a laugh. “It does in Filipino households.”
“Noted.”
“It can tell when you’re lazy.”
“That sounds made up.”
“It absolutely isn’t.” You bump his hip as you move past him for soy sauce. “We excommunicate people over bad adobo.” He lifts a brow. “That feels extreme.”
“That’s because you’re white.”
That gets an honest laugh out of him—warm, startled, unguarded enough that it makes something in your chest loosen. God. You love that sound. It’s not the dry, tired huff he gives coworkers over bad jokes in the ED or the sharp, amused exhale he gives when Jack says something ridiculous. A real laugh, full-bodied and alive. It makes the whole kitchen feel brighter.
You’re making chicken adobo because the day before he had looked genuinely scandalized—personally offended, even—when he realized he had known you this long and never learned how to make a single Filipino dish.
As if this were some ethical failure on his part.
“I can’t believe,” he had said, hand to chest in mock injury, “I’ve gone this many years without adobo.”
Now he is here, sleeves rolled up, pretending to be sous-chef while mostly getting in your way. The chicken simmers low. Soy, vinegar, garlic, bay leaves deepening into something dark and glossy. Steam curls up into the warm kitchen air as the scent wraps around both of you.
It’s savory, sharp, and every bit comforting like a memory. As if somebody’s grandmother should be here… and maybe that’s what moves you a little. How food can cross oceans, or care can take shape in different forms.
You may not always come from the same language. But warmth—sweetness—the instinct to feed someone you love—that has always been universal.
You scoop a little sauce over a piece of chicken, blow on it once, then turn toward him. “Taste.”
He leans obediently toward the spoon, then pauses, raises an eyebrow. “You feeding me?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m definitely making it weird.”
“Robby.”
But he opens his mouth anyway. Takes the bite and freezes, while his whole face changes. Brows lifting, eyes widening, as he chews slowly. Like processing revelation. Then a gasp, “Oh.”
You blink. “What?”
He points at the pot. “That.” A brief pause. “That is outrageous.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s adobo.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head like you’re underselling a miracle. “That is a religious experience.”
You laugh. “There he goes.” He reaches for another bite before you can pull the spoon away. You smack his wrist lightly, chastising, “Patience.”
He looks wounded. “I’m in love.”
“With the food.” You say, but he looks at you, very deliberately. “Didn’t specify.”
Your face heats instantly, and you busy yourself stirring. But too late, he saw. You hand him another taste just to survive the moment. He takes it and closes his eyes. “Oh, I’m ruined.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“This is what people write poetry over.”
You snort at that, and he opens his eyes, and there is that look again. That soft wrecked one. You try to roll your eyes and fail.
And before you can turn back to the stove, he steps in, very gently, and touches your wrist, waits, as if asking. Then leans down and kisses the tip of your nose. Barely there, light as breath.
A stupidly tender little kiss.
You freeze entirely, brain gone. He pulls back just enough to see your face, and the smile he gets—God. You melt so fast it should be medically concerning.
Your mouth opens. Closes. Because nothing useful comes out. He looks entirely too pleased. “What was that for?”
He shrugs. “Chef’s kiss.”
You cover your face. “Oh, my fucking God.”
He laughs.
You’re completely doomed. And later, while you plate adobo over garlic rice and eat with your knees bumping under the table, you realize something almost frightening in its sweetness—this is how people fall in love in kitchens. In spoonfuls held to lips, teasing, feeding each other, and maybe a nose kiss that nearly stops your heart.
BATHROOM — NIGHT
By evening, Bowie needs a bath. Or rather—you decide Bowie needs a bath.
Bowie, however, clearly believes this is a state-sponsored betrayal. The moment you so much as turn on the tub, he knows. His ears flatten, and he backs away. Suspicious, offended, and a little traumatized.
Robby folds his arms and watches this mutiny unfold. “I just want the record to show,” he says gravely, “I opposed this operation from the start.”
You point at him. “You literally offered to help.”
“I was misled.”
“You volunteered.”
“I was coerced.”
Bowie makes a break for it, and Robby barely intercepts him. Holding a forty-pound wriggling dog like unstable trauma equipment. “Oh my God,” he grunts. “Why is he so strong?”
“Because he senses fear.”
“I sense fear.”
You are laughing before this has even begun, and somehow that only gets worse. Because once Bowie is in the tub, everything devolves immediately.
There’s soap everywhere, water on the floor, and your shirt sleeves were drenched. Robby is on his knees beside the tub, trying to rinse shampoo while Bowie acts as though he’s being waterboarded.
“This was your idea,” Robby mutters.
“It was our idea.”
“No.” He points. “This was all on you.”
You snort, and he looks at Bowie. “I trusted you.”
Bowie shakes violently, and it’s a tidal wave that both of you take full force. Robby gets blasted in the face. His hair drenched and shirt soaked through. You laugh so hard you have to grab the tub, as he wipes water from his eyes. “You are enjoying this way too much.”
“You look like you lost a fight with a car wash.”
He narrows his eyes. “This is how you treat a man trying to win you back?”
“Oh, you have so much more groveling to do.”
He looks at you, actually considers it. Then, dead serious, “Okay.”
And before you can process that, he leans down and starts kissing an apology into Bowie’s wet forehead. “I’m sorry they did this to you.”
You wheeze laughing. “They?”
He nods solemnly. “You’re management.”
Then Bowie escapes, a wet missile, launching out of the tub, and bolting down the hall.
“No no no—”
“Oh my God, grab him!”
Bare feet slap hardwood as you and Robby chase a flying, dripping dog through the apartment, laughing so hard neither of you can breathe.
Robby almost eats shit turning the corner while you’re bent double. Bowie circles the coffee table. Slides and you lunge, only to miss. At one point, Robby catches Bowie, loses Bowie, and mutters, “I’ve had easier trauma codes.”
Then Bowie darts between your legs, and you stumble backward, straight into Robby. His arms catch you, hard and instant, with your back against his chest, with his hands at your waist.
Water dripping, both of you breathless and panting. Laughing, fading into something else. Everything slows with his mouth near your ear, warm, close enough to ruin you. “You okay?”
Your voice comes out smaller than intended. “Yeah.”
Neither of you moves immediately, and then, very quietly, Robby says, “I’m really sorry.”
It takes a second to realize he doesn’t mean the dog.
You turn slightly. “What?”
His arms don’t leave your waist. “For hurting you.”
The room goes still, even wet dog chaos recedes.
“I know I’m joking around and trying to be charming and—” He exhales. “But I am sorry. Every hour.”
Your chest tightens, but before you can answer—Bowie barks, loud and indignant. Spell broken, and you both dissolve into helpless laughter again.
Later, Robby insists on blow-drying Bowie, horribly. Like a man operating unfamiliar machinery. “You’re fluffing him wrong.”
“There’s a wrong way to fluff a dog?”
“There absolutely is.”
“You are ruthless.”
“You’re welcome.”
And he just looks at you, so openly adoring—you have to turn away. Because otherwise you might kiss him.
LIVING ROOM — NIGHT
Eventually, Bowie is dry, overfed with apology treats, and asleep like a prince between you on the couch.
A movie plays that neither of you is watching. You’ve curled against Robby almost without noticing, with his arm around you as naturally as breathing. His thumb traces absent little patterns over your shoulder repeatedly. Enough to make your eyelids heavy, your body soft, sleepy, and safe. He notices before you do, how your head keeps tipping and your blinks grow slow.
He reaches for the remote and clicks off the TV quietly. Darkness settles except for the city light through the curtains.
Bowie hops down to his bed, circles twice, and drops.
Robby doesn’t move or want to disturb you. Because you look so peaceful, and he isn’t used to seeing you at peace. His eyes drift to your forearm, where faint old scars and fresh healing scabs mark where you’ve scratched yourself raw. His fingers hover, then very carefully trace near one faded line. It’s not intrusive, but almost reverent, a question he doesn’t yet ask.
Something in him stings because he can’t stand imagining you hurting where he wasn’t there. His mouth brushes your temple, as a thought, barely spoken, “What happened to you, sweetheart?”
You murmur something half asleep, and nestle closer, and his heart nearly gives out. He pulls the throw blanket over both of you and tucks it around your legs, letting you fold into him. Eventually sleep takes him too, curled around you on the couch.
You wake tangled together, morning light gold across the room, with your cheek against his chest. His arm heavy over your waist, and one of your legs thrown over his.
For one blissful second, you don’t move, because neither does he. “I’m awake,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
You smile against his shirt. “So am I.”
“I’m sorry.”
You lift your head, snorting, “Jesus.” He looks sheepish. “What?”
“You apologize in your sleep, too?”
He laughs, but is serious again, “I mean it.” His hand moves to your hair as he says. “I’m gonna spend a long time making up for what I did.”
You squint. “That a threat?”
“Promise.” He kisses your forehead. You realize that he is groveling, in the way grown men do. Consistency, tenderness, and showing up for someone.
So, when he disappears later and returns from the corner bodega carrying coffee and flowers, you nearly choke. There he is with a messy bouquet, it has peonies and whatever else the guy sold him. Held awkwardly in one hand, as if he’s sixteen. “These are for you.”
You stare. “You bought me flowers?”
He clears his throat, nervous. “Yeah.” Then, almost formal, “Would you let me take you on a date?”
Your mouth opens and closes like a fish's. He rushes out, “A real date, dinner. Where I wear a clean shirt.”
You are smiling so hard it hurts. He looks terrified. “Ducky…” He steps closer, with flowers between you. “Let me do this right.”
Somehow, that wrecks you more than every confession. Because this brilliant broken man is asking, not assuming. You take the flowers and smell them before looking up, “Yes.”
He blinks. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
He exhales like he’d been holding his breath for months, and grins devastatingly, “Tomorrow?”
You tuck your face into the flowers, trying not to melt, agreeing. “Tomorrow.”
End Notes:
Why did it take Robby finishing the journal for all of this to happen? Why didn't Ducky just tell him that she loves him at the end of S2?
Because as much as love can be used as a tool to help someone, it can also be weaponized. She didn't want him to get better just for her. She wanted him for himself; to want to get better. Put in the work without her. To figure himself out. Literally want to live and to love. Want to be open to new experiences. Good and bad. (And that's still in progress every day.)
Because Robby finished the journal, it means he did it for himself. You help nudged him in that direction, but he wrote in that thing, not really knowing what your letter would be.
We cannot fix him. God knows we tried. Love cannot save you, but it will hold on and cling for dear life as you save yourself.
Lelele, why so slow burn? Cause mental illness does that to ppl… well for me personally anyways. I genuinely felt insane at one point in my life and felt so unlovable. It took me 6 years to finally feel okay and not hate myself. :D So four months is like spare change lol
We are not thinking machines that feel, we are feeling machines that think.
Robby has given his life to try to save people when no one was able to save him. :,)
Lowkey… this chapter was horrifying to publish. I didn’t want it to seem like Ducky forgave him right away, but I also wanted to show that you are capable of compassion and understanding. That you are willing to see the work Robby has done and will continue to do.
But for those who want more groveling etc… don’t worry, we still have HR to deal with lol
summary: robby reads your suicide note and makes it his personal mission to give you the will to live again. little does he know, that by just being there is enough for you. you think your dad still sucks.
wc: 3.0k
warnings: loss of a patient
a/n: man, reader will not shut up abt being mad at her dad. (says the bitch that's writing it over and over again.) guys i promise there is a purpose to it! it will be worth it. enjoy!
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Robby reads the letter over and over. Waves of heat wash over him as he takes in every word. You sounded exhausted. Defeated in every line. A resignation from life. He blinks back his tears not to get any on the paper. Toward the bottom of the page was his name but he couldn't bring himself to read the paragraph again, not after the first time. He thinks about what he should do. You were in a much more fragile state than he thought.
He hears the shower water cut off and quickly folds up the letter putting it back in your suitcase along with your father's urn. He sets your dirty clothes on top to make it look undisturbed once again. He sits on the bed as you come out of the bathroom, water droplets still on your skin, and a towel wrapped around your body.
"I was thinking we leave the hotel for dinner. Maybe go into town or down by the beach for something." You walk over to your suitcase to look for something to wear.
"Um, sure. Whatever you want to do." He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"Everything okay?" You cock an eyebrow. Robby doesn't look at you. He can't bring himself to. Not after reading the letter. He's afraid his poker face will break. You put on your underwear and sit beside him, "Hey, what's the matter?" You place your hand on his face to make him face you.
He shakes his head, "It's nothing." He turns to face you and gives you a ginger peck on the lips, his hand covers yours. You scan his face to read it. It is quiet for moment. The sound of the ceiling fan spinning fills the awkwardness. "So dinner?"
"Yes, whenever you're ready." He kisses your forehead and leaves the room for you to continue to get dressed. He was being more intimate with you. As you get dressed you scrub through the day in your mind thinking what could have caused this. It was all playful until you left the shower; the sex, the touching, the flirting, it was all in good fun. After you finish, you come out of the bedroom and the two of you leave the hotel grounds for some dinner.
Robby's grip on your hand is harder than before. His hand encases yours in an iron like hold as if you would slip through his fingers like water. You don't bother with it too much as you get on the shuttle into town. You walk around until you find a beach front restaurant and enter. His hold on you is still strong.
At the restaurant, you order your food with your drinks and wait. The restaurant was beach front with a beautiful view of the water from the patio. You loved looking out to the water and smelling the ocean breeze. Robby admires you in the moonlight with a solemn look. Were you really only going to give him these two weeks to be with you?
You feel his gaze and laugh, "You're going to have to work on the staring when we get back. People will start to talk."
"When we get back? What are you suggesting Dr. Adamson?" He leans his elbows on the table.
"We'll have to find that out together but let's consider this a first date of sorts." You smirk.
"I'd like that." A small smile creeps on his face. He thinks back to the letter for a moment but under your gaze his worry melts away again. You seemed at peace, unlike what the letter had in its contents. Maybe the internal battle in your mind had settled. He takes a deep breath in hopes to push the thought of the letter away.
Your drinks arrive and the waiter informs you the food will be out shortly after. When he walks away you can't help but giggle. "What is it?" Robby asks after taking a sip of his drink.
"I was just thinking about if we had dated when we were younger. What that would have looked like." You take a sip of your drink.
"Your dad would kill me." Robby clears his throat.
"That didn't stop you from liking me."
"Having a crush and dating are two different things. Your dad would have blown his top if he found out about us." He sits back, "But your mom on the other hand. She would have supported it."
"You think so?" You think for a moment. Your mom was a kind soul that gave you the attention that you so desired from your dad. You would vent to her all the time about school and work and your dad and Robby. She just listen and give little tidbits of advise. But you felt she was a hypocrite when it came to Robby. She would agree with you one second then he would show up and be very doting to him. Maybe she saw him in a way you didn't.
"She would ask me about my girlfriends all the time. And when I would say things were going great, she always looked a little disappointed. Like she was hoping I would say the opposite and take you out."
"Yeah right. I would have turned you down. Probably would have thought it was some kind of sick joke or something."
"I would never."
"You were a playboy, Robby. You practically dated every girl in Pitt."
"But you have to know that I would never do that to you." He says in a stern tone. "I cared about you. I still do."
Your cheeks begin to burn as you fight back a grin. "I'm happy to know that now. You made it really hard to hate you."
"You never hated me."
"I wanted to." You laugh, "But even when you were spending time with my dad, I wished to be beside you with him like it was in med school when dad had the patience, and we were allowed to make mistakes." Your smile fades as you reminisce on that time in your past. "Remember when I lost my first patient in my fourth year?" Robby remembers it vividly.
The patient was in kidney failure after neglecting his insulin prescription. He was an older man.that lived alone and was waiting in the waiting room for a few hours. He was not honest with his medical history and so you didn't have a grasp on the severity of his condition until it was too late. You were devastated. It was so simple that you could have helped him.
Tears stream down your face as you look at him on the bed. The nurses work around you cleaning up the space and leaving you alone. Robby comes to check on you noticing you standing stagnant from the window of the door. "Have you notified the family?"
You shake your head, "He has no one." Your voice cracks and you cover your mouth to prevent a sob from following. Tears flow from your eyes down your cheek.
"Hey, take a breath, it's okay. Breathe." Robby pulls you into a hug, "You have to breathe." He feels your hot tears through his scrubs and hears the gasps of air you try to take. After a minute he pulls you off, "This happens. You have to be prepared for it."
"I don't know if I'm cut out for this."
"Of course you are. You wouldn't be here if that were true." He wipes your eyes. His thumb rubs gently along the under side of your eye. "If you don't belong than neither do I. Your dad says so."
"No he doesn't." You scoff.
"Of course he does. He is so proud that are interested in Emergency Medicine."
"Now I know you are lying to make me feel better." You shake your head.
"Okay, I was, I'm sorry." He smiles, "But you did stop crying."
You take a deep breath and look over at the man. "What happens now?"
"Coroner will need to be called and they'll take it from there. No need to worry." He escorts you out of the room.
"I know this will happen often."
"You'll be ready." He nudges you, "It's not a bad thing to get emotional. Just make sure you wipe the tear streaks before seeing another patient."
"You were hopeless the rest of the day." He sighs, "I basically had to babysit you the rest of the day."
You roll your eyes, "You also needed babysitting because you were an intern." You take a big swig of your drink.
"Your dad always said you were the better intern." He chuckles.
"No he didn't." You scoff.
"He did! He told me throughout your intern year."
"I don't believe you." You fold your arms over your chest as you sit back in your chair.
"Listen, we'd go get coffee before work and he would talk about you, earnestly." He says, "He thought you were full of so much potential. He wanted you to explore past the ED. He thought you were better than it."
"You expect me to believe that he thought that highly of me? He didn't want me to be a doctor." You chuckle.
"He didn't want you to be in Emergency Medicine." He defends, "He's seen what it has done to people and he didn't want it to happen to you."
"And let me guess, he told this to you too," You can't help but laugh, "Typical."
Robby just nods throwing his hands up in defense. You felt like you were going insane. Your eye starts to twitch. The image of your father's disappointed face in your mind when you said you chose EM. His furrowed brows when you would present a case. The shame on his face when you'd make a mistake. A slip of emotion from you and he acted like he was not your father.
You finish the rest of your drink in one go as the waiter brings the food to the table. Robby notices the tears in your eyes as you proceed to eat. He sighs sorrowfully, "I didn't mean to make you sad"
"Let's just eat." You clear your throat scooping another fork full of food. Robby nods and picks away at his plate.
After dinner, the two of you walk back to the shuttle. On the bus, you rest your head on Robby's shoulder. You trace the lines in the palm of Robby's hand. He looks at you on his shoulder and sees your lashes are damp. He kisses the top of your head and rests his head on top of yours.
As you walk back to the bungalow you look out to the illuminated water under the moonlight. You then turn to Robby to see he's already looking at you. He gives you a small smile. You don't react instead you grab his arm and hold with both yours.
When you are inside the house you head to backyard to sit outside and look at the ocean. Robby follows after you and stands in the doorway. "How are you feeling?" He whispers.
You take a deep breath before you speak, "I try not to resent my dad but when I hear you talk all I hear is what I should have been hearing a long time ago. I know you were trying to reassure me and I appreciate it. As soon as I rotated into The Pitt he acted like that. And all it did was send me down this path. This path to… fuck all." His heart sinks at your last sentence. He chews his bottom listen as he listens, "I go home to a lonely ass apartment. No family. No friends. What did I do to myself? Why did I do this to myself?"
"You wanted to be a good doctor—"
"I wanted to be a fucking great doctor! I wanted him to tell me he was proud of me! I wanted him to look me in my eyes and tell me what I was doing was right! Was it right?! That I didn't waste 30 years of my life to please my fucking dad!" You stand up from the chair. Tears stream down your face burning hot. You stop for a moment to slow your breathing, "I guess it doesn't matter now; he's dead."
"It does matter because you are alive." He grabs your hand and pulls you into a hug, "I'm sorry he never told you all the things you needed to hear. I'm sorry that he told me instead. I'm so sorry that I never told you what you mean to me. God, you mean everything to me." He feels your tears wet his shoulder as you hold him. He rubs your back gently, "I am so sorry."
You feel hot tears on your skin as the two of you hold each other. Robby pulls away first and wipes your tears off your cheeks. "I forgive you." You wipe his tears away. You kiss him gingerly. "I forgive you for being the son my dad always wanted. I forgive you for all the stupid remarks and the fighting."
"Oh I don't apologize for that." He spins you around and walks you into the house.
"Typical." You sneer. "I'm not sorry either."
"I don't expect you to be. You made my medical journey a thrill ride I didn't want to get off."
"Oh yeah?"
"Oh yeah. Especially now." He kisses you, hungrily. You moan into the kiss as the two of you stumble through the living room and into your bedroom. Robby blocks your head from hitting the door and ushers you to the bed. You crawl on the duvet and lay your head among the pillows, "I don't really want to do anything tonight, if that's okay."
"That's more than okay." He walks to the opposite side of the bed.
"But I still want to be naked." You turn over to face him, biting your lip.
"That is definitely okay." He begins to undress. You do the same then slide under the duvet. Robby sidles up behind you spooning you. You hold his hands over your chest and lul yourself to sleep.
The next morning, you wake up beside Robby still exhausted from the sadness. You trace over his face with ghost like touches. He twitches at the sensations and opens his eyes with a smile, "Good morning." He mutters.
"Hi." You whisper, "I don't think I want to leave the house today. Or the bed."
Robby nods, "Okay. I can order room service for breakfast." He kisses your forehead. "You deserve a day off from vacation."
"Don't piss me off." You roll back over. Robby sees over your shoulder you're hiding a smile.
"French toast, breakfast sausage, and a coffee." He lists off your order.
"And a parfait. I want something sweet too."
"Whatever you want." He gets up from the bed and puts his underwear back on before going to the living room to call for room service. When he comes back, he leans in to kiss you. You make no effort to meet his lips causing him to lean further over top of you. You hum against his lips and hold his face. You pull away and caress his face gently. A small smile creeps on his face. "What is it?"
"Just enjoying my view. Go ahead." You pat his face and turn over as he heads to the bathroom. Your body relaxes as you hear the sound of the shower turn on. You look at the state of the bed after he left it. The way his body had left an impression in the bed. An outline of wrinkles of where he laid. You smile as you imagine what it would be like in your own bed. You then look at your suitcase and your heart sinks. You weren't planning on going home.
At least in the beginning of this trip you weren't. You felt as though there was no life to continue living. Now, with Robby there was a chance for something to change. Something for you to look forward to at night and in the morning. You lay flat on your back and watch the ceiling fan spin. You sit up and look at your suitcase. Buried underneath your items was a letter. A letter you weren't sure you'd be leaving here in Hawaii or taking back home to Pittsburgh. Your heart sinks as you think of the words on the page.
You get up from the bed and walk over to the suitcase. You move the clothes and the urn then take out the letter. You hadn't read it since you wrote it in the first place. 2 years after your father past away. You had kept it in under your pillow for months. Then you hid it in your desk drawer, then your dresser. You forgot it was there until you started to pack. You tucked it under your father's urn knowing this was the ultimate test. Would letting him go finally set you free?
You rub over the indents in the page. You were holding the pen so hard the words left impressions on the back of the page. The ink even bled through on some words. You take a few deep breaths as you hold the page. You lip quivers as you think about the words. You were so miserable. Nobody could pull you from this hole. Your breath is labored, your grip on the page is tight. You can't bring yourself to look at the ink on the page. You throw it back into your suitcase and put things back the way they once were.
You inhale through your nose and out through your mouth then look out the blue sky and the bluer ocean. Then there's a knock on the door snapping you out of your daze. You get changed in clothes, put a smile on your face and go to open the door for the room service.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
thank you for reading! likes, comments, and reblogs are always welcome!
taglist: @ivy-stuffs @borbalalikesdocs @sarahhxx03 @cosmicneptune (ya'll are in it for the long haul thank you!)
Chapter Thirty-One: All Love Must Leave, Oh, But Search For It I Will
Summary: It’s Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch’s last shift before a three-month sabbatical, and the Emergency Department is already bracing for endless commotion. So are you. After years of loving him quietly and surviving louder things, you’ve finally started choosing yourself — therapy, healing, and a life beyond the Pitt. With job offers in New York and nothing tying you down but habit, leaving no longer feels impossible.
What happens when the person who always stayed… stops staying?
Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader
Warnings: 18+ Unrequited Love, Second-Chance, ANGST, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow Burn Romance, She falls first, but He falls harder, Yearning, Delayed Hurt to Comfort, Depression, PTSD, Flashbacks, Medical Inaccuracies, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Age-Gap (Robby is in his 50s, what did you think?), Insecurities, Longing, PittFest, Blood, Needles, Death of a patient, Reader has a nickname (Ducky), Gossip, Passive Aggressiveness, Sassy!Robby, Sad!Robby, Dark Humor, Jokes about unaliving (its unserious I swear), Medicated!Reader, Hospitals, EMTs, Lots of medical jargon, Miscommunication, Flirting, Slight Jealousy, Teasing, Awkward Flirting, Scratching, Grief, Crying, Reader has Allergies, Gun, Reader can sing, Reader has hair to pull back and away from her face, Abandoned Baby, Freak Accidents, Bruising, Fireworks, Shouting,
Word Count: 14.3k
A/N: Did I lowkey wait for Noah Kahan to drop the album? Yes. Also, did my University take away a lot of my writing time? Also, yes. Welcome to the last episode of Season 2 of the Pitt!!
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/abstractedrobby. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. I’m dyslexic, and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Staying Still by Noah Kahan, Strangers by Ethel Cain, Thousand by Rosie Carney, Lisa Hannigan, Fine Line by Harry Styles, and Free Now by Gracie Abrams
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9:00 P.M.
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Robby stands beside Al-Hashimi, one hand braced on the counter of the workstation on wheels as he leans in slightly, reading through her chart.
There’s something different in his posture here—less sharp than earlier, but not softer either. Concern buried under function.
“Baran… is this you?” he asks, eyes flicking up to meet hers.
Al-Hashimi doesn’t look away.
“It began after a bad case of viral meningitis when I was five,” she says evenly. “They tried every anti-seizure medication, but I still had episodes every few months or so.” A small pause. “No one’s ever noticed before. They just think I’m thoughtful.”
Robby exhales quietly through his nose, processing. “Are you driving?”
“I couldn’t,” she answers. “Not until I had laser ablation to my left temporal lobe twelve years ago.” Her voice stays clinical and practiced. “Between that and the Keppra, I’ve been seizure-free. Neurology cleared me. Driving, practicing—everything.”
He nods once, eyes scanning the screen again. “How long between the seizure you had today and the last one?”
“It’s been well over a year.” She hesitates slightly. “But I had two today.” Her gaze drops for a fraction of a second before she steadies it again.
“I don’t know why. It could be sleep deprivation. Stress from the new job.” A breath. “I haven’t had to deal with Peds cases since Afghanistan.”
Robby’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. He knows what that means.
“What are your options now?” he asks.
Al-Hashimi shifts her weight, folding her arms loosely. “Up my Keppra,” she says. “Or try one of the newer anti-seizure medications.”
“And if that doesn’t work…” She swallows. “Temporal lobectomy. Which could impair my speech. Or a neuromodulation device. It can sense and stop the seizures almost immediately.”
Robby nods slowly, “You need to disclose this.” There’s no accusation in it, only fact and responsibility.
“I know,” she replies. “I have a plan.”
The door cracks open behind them.
“Hey, Robby.” Olive steps in, slightly out of breath from moving too fast through the department. “Ducky and Dana are looking for you. They’re in Peds.”
Robby straightens slightly at the mention of you, already shifting gears again. “Yeah. Okay,” he says. “I’ll be right there.”
Al-Hashimi gives a small nod, already stepping back. “Sounds like you’re needed in Peds,” she says. “And I have patients to see.”
There are no lingering or extra words. She exits through the opposite door, disappearing back into the rhythm of the department.
For a second, Robby stands there alone. Between rooms, between responsibilities. Between everything he just heard— and everything still waiting for him.
Another voice cuts in before he can follow the thought any further. “Robby—” Vivi pokes her head through the doorway, urgency already in her tone. “Pregnant woman with severe headache on her way in by ambulance.”
He doesn’t miss a beat, “Find Abbot or one of the night shift residents.”
By the time he turns back, Al-Hashimi is already gone. The conversation unfinished. Filed away, another thing added to the list of things he’s carrying, whether he wants to or not. He rubs a hand over his face, then he moves out of Central 8. Toward Peds… toward you.
PEDES — NIGHT
Pediatrics feels like a different world. Quieter. Softer. The harsh edge of the ED dulls here just enough to breathe, just enough to remember that not everything is disorder and blood and alarms.
The lights are still luminous—but warmer somehow, diffused against pastel walls and soft blankets and the low, even rhythm of tiny breaths.
Robby slows when he steps in. His body simply does, not on purpose.
You’re standing near the bassinet, carefully adjusting the blanket wrapped around Baby Jane Doe, your hands gentle, practiced. The baby makes a small sound—something between a sigh and a protest—and you instinctively soothe her, tucking the edge of the swaddle just right.
Dana stands beside you, leaning in, making exaggerated, ridiculous faces—crossed eyes, puffed cheeks, whispered nonsense meant only for the baby.
“Look at you,” she murmurs, voice softening in a way it rarely does out in Central. “Cutest patient we’ve had all day.”
You don’t notice him at first, but he notices you. There’s something about the way you look right now that catches him off guard. It’s not polished or composed. Your hair’s coming loose, strands sticking to your temples from sweat and humidity. Your cheeks are flushed, your eyes tired—really tired—but still soft in a way that feels… lovely and warm. The baby in your arms, for a split second, hits him. Not logically. Not something he thinks through, a flash, a version of something quieter and softer.
A future that doesn’t look like siren sounds and endless shifts and running toward everything that’s breaking. A life where your hands still move like that—gentle, certain—but not because something’s wrong. Because something’s yours.
It’s gone as quickly as it comes.
“What’s going on?” he asks, voice cutting through the quiet just enough.
You glance up, but Dana answers first. “Oh—false alarm,” she says, waving a hand lightly. “We thought she spiked a fever, but it was the wrong chart from our analog hell.”
She huffs a laugh. “You know anybody who might consider kinship adoption? Doctors and nurses qualify.”
Robby exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “Don’t look at me.” Then, more seriously, he asks, “Hey, can your staff keep an eye on Dr. Al-Hashimi until she leaves?”
Dana’s expression shifts immediately, “Why?”
“Uh,” Robby starts, already turning slightly away like he doesn’t want to explain, “because I think she’s tired.” A small shrug. “And I don’t want her to make any mistakes.”
Dana stares at him for a second longer than necessary. “Oh, great advice,” she mutters. “Maybe you should take it.”
You carefully lower the baby back into the clear cradle, adjusting the blanket one last time, making sure she’s settled before stepping back.
“Yeah,” Robby says, already moving again. “I’m gonna go get some fresh air.”
Dana snorts. “Grab some for me while you’re out there.”
He doesn’t miss a second. “Your lungs wouldn’t know what to do with it.”
“Screw you!”
Robby glances back, eyebrow lifting just slightly, “In front of the baby? Nice.”
Dana scoffs, waving him off. “Yeah, yeah.” He turns and leaves. Back toward Central— into everything.
You watch him go before deciding. “I’ll go try and check in with him,” you say, quieter now. “He also looks tired.”
Dana hums knowingly, not even looking at you, “Give him a kiss for me while you’re at it.”
You roll your eyes immediately, heat rising to your face despite everything, “Shut up.” But you’re already moving, already following. Because no matter how many times he walks away, you keep choosing to go after him anyway.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
You trail after Robby as he heads back through Central, his pace restless, aimless in that way that means he’s pretending not to pace. At the front of the work area, the night shift has gathered in a loose semicircle.
You stop when you realize what’s happening, and immediately snort. Because—oh no. Not this.
Jack stands in the middle of them with entirely too much conviction. And you remember, vividly, months ago on night shift, jokingly calling them the Night Crawlers after some horrible 4 a.m. trauma run, and Jack—of course, Jack—taking it as if you had handed him doctrine.
At first it made you cringe so hard your soul left your body. And then—somewhere along the way, it became beloved. Ridiculous and earnest, exactly the kind of silly ritual people invent to survive impossible jobs.
Abbot says in an almost disbelieving, serious tone, “We are the Night Crawlers. We deal with the weirdest and the wildest because—”
In unison, “We are the weirdest and the wildest of them all.”
Jack grins. “That is right. And tonight…” He gestures around the ED. “They are really gonna be crawling. Now go get some.”
“Hooah!”
The huddle breaks, and someone laughs or groans, while Parker and Shen do a little handshake as they walk off in different directions.
Santos startles awake at her station, half slumped over charting and scanning in downtime documentation, she blinks hard.
Abbot winces. “Sorry to wake you.”
“I—I was thinking,” Santos mutters. She grabs the tiny dictation mic and, without missing a moment, yawns as she resumes charting. “Doubt PTX.”
Jack spots Robby at the board, staring at the live patient screens like they might answer something larger than bed assignments. He walks over, “You’re supposed to be leaving.”
Robby doesn’t turn, “I am.”
Jack folds his arms. “You know, this spirit quest of yours has a lot of people up in arms around here.” Robby finally moves, heading toward the ambulance bay, “Everyone’s gonna be fine without me. And it’s hardly a spirit quest.”
Jack follows. “Whatever it is, you’ve given people the impression you might not be coming back.”
Dana appears beside you, silent. You don’t have to look at her to know she heard that. The two men stop by the sliding doors, watching another gurney push through.
Robby says, too casually— “Well… who knows what the future has in store for any of us?”
Jack exhales sharply, “Yeah, saying shit like that isn’t helping.” His voice lowers. “People are worried about you.”
Sophie appears from South. “Dr. Abbot? The patient in South 21—Digby—he’s missing again.”
Jack barely looks over, “Sounds like a day shift problem.”
Robby deadpans, “Not if he was handed off already.” And keeps walking, out into the ambulance bay. Jack right after him.
You and Dana exchange a look. No words, just agreement.
You follow, again.
AMBULANCE BAY, OUTSIDE — NIGHT
You stay near the doors, hidden enough not to be obvious. Close enough to hear while Duke is by the motorcycle. “Best I can do under the circumstances.”
Robby shakes Duke’s hand, “Thank you.” Then quieter, “Hey. Don’t leave before I get back, yeah?”
Duke smirks, “Hell, I feel like I live here now.” He passes you on the way in, sees you, but says nothing. Instead, he gives you the faintest knowing smile. As if he knows exactly why you’re lurking here, and protects it.
Jack nods toward the bike, “Your friend fixing it?”
“Ambulance clipped it while it was parked here today.”
Jack stares. “Jesus Christ. That’s a sign if I’ve ever seen one.”
Robby’s face pinches. Then Jack shifts, more serious. “Here’s the thing.” He steps closer. “When people worry about you…” His voice softens. “…it makes me think I should be worried about you. And I don’t like worrying about things.”
Robby scoffs, “Ooh. Now you’re a shrink?”
Jack doesn’t bite, “No. I’m trying to be your friend.” A pause. “You got— you got Dana convinced that you're gonna hurt yourself.”
His eyes sharpen. “And Ducky—” he glances toward the doors, unknowingly near where you stand— “—thinks you’re withdrawing. Shutting everybody out.”
Robby’s jaw tightens. “Dana’s got her own issues. So does Ducky.”
Jack lifts a brow, “That sounds like projection.”
And there it is, the spark. Robby turns, voice rising. “Are you seriously trying to have this fucking conversation with me right now, man?” He gestures at him. “I’m not the one who spends his free time getting shot at.”
Then, mockingly— “Hooah.”
Jack actually looks offended, which would be funny if it weren’t so bad.
Before either can escalate, ambulance doors open. “Hey, Dr. Robby!” Medic Nguyen is already unloading. “This is Judith Lastrade—thirty-six weeks pregnant. Two days of headache, now ten out of ten with blurred vision. BP one seventy-four over one twenty, pulse ninety-two. No relief with fentanyl.”
Jack steps in first, and the conversation with Robby is put on pause. “Judith, I’m Dr. Abbot. Any weakness in your arms or legs?”
Robby’s fingers press over her ankle, checking for edema. “Pitting edema with severe preeclampsia.” He looks up sharply. “Where are you doing prenatal care?”
The woman grimaces, “Nowhere.” A breath. “It’s a wild pregnancy. I want a free birth.”
Jack and Robby exchange a look, a whole conversation in one glance.
Oh no.
You choose that exact moment to step through the doors— making a show of only just arriving. “Oh—what’ve we got?” As if you weren’t just listening to them tear at each other outside.
As if your heart isn’t still pounding, like you didn’t hear every word. You grab the gurney rail to help steer her inside, moving with them.
TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT
Trauma One is bright in that punishing way trauma bays always are—too white, too loud, too awake. The room hums with layered urgency: monitors chirping, paper ripping from packaging, the hiss of oxygen, shoes squeaking over tile.
You’re helping position Judith when Mateo throws you a look over the monitor. A long one. The kind coworkers give when they know you’re pushing too hard. “You sure you wanna get in on this?” he asks. “You’re going on hour fifteen.”
There’s concern buried under the teasing, and you shrug like it’s nothing. “Bridget texted me. She’ll be here soon.” You secure the belts over Judith’s abdomen, hands steady. “I’ll help with this and then go home.”
You adjust the transducers and glance at the tracing, “CTG is on.”
Judith turns her head weakly toward you. “CTG?”
At the foot of the bed, Robby and Jack look toward the monitor. Robby answers automatically, “Cardiotocography.” His hand gestures toward the machine. “Measures the baby’s heart rate and checks for contractions.”
Jack glances at the screen, “Fetal heart rate 128.” He looks toward Nazely. “Normal range?”
Nazely answers immediately, “110 to 160.”
Judith’s eyes dart, “So the baby’s okay?”
Crus, stethoscope still hanging around his neck, checks her as he answers, “Right now, yes.” He nods toward the tracing. “One twenty-eight is reassuring.”
Mateo calls out from the pump. “BP one seventy over one nineteen. Six grams magnesium running in.” Magnesium sulfate dripping to prevent eclamptic seizures, heavy medicine for a heavy diagnosis.
Out of the corner of your eye, Robby is staring through the glass doors. Not looking through them, past them, gone somewhere for a second. Spacing out. Again.
It catches in your chest. But then— Jack’s voice pulls him back. “Your next move, Crus?”
“Twenty of labetalol,” Crus says. “IV push over two minutes.”
Judith looks panicked now. “What’s happening?” Nazely steps closer. “You have a condition called preeclampsia.”
Judith blinks rapidly. “And how did it happen?”
Robby rubs a hand down his face before answering. He looks tired enough to disappear. “Uh…” A breath. “Nobody really knows, actually.” He gestures gently. “It affects about ten percent of pregnancies. High blood pressure. Headaches. Protein in the urine. Swollen ankles.”
Judith looks stricken. “Okay, well… it’s a wild pregnancy, so that means no medical care.”
Robby’s head tilts, something almost incredulous. “Then why are you here?”
Her lip trembles, and then she starts crying, clearly scared, “I just need to get rid of this headache.”
Robby and Jack exchange a look, one of those silent attending conversations.
You take this.
I know.
Jack steps in, gentler. “Well… if we don’t lower your blood pressure and treat with magnesium…” He chooses his words carefully. “There can be problems.”
Judith whispers, “Like what?”
Crus doesn’t sugarcoat, “Seizures, bleeding, even death.” He glances at her belly. “For you and the baby.”
Her face crumples, “Oh my God.”
The door swings open, and Dana is there, “Robby—your VIP’s ready to go.”
Robby nods, “Ok, I'll be right there.” Dana nods and walks off. He then looks to Jack. “You good?”
Jack nods, “Yeah, I’m good.” A crooked grin. “I got it. With my eyes closed. But I won’t.” He shrugs. “Maybe one eye.” He clicks his tongue and winks at you. You roll your eyes, but there’s warmth in it.
Then Jack turns. “Hey—” To say something else to Robby. Maybe something important or not. But Robby’s already gone, out the door as if he couldn’t stand still another second.
And you, for one impossible second, find yourself staring at the door Robby just disappeared through. With a feeling you can’t quite name, only recognize.
TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT
You’re adjusting Judith’s tubing, checking the IV line hasn’t infiltrated, smoothing slack from the blood pressure cuff tubing where it catches beneath the rail, when Nazely leans in toward the stretcher. “How’s the headache?”
Judith’s face is pinched tight with pain, eyes squeezed shut. “Still a ten.” Crus looks up from the medication tray. “More fentanyl?”
Jack is near the glass doors, though he’s only half paying attention to the question. The other half of him is scanning, watching. Looking through the doors. Looking for Robby. Making sure he didn’t just disappear into the night, again.
“Yep,” Jack says absently.
Crus nods, “BP’s good. Another fifty.” He pushes medication with practiced calm. Judith winces, breathes, doesn’t relax.
“Hey, Abbot.”
Jack turns, and Sam Garvin enters the Trauma room in pink OB scrubs, already gloved up. “Attending and resident are stuck in the OR.”
Jack gives a crooked grin. “Oh, you’re the next best thing.” Sam arches a brow. “Better, some would say.”
Jack hums. “Mm.” There’s affection in it, familiarity, hospital shorthand for trust. She steps to the bedside. “What do you got?”
Nazely answers quickly. “This is Judith. G1, P0. No prenatal care. Preeclampsia with severe hypertension.”
Judith barely nods, and Crus reaches for the ultrasound probe. “Some jelly on the belly. Gonna take a quick look with ultrasound.”
She immediately panics, “No, no, no.” Judith recoils. “Ultrasound can harm the baby.”
Jack answers before anyone else can. “Not true.” Crus, already uncapping gel, “Not doing the ultrasound could end up harming you and the baby.” Judith’s breath catches. Then, smaller, “Okay. Just do it as fast as you can.”
Cold gel, probe to the abdomen, and the monitor blooms gray static into anatomy. Crus concentrates.
Sam watches the image. “Why no prenatal care, Judith?”
Judith looks almost defensive through the fear.“I wanted a free birth.” She says it like a creed. “No doctors. No hospital. No medicine.”
Jack lifts a brow. “You have a midwife? A birth doula?”
“No. I don’t need one.” She says it almost stubbornly. “Women have been having children on their own for thousands of years.”
Jack’s mouth tilts, dry as ever. “Yeah. With an infant mortality rate of thirty percent for most of those thousands of years.”
The monitor blooms gray static into anatomy, while Crus concentrates. “Femur length seven centimeters.”
Sam watches the image. “Thirty-seven weeks.” She glances at Jack. “They’ll probably induce.”
Judith bolts upright as much as the bed allows. “What?” Her fear sharpens. “No. No, no, no, no.” Head shaking. “Absolutely not.”
Jack steps closer, at eye level now. “At thirty-seven weeks, the cure for preeclampsia is to deliver the baby.” His voice lowers. “We need to get you upstairs so OB can induce labor to save you and your baby.”
Judith looks horrified. “No. No, no.” Her hands clutch the sheet. “Mm-mm.”
Jack looks at you with a brief questioning glance. Like maybe you’ll have the answer no one else has found. His lips quirk to one side the way they do when he’s thinking three things at once.
Something in your chest stumbles, because your mind is suddenly nowhere in Trauma One. It is somewhere older, hotter, and smaller. A maternity ward years ago. Fan blades are turning slowly overhead. Late summer heat clinging to skin. Women laboring behind curtains. The smell of antiseptic, milk, and sweat. A mother screaming. A newborn is crying. Your mother’s hand around yours. Or maybe a memory you’ve spent years trying not to touch.
TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT
You’re at Judith’s side, cuff still cycling on her arm, watching numbers pulse on the monitor. “BP’s 164 over 114.”
Jack doesn’t hesitate. “Another forty of labetalol.” And Crus is already moving. “Mag bolus is in. Now infusing two grams an hour.”
Nazely stands at the workstation on wheels, scrolling through newly posted labs as they populate. “Labs are coming back. Hemoglobin seven-point-five, platelets forty. LFTs are sky high.”
Jack looks over, and there’s instant recognition. “HELLP syndrome.”
Crus, half for Judith, half for Nazely, he explains,“Hemolysis. Elevated Liver enzymes. Low Platelets.”
Sam is already on the phone with OB. “They’re cleaning a room. We can bring her up in ten minutes.”
Jack leans toward Judith, “How you doing, Judith?”
Her pupils seem unfocused. Her breathing wrong, as she tries. “I—I—”
Nazely sees it first, “Oh—she’s seizing.” Judith’s body arches, a violent tonic rigidity. Her arm jerks against the rail, jaw clenches, and monitor alarms erupt. The fetal tracing slips.
“Shit.” Jack moves instantly. “Ten of IV diazepam. Have another ten ready.”
You’re already protecting Judith’s head with folded blankets, turning her slightly to keep her airway clear, instinct and training moving before thought.
Sam stares at the tracing, “With all the movement, we can’t get a fetal heartbeat.”
Crus reaches for oxygen. “Putting on fifteen liters by mask.”
The nonrebreather goes on, Judith is cyanotic around the lips for a breath too long. Crus glances up. “Should we intubate?”
Jack shakes his head, “Hold intubation. Let’s try to break this. We don’t want to mask seizures with paralysis unless we have to.” His mind is moving three steps ahead, he points. “Crus, CTG isn’t reading. Check with ultrasound.”
“On it.”
Jack doesn’t miss a beat. “Nazely—what’s the diagnosis?” He’s still teaching even now.
Nazely swallows, “With the seizure… Now it’s eclampsia.”
Jack gives one hard nod.
Crus studies the ultrasound, “Fetal heart rate about ninety.” Sam’s face drops at that, “Way too low.” Another layer of emergency.
Mateo checks pulse ox, “Mom’s sats are going down.”
The monitor confirms it, and Crus looks up again, urgent now. “Time to tube her?”
Jack’s jaw tightens, “Set up for it—but wait.”
He’s still trying to buy her one more chance, “One more ten of diazepam. Push four grams of Keppra.”
Judith’s breathing is becoming shallow beneath the nonrebreather, her chest fighting for air in uneven pulls while the seizure leaves aftershocks through her body.
You glance up at the monitor, and her numbers are dropping. Your stomach drops with them. “Pulse ox is eighty-eight.”
Your words cut through the room, and Crus looks up immediately. “Dr. Abbot? Intubate?”
Jack has both hands braced on his hips, thinking in that fast, layered way he does, processing ten variables at once. Then he’s reached a decision, he reaches for the gloves off the wall dispenser. “Let’s do it.”
He turns to Nazely, “Nazely—what do you suggest for rapid sequence induction?”
She answers quickly, nerves showing, “Etomidate and roc.”
Jack gives the smallest tilt of his head. “Mm. Not quite.” He reaches for the airway tray. “One-twenty of propofol. Sixty of succinylcholine.”
He looks toward Crus, “Why is that?”
Crus doesn’t miss it, “Propofol for the anti-seizure effect. Sux to avoid prolonged paralysis so we can check her neuro exam.”
Jack agrees. “Exactly.”
Nazely absorbs every word, filing it away. You can almost see the learning happening in real time.
Jack moves beside you, close enough his shoulder brushes yours as he adjusts gloves. Your syringe is ready, hands steady, even if your pulse isn’t. You announce, “Pushing the propofol.”
White medication disappears into the IV line. Judith softens, her resistance melting under sedation.
Sam is already repositioning, “Once she’s flat for intubation, we need to displace the uterus left.”
Jack gestures to Nazely, “That’s you.” He motions with both arms. “Big hug. Both arms.”
Nazely steps in awkwardly but willing, wrapping both forearms around Judith’s gravid abdomen and shifting the uterus off midline.
Jack nods. “Get the baby off the vena cava.”
Mateo glances at the meds, “Sux is on board.” Seconds now, everyone is waiting, and watching as paralysis sets in.
Nazely, still thinking aloud, “But after she’s paralyzed, the seizing stops… right?”
Jack is checking laryngoscope light, “It might look like that.” He looks at her. “But an ongoing seizure will still fry the brain. We monitor with EEG.”
Nazely blinks, “Is there time for that?” Jack’s mouth pulls to one side. “Wait and see.”
Judith’s jerking slows and eventually stops. Jack watches her closely and says, “Paralytics kicked in.”
Crus steps in, “Let’s go.”
The team rolls her flat, bed lowered, and her head positioned, with he airway open. Jack is at the bedside now, every inch attending. He looks at Crus. “Intubate, then EEG to see if her brain is still seizing.” Then his voice lowers. “I need first-pass success.”
Crus replies aptly, “You and me both.”
The tube is secured, and breath sounds are confirmed. Crus moves back to the ultrasound, probe gliding over Judith’s chest while Jack, at the head of the bed, is carefully placing EEG leads along her scalp with deliberate fingers, smoothing adhesive against sweat-damp skin. Even in urgency, his hands are precise, gentle, and almost reverent.
Crus studies the screen. “Good lung sliding bilaterally.”
Sam is still on fetal monitoring, eyes locked to the tracing, “Fetal heart rate borderline at ninety-eight.”
Jack doesn’t even look up. “Roll her to the left again. That can help.”
Mateo’s already at the rail. “One, two, three.” On his count, you move with the team, shoulder to hip, helping roll Judith into left uterine displacement again, easing pressure off the vena cava.
Jack adjusts the EEG leads one last time. “Okay.” A glance to the monitor. “All set here.”
Mateo checks the hookup. “EEG monitor’s good to go.”
Nazely stares at the setup, wide-eyed. “That was fast.”
Jack doesn’t answer; he’s already reading, already worried. Then the small EEG monitor changes. Red screen and white text. Like a warning flare. Crus sees it first, and his face drops. “Still seizing while paralyzed. It’s nonconvulsive status.”
The trauma doors push open. Shen and Ellis. Both already gloving as they walk in. No questions about whether they’re needed.
Shen comes straight in. “What’s she had so far?”
Jack rattles it off from memory. “Thirty of diazepam, a full load of mag, Keppra, and propofol.”
Ellis exhales. “Damn.” She looks at him. “What’s your next step?”
Jack turns. “Any ideas? Hmm? Nazely?” He looks at Nazely, and she swallows. “Dilantin? Valproate?”
Jack tilts his head. “Mm.” Not dismissive, but thinking. “Infusion’s too long. So is onset of action. Push one hundred of ketamine. That’s had results with refractory status.”
Crus adds, still watching labs.“She also has HELLP syndrome—hemoglobin only seven, platelets down to thirty.”
Shen already pivoting. “Two units whole blood?”
Jack doesn’t falter, “O-neg is going up on the rapid infuser as we speak.” You hear blood tubing being primed behind you. Pressure bags, fluids.
Ellis is by the workstation on wheels, “Uh, put the AP pads on, just in case.”
Jack nods. “And ten of Decadron IV push.” His eyes never leave Judith. “For the inflammatory storm.”
You push the steroid. Flush. Line patent. The vent breathes for Judith in measured mechanical sighs.
Sam suddenly leans over the tracing. “Fetal heart rate up to one-oh-four.”
A pause as everyone looks over, Jack too. He hums, thinking while Sam is cautiously hopeful, “Little better.”
Shen mutters, “Yeah. She should be upstairs with OB.”
Jack finally looks at him. Steel in his face. “She will be.” A beat. “After we break this seizure.”
The EEG continues its angry red chatter. No break or slowing. Only seizure. Crus stares at the tracing, jaw tight. “There’s been no improvement. Still seizing on the EEG. Neurology has been called.”
Ellis hangs up the phone, almost on top of the words, urgency carrying her in. “OB says send her up. They have an OR ready.”
Jack exhales hard, chest lifting with a frustrated huff, “About time.” But the moment the words leave him, Robby walks into Trauma One, and the room shifts again.
He looks wrecked, drawn pale under the light, scrub top damp at the collar, exhaustion carved into the planes of his face. However, the moment he sees Judith, the bed, and the monitors, his eyes sharpen.
Sam’s voice cuts through. “Baby’s been bradying down a bit more.”
Robby takes in the room in one sweep, “This one looks like it took a turn for the worse.”
Jack doesn’t look away from the monitors. “Eclampsia. Refractory seizures. HELLP syndrome with anemia and thrombocytopenia.”
Shen mutters darkly, “About as bad as it gets.” And then—an alarm screams. Sam’s head snaps up. “V-fib.”
Jack’s voice cracks through it, “Chest compressions, Nazely. Charge to two hundred.” Nazely launches into compressions, and the bed shakes. Robby’s already moving, “Prep the belly. Get a baby warmer. Call NICU. Start a timer.” Commands flying like sparks.
Mateo at the defib. “Charged. Clear.”
Shock, and Judith’s body jolts. Shen says, “Continue compressions. We’ll check rhythm in a minute.”
Jack is already reaching for sterile gowns. “Gown up.” Then he turns to his best friend, “Robby, it’s you and me.”
Robby nods once, exhaustion and duty welded together. You step behind him, helping him into the sterile gown, tying strings with fingers that suddenly feel clumsy.
Another nurse masks Jack.
The room now split into two resuscitations waiting to happen.
Mother.
Baby.
Both slipping.
Ellis turns to Nazely, who is still doing compressions. “What’s the four-minute rule?”
Nazely, breathless—“Uh… not sure.”
Crus answers over the chaos. “Pregnant patient with a viable fetus—four minutes after maternal arrest to save the baby.”
Jack corrects gently but firmly, “And the mom. We don’t call it a postmortem C-section anymore. It’s a resuscitative hysterotomy to try to save them both.”
Nazely, horrified, “But she doesn’t want medical intervention—”
Robby cuts in. “That doesn’t matter. Mom and baby are both dead if we do nothing.” He looks to the monitor. “Charge to two hundred.”
“One more rhythm check and then Abbot and I are gonna cut.” He pounds once on the glass, signaling McKay from outside.
Come now.
Now.
“Ellis, you and Crus stay on mom resuscitation. Shen, you and Nazely take the baby. Ok, hold compressions.”
Crus checks. And she’s still V-fib. Mateo announces, “Clear.” Shock.
Ellis scans Judith and sighs, “No change. Resume compressions. Amp of epi.”
Robby takes a breath, then looks at Jack. “Okay, showtime.” And somehow gallows humor barely still survives here.
You secure Robby’s mask from behind. Another nurse does Jack’s.
Jack’s voice low, urgent. “We need to get this baby out right now.”
Nazely rotates off compressions, Mateo takes over when Ellis tells her, “Take a break.”
Robby holds out his hand. “Ten blade.” You place it in his palm, metal to glove. The room goes silent in that strange way chaos does when everyone is hyper-focused.
And as he cuts—he teaches. “First incision from the xiphoid to the pubic symphysis…” Steel through skin. “…through skin to linea alba.”
There’s blood, hands, and retractors. And Crus by the infuser. “Units three and four running.”
Robby deeper now, “Second incision goes through the peritoneum, exposing the uterus.”
McKay rushes in. “Where do you need me?” Shen replies, “You’re with the baby. Nazely bags. You’re on suction. Stand by for intubation.”
Sam begins, “Bladder retractors.”
Sophie communicates to Shen and McKay, “Neonatal monitor and pulse ox ready.”
Jack leans in, “Ellis, gentle traction.” Small vertical uterine incision. “Okay, making a small vertical incision through the lower uterus so as not to cut the baby.
Ellis hums once in acknowledgment, already understanding, already moving with them, every ounce of her concentration narrowed to the field in front of her.
Jack looks to Robby.
“Got it?”
Robby doesn’t look up.
“Yep. I got it.”
“Okay.”
His gloved hands are steady despite everything.
“Using scissors to extend superiorly.”
Metal slides.
Tissue parts.
Blood glistens under the trauma lights.
Jack leans in, voice calm in the storm.
“Ellis, hand retract the uterus with me.”
Ellis adjusts, and the cavity opens. She glances down, comments, “Amniotic fluid looks good.”
Robby shifts, “Give me some fundal pressure.” Pressure from above, hands working in concert. Then Ellis says it, “Breech position.”
A heartbeat passes. Tiny and endless, then Robby’s voice changes. Softens in spite of himself. “Baby’s out.” Something catches in it, so slight you almost miss it. “It’s a girl.”
And suddenly there she is— wet, blue, small beyond belief, new life slick in blood and amniotic fluid in Robby’s hands. Fragile as a held breath.
Jack works fast, “Milking the cord.”
Sam—“Clamping.”
Jack nods, “Cutting.” And then Robby is turning, already handing her off. “Okay, blue and flaccid. Coming to you, Shen.” A quick glance. “You ready?”
And then—“Yeah. You got her.”
At the warmer, Shen receives the baby. “I got it, yep.” His voice gentles, but becomes clinical again. “Poor tone. No movement.”
McKay steps closer, “Keep the blow-by closer.” Warm oxygen near the tiny face while Nazely whispers what everyone sees. “She’s really blue.”
McKay doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Some blue is normal. But not this much.” Nazely’s fear slips out, “Do we need to intubate?”
Shen shakes his head. “Not yet. They usually pink up with stimulation and blow-by.”
At Judith’s bedside—Robby keeps moving, no room to stop. “Okay, removing the placenta.”
Jack’s hand sweeps. “Sweeping to the left, trying to get it in one piece.”
Sam lifts it, and studies it, nods, confirming, “Looks intact.”
You nod. “It does.”
Robby, breath tight—“Yeah.”
Sam murmurs, “Nicely done.”
As if anyone can hear praise right now. Crus adds, “Ten IV Pitocin to contract the uterus.” Ellis already massaging the fundus. “And lots of massage.” Trying to stop hemorrhage and trying to hold on for dear life.
At the warmer, Sophie calls out, “Heart rate seventy-six.” Shen moves, “Less than a hundred means we bag.”
“Suction first.”
McKay, “Okay.”
Back at the bed, Robby doesn’t even turn. “Hey Jord, charge to two hundred. Stand by for next rhythm check.” Defib charging, blood infusing, and compressions relentless. Everything at once.
McKay, breathless, says, “She grimaced.” Her voice lifts. “Good sign.” While Shen starts ventilation. “Bagging.”
Sophie communicates to the other doctors, “Pulse ox forty-five.” Nazely nearly chokes. “I’ve never seen it that low.”
Shen doesn’t panic. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. I’m more worried about the heart rate. McKay, get ready with an IO in case we need epi.”
“Okay.”
Crus remarks, “Rhythm check.”
“Hold compressions.”
Hands lift, and all eyes to the monitor. Robby stares, “Still V-fib.” Jaw tight. “Okay. Shock it.”
Jack asserts procedure, “Clear.” The shock lands. “Resume compressions.” Bodies return to motion, violence in service of life. Robby calls over his shoulder, “Shen, how’s she doing over there?” And Shen answers, “Heart rate’s up to one-oh-four.”
McKay starts the one-minute APGAR. “Uh, at one minute, she's zero for color, two for heart rate, one for reflex, tone, breathing.” She looks up. “APGAR of five.”
Jack doesn’t waver, still working on the mom. “Five out of ten. Not great.”
Sophie reads off the device, “Pulse ox fifty-eight.”
Nazely asks, “Intubation?” But Shen shakes his head. “Uh, not yet. O-two sat in the sixties is normal at one minute.” McKay watches the monitor, “Her heart rate and pulse ox are trending higher.”
And Shen—God bless him—actually smiles. “Let’s keep doing what we’re doing. A little tincture of time.”
Back on Judith—Robby commands, “Hold compressions.” Everything pauses again. Ellis peers at the monitor, “Looks like sinus.”
You check the neck, your fingers press. Search and find nothing. Your voice falls. “Can’t feel a carotid.”
Jack shakes his head, “No.”
Crus reads what everyone fears. “Heart’s barely pumping. It’s PEA.”
Jack gives directions, “Back on compressions.” And the room, which had almost dared hope, feels their heart sink. Like a floor giving way. Crus already escalating, “Two more units. She needs red cells and platelets.”
Robby looks down at the blood flooding the field. “Ongoing blood loss from uterus.” Then to you— “Give me all the lap pads we’ve got.”
You hand over two thick batches. And watch—almost disbelieving—as Jack and Robby begin packing her open abdomen with soaked pads, hands disappearing into blood, trying to hold a woman together by force of will.
Trying—again—to keep death from taking what it came for.
Minutes stretch strangely in resuscitation. Too fast and unbearably slow, measured in compressions. In blood units and alarms. Whether a waveform rises or disappears. The monitors keep singing their anxious electronic chorus while sweat runs beneath gowns and everyone keeps moving because stopping is not an option.
Crus glances at the rapid infuser. “Units five and six are in.” Blood warming through the line. Red cells chasing life back into a body trying to leave.
Ellis has both hands still working at Judith’s abdomen, pressure steady. “Down to a slow ooze here.”
Jack watches the monitor. “Hold compressions.”
Everything stills, and hands lift. The room seems to stop breathing with them. You lean over Judith, fingers at her neck, searching. Then you feel it, thin and thready. But there, your breath catches.
“Looks like sinus…” You press harder. “And I got a weak carotid.”
Robby turns so fast it’s almost a snap. “Okay.” His voice rough, “Cycle the BP.” Crus watches the echo. “Better filling. Better squeeze.”
Ellis checks the EEG; her face changes. “No seizure activity.”
Robby nods, as if he’s afraid to trust it, “That’s progress.” A breath, then again, softer. “That’s progress.” As if saying it twice might make it true.
At the warmer, a whole second miracle is trying to happen. Shen checks the clock, “We’re at five minutes.”
McKay reading monitors. “Heart rate one-thirty-two. Pulse ox seventy-nine.” She glances at Nazely. “The APGAR?”
Nazely, breathless and trying to think, “One off for color… One off for tone… One off respiration with hypoxia…” She looks up. “Total of seven.”
McKay corrects automatically. “Respiration score is for observed breathing, not pulse ox.” Shen nods, “Sat of eighty is normal at five minutes. With no crying…” He glances at the baby. “She still gets one off.”
Nazely, absorbing it, “Yeah.”
And then—it happens, small at first, almost uncertain. A ragged little sound. Then—a cry, thin, sharp, and very much alive. It cuts through the room like light through a cracked door, and every head turns. The baby cries again, louder, indignant, beautiful, and something in your chest breaks wide open. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding your breath until it came out shaking.
Because of all the sounds this hospital makes—alarms, compressions, people dying, this might be the first one tonight that sounds like hope.
McKay laughs, actually laughs. “Ah!” She grins. “She just scored the winning point. APGAR of eight is pretty normal.”
Even Jack smiles, and you see Robby across the room smile too. Small and disbelieving. His eyes rimmed red, almost wet. The look of someone who wasn’t sure the universe had one more mercy left in it, and was wrong.
Then the door opens, Pettyfer strides in, takes in the scene, the blood, the open abdomen, and the newborn crying. The whole war zone, he just blurts— “Holy shit. What did I miss?”
Jack, deadpan even now, “Eclampsia with status, HELLP syndrome, cardiac arrest, resuscitative hysterotomy.”
Pettyfer blinks. “I was in the OR with a septic twin C-section. Got your text twelve minutes ago.”
Jack shrugs, “Shit happens fast down here.” Crus, almost proud despite himself, “Resuscitative hysterotomy in thirty-six seconds.” Pettyfer stares. “Impressive.”
Understatement of the century.
You check the pressure, “BP one-oh-two over sixty-four.” A pause. “Hemoglobin up to nine.”
Numbers becoming human again. Robby moves to the side, starts peeling off gown and gloves. As if the adrenaline is finally leaking out of him.
He steps aside, removes his mask. Looks suddenly older and spent. He moves toward the glass doors. And with that gravel voice of his—“That’ll do.”
He’s a man pretending this didn’t just cost him something. You and Jack both watch him. Because you both hear what sits under the words. Relief and exhaustion.
“NICU’s sending a team down,” Mateo says.
Pettyfer nods.“We can take Mom.”
Then, looking around the room—blood-splattered, overworked, miraculous, “You guys are rock stars.”
Jack seamlessly, dry as ever. “We like to be referred to as crawlers of the night.”
A few exhausted laughs. Even in catastrophe, there’s room for stupid jokes. Maybe that’s survival, too. Then, for one suspended impossible moment, everyone in the room realizes they may have just pulled two people back from death. Together. With their hands, stubbornness, fear, and skill. With love, maybe, though no one in medicine ever calls it that. And standing there, watching Robby at the glass doors, his shoulders finally sagging.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
Life in motion as if a woman hadn’t nearly died twenty feet away. As if a baby hadn’t been cut into the world by emergency. The ordinary always returning too quickly. Robby pauses at the sanitizer dispenser mounted by the wall.
Rubs the alcohol over blood-marked hands that have already been scrubbed, gloved, and scrubbed again. A habit now, or maybe something else. Trying to wash off what the last twenty minutes cost. He exhales long, almost shaky. But enough for you to notice, watching from the trauma doorway as you finish stripping off gloves.
He walks toward Dana with the dazed, post-adrenaline looseness of someone whose body hasn’t realized the crisis is over.
“If you’re not careful,” he says, voice roughened from shouting over alarms, “you’re gonna get stuck here all night.”
Dana is sorting forms, “Nah. Henny said she’d be here in thirty minutes.” Then she glances at him, softens as she leans on the desk, “How’s Mom and baby?”
For the first time all shift, Robby smiles. Worn and disbelieving. Almost boyish. “Whew.” A breath of relief dressed up as a word. “They’re both gonna go upstairs.”
Dana’s shoulders drop, some knot in her unties. “Good.” And quieter—genuine. She studies him a second. Maybe noticing how pale he looks, how spent. “You leaving now?”
Robby leans one hip against the counter but doesn’t really rest. Still vibrating with unfinished things. “Yeah. Pretty soon.” The list starts, “I gotta find Whitaker. I gotta find Al-Hashimi.” He glances toward Trauma One. A flicker of something softer. “I gotta talk to Ducky after she finishes in there… And I gotta find Langdon before I leave.”
All these threads, still trying to tie them. Even now, after nearly cutting a baby out of a dying woman.
Dana watches him like she already knows where this is going. That he’ll keep finding reasons not to walk out. “You missed Langdon. He just checked out.”
Robby freezes, the smile gone, as if someone pulled current from the room. “Shit.”
AMBULANCE BAY, OUTSIDE — NIGHT
The ambulance bay hums with its own kind of insomnia. Diesel lingering in the damp summer air. Sirens somewhere far enough away not to matter yet. The concrete still holds heat from the day, breathing it back up in waves.
Robby steps out beside Whitaker, the sliding doors hissing shut behind them. He presses a small yellow note into Whitaker’s hand. “My cell phone,” he says, tapping the paper. “And the building manager’s. He can help if there’s any emergencies.”
Whitaker unfolds it like it might be something fragile. “Yeah…” he says, squinting. “What kind of emergencies?”
Robby gives that tired shrug of his, the one that means everything and nothing. “Whatever.” Then, almost as an afterthought— “And follow up with Duke in a couple days, yeah?”
Whitaker nods quickly. “Yeah.” It’s quiet for a moment. Then more carefully—“You, um…” He hesitates. “You sure about this?”
Robby looks at him, past the nervousness and the awkwardness. At the man, he’s spent time teaching, and something paternal flickers there. “I trust you, Whitaker.”
Whitaker seems almost startled by it. As if praise lands harder than criticism ever did. “Great,” he says too fast. Trying not to look moved.
Robby half-smiles. “Any questions?”
Whitaker shifts his backpack higher, “Uh… when are you back, exactly?”
Robby looks out toward the dark road beyond the bay. The open country is already living somewhere in his head. “You know… I’ll text you. I’m trying to keep my dates kind of fluid.”
Headlights cut into the bay, a truck pulling up. Robby nods toward it. “I think this is your ride.”
Whitaker turns. “Yeah—uh, yes.” Then, earnestly all over again, “I promise I’ll check in on your house tomorrow.”
“Sounds good.”
A pause. Whitaker lingers, because he doesn’t quite know how to say goodbye. Then—“Hey.” The driver’s door opens, Amy steps out, and rounds the truck.
“Hey.” Whitaker opens the passenger side and leans in. A baby boy in a car seat blinks up at him. His whole face changes. Softens. “Okay…” He sets down his backpack. “Hey, Theo. You’re up late, huh? What you got there?”
Amy buckles in. “He’s been fussy all day. I think he’s got another tooth coming in.”
Whitaker lights up, “Aww.” He straps himself in, leans toward the baby. “Right on, big guy. Ready to get funky?” He makes a ridiculous face. Theo blinks, unimpressed, but Whitaker grins anyway. Before the truck pulls out, he gives Robby a little salute.
Robby returns a nod and watches them disappear into the night with music spilling faintly from the truck speakers. For a second, something wistful crosses his face. Domesticity glimpsed through someone else’s windshield, then it’s gone.
Another set of doors opens, and Samira steps out. Phone in hand, lifting it for signal. Searching for a bar or something else.
Robby glances over. “Hey.”
She looks up. “Hey.”
He nods toward the phone. “Any luck picking an elective?”
She exhales, “Don’t know. Maybe I’ll go into geriatrics.”
He gives a small approving hum, “It’s a smart choice.” Subsequently quieter, almost unexpectedly personal, he begins, “I know life can be challenging. Especially when it doesn’t work out the way you expected.”
Samira looks at him now, listening. He stares out toward the lot and says it almost like he hasn’t said it aloud before. “I thought I’d be married by now. Two kids in college. Maybe some property. A pond.” A ghost of a smile. “We’d play hockey on it in the winter.”
He laughs once through his nose. “And yet…” He gestures to himself. “Look at me. No wife. No kids. No pond.”
Samira says softly—“It’s never too late.” And though she says it to him, something in her expression flickers with another thought. Of you, and all the ways everyone can see what neither of you will name.
Robby looks at her. “Do you really believe that?”
“Yeah.” She means it. He studies her. Then—“Only for me… or for you too?”
Samira huffs a little, caught. “Okay.” A tiny smile. “I see what you did there. Was that true… Or something you just said to make a point?”
Robby only shrugs, which is answer enough. An ambulance backs in. Movement surges again. Shen passes them with purpose, already helping the EMTs.
The night swallowing softness whole, but Robby speaks again before it can. “Have you worked things out with your mom?”
Samira’s face closes some. “We’re not talking.” Silence, before she steps closer. As if choosing honesty, too. “I am sorry… that I let it distract me. She was treating me like a child. And I was letting her.” She swallows, and then, with more feeling, “Have a good trip. Please be safe. We need you here.”
A tiny beat, before she adds, “Even if you can be a dick sometimes.” It startles a small laugh out of him.
“Good luck.”
Robby nods, something almost grateful in it, “You too.”
He starts toward the sliding doors, into noise and the place he keeps trying to leave, and Samira watches him go with the look people get when they’re watching someone they care about walk too close to an edge, and hoping somehow he turns back.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
Under the fluorescent buzz, you sit beside Jack at a workstation in a squeaky swivel chair, elbows tucked close, eyes shut for only a moment. Not sleeping, only resting them. Trying to ease the burn behind them, not to feel how fifteen hours sit in your bones.
Jack is charting beside you, one forearm braced on the desk, typing with maddening focus. You can hear the soft clack of keys. The occasional muttered, “Come on,” when the system lags.
There’s something oddly soothing about it.
You let your head tip back for one second longer, then hear Robby. “Hey, I didn’t think you were still here.” Your eyes open halfway. Across Central, he’s stopped beside Al-Hashimi. She looks tired— more than tired. Frayed. “I was just talking to the neurologist on call.”
Robby studies her, “And?”
“We had a nice chat,” she says. “She agrees I can work with double coverage.” Something in Robby’s face changes, hardens. You know that look, and Jack notices too. His typing stops while Robby’s voice lowers, too controlled. “That’s not her call to make. You can’t do anything critical where a five-second lapse in consciousness could potentially kill a patient.”
Al-Hashimi’s jaw sets. “I agree.” But already they’re moving, walking toward Central 6, privacy. Which in an ED never means privacy, only quieter conflict.
“But ninety percent of our patients don’t require critical procedures,” Al-Hashimi argues. Robby fires back instantly. “And the ones that do?”
She folds her arms, “They’ll be handled by whoever’s working with me.”
“Unless they’re tied up with a critical patient.” He steps closer, “What if it's a double or triple trauma?”
“Robby,” she says through her teeth, “I can handle it.”
“No.” Sharp, and immediate. “You can’t. And I can’t let you.”
Her voice rises. “I am fully capable of handling—”
“No, you are not fully capable, and you know it.”
Al-Hashimi decides to shut the glass door.
While your body reacts before your mind does, your heart kicks, breath shortening. That old reflex, raised voices. Jack notices instantly, his hand lands warm and firm on your shoulder. “You’re okay.”
You blink hard, then swallow. “What’s going on?” Your voice comes out smaller than you mean. “Who’s shouting?”
Jack glances past his monitor. “Robby and Al are going at it in Central Six.” You both look. Through the glass—they are inches from a screaming match.
“What do you want from me?” Al-Hashimi demands.
Robby doesn’t soften. “I want what's best for this department-- patients and staff. Best-case scenario, you get a handle on this, you're seizure-free for six months, you get your driver's license back, you are cleared to work.”
Her anger flashes, “I am cleared for my driver’s license.”
“You shouldn’t be driving at all like this. If you were a patient, we’d have to report you.”
She explodes, “I am not your fucking patient.”
The air goes taut, and Robby fires back louder. “No—but I cannot let you work in my emergency department until you’re fully capable.”
“That is not your fucking call!”
Then he shouts—voice echoing off glass—“You’re fucking-A right it’s my call!” Robby points toward the floor. “I'm trying to protect you and my patients, and you know I'm right about this.”
Al-Hashimi’s face scrunches up in anger. “Oh, ‘my department,’ ‘my patients.’” A bitter laugh. “All you fucking think about is yourself. You didn’t rat out Langdon for stealing fucking drugs.”
Robby doesn’t flinch, but something wounded crosses his face. “No. But I kicked him out of this department until he got the help he needed.” His voice is sure now. “And the same goes for you.”
He points toward her, “You’ve got until Monday to tell administration. Or I will.”
The door rips open, and Robby storms out. Past the workstation. Not seeing you. Too angry to see anything. Jack pushes back from his chair, rising instinctively, tracking him with his eyes.
Dana appears at your shoulder as if she materialized out of the lights themselves. Taps your arm. “Ready to watch the fireworks?”
The word feels surreal after that. Fireworks. As if this whole shift hasn’t already been an explosion. You nod faintly, then look at Jack. “Can you make sure Robby…” You don’t finish, because don’t have to.
Jack understands, always does, and he nods once. “I got him.” Then softer— “You go enjoy the fireworks, okay?” He tilts his head toward you. “And let me know if you get…”
He trails off. But you know what he means, the crowds, noise, the triggers. The Fourth of July has a memory all its own.
You nod, “I will.”
He gives your shoulder one last squeeze; it’s warm. Then, because he cannot help himself, “Try to have at least one wholesome patriotic moment tonight.”
You huff a laugh despite yourself. “Impossible.”
A ghost of a grin, then Dana loops an arm through yours. Pulling you toward the elevator doors, up to the roof, toward fireworks and a little borrowed light.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
Robby steps back into Central looking like a man held together by momentum alone. His eyes sweep the station. “Where’s Dana?” A pause. “And Ducky?”
Vivi looks up from a chart she’s flagging. “Not sure. A bunch of day shift just headed to the roof to watch the fireworks.” She tips her head. “You want me to call her?”
Robby hesitates; there’s a flicker there. “No,” he says quietly. “That’s okay.” He starts walking. Jack sees it and falls into step beside him without invitation.
Of course he does. They move down the hall shoulder to shoulder, past supply carts and linen bins, under lights too bright for the hour.
Jack breaks the silence first. “Yo.”
Robby glances over.
“Thanks for your help in there.” A moment passes. “Almost out?”
“Yep,” Robby says, and without looking at him, “Is this where you try to talk me out of going?”
Jack scoffs. “Me?” He shakes his head. “No, not a chance. Why? Are you having second thoughts?”
Robby pretends not to falter, “Nope.”
Jack lifts a brow, “No?”
“Nope.”
Jack hums. “Don’t have to convince me.” But then, deadpan, he adds, “I mean… it is a little strange the only place you’ve talked about going is somewhere they used to drive buffalo off a cliff to die.”
Robby exhales through his nose, “Here it comes.”
Jack looks at him pointedly, “I looked it up. As far as summer vacations go? It is not exactly a holiday hotspot.” He gestures. “What’s in the fucking gift shop, man?”
That gets the ghost of a smile, “It’s just one place I’m going.”
Jack shrugs, “As long as it’s not the last. Don’t be pulling a Thelma and Louise out there.”
Robby shakes his head, “I am minutes from taking a three-month vacation.” He glances over. “When’s the last time you took any time off, Jack?”
Jack huffs. “Yeah, but I’ve dealt with my demons.” A pause ensued. “It’s a process.”
They reach Trauma One, and Robby pushes through. Jack follows, but something changes. The joking thins and drops.
Jack stops in the middle of the bay. Then says, almost too casually, “You want to know why I never killed myself?” That stops Robby cold, he turns and faces him. Silence. Even the room seems to hold still.
Jack looks away first, then back, and for once, there is no deflection in him. No wisecrack. Only truth. “After what I saw…” He swallows. “What I lived through…” His thumb catches his wedding band, fidgeting with it unconsciously. “Losing my leg.” His voice nearly falters. “Losing my wife.”
He clears his throat, starts again. “Because it comes for all of us, man.” His eyes lock onto Robby’s. “You and I know it more than most. We see it every shift. But we can’t let ourselves succumb to it.” His voice roughens. “Yes, life can suck. It can be unbearable and brutal and ugly and heartbreaking.” Softer, he adds, “But it’s also beautiful. And hilarious.”
A breath. “That woman today? Her baby? They’d both be in the morgue if you hadn’t been here.” He points between them. “That’s us. That’s you and me. That’s what we’re here for.”
Robby nods once, but he’s already breaking. His throat works before words come. “The most important things I’ve ever done in my life…” He struggles. “…have been in this hospital.”
His voice cracks. “Nothing will ever matter more.” A long breath. “But it is killing me.”
Jack says nothing, lets him say it, allows him to confess it. Because that’s what this is, a confession. Robby’s eyes shine. “You know how they say a part of you dies when you lose someone you love?” He laughs bitterly. “I’m not convinced a part of you doesn’t die every time you watch another human being pass.”
His face pinches. “And I’ve seen so many people die…” He shakes his head. “…I feel like it’s leaching something out of my soul.”
His words hang there, terrible, holy, all while Jack lets them. Then he takes a step forward, “Go on a cruise, man.” The impact of his words hit him so absurdly that Robby almost chokes, but Jack presses on. “Knock off this helmetless motorcycle shit. People talk. That’s death-wish behavior.”
And then Robby, finally comes apart, tears, open, and helpless. “I’m tired.” He wipes at his face and it does nothing. “I’m tired of being a role model. I’m tired of feeling like you can’t get ahead. I’m tired of feeling like I’m drowning every day.” His voice breaks entirely. “I’m tired of all of it.”
Jack steps closer, not as colleague. But as a Friend. A Brother. “You need to get away for a while, and you need to get some help. You need this place as much as it needs you.” He points to the floor.
Robby’s tears don’t stop. He asks it so quietly it almost disappears, “Am I fucked up?”
Jack nods once, immediately. “Hundred percent.” And then gentler, “But nobody works here as long as you and me and doesn’t get screwed up.” The moment stretched. “You gotta find somebody to help you dance through the darkness.”
Robby blinks, then actually laughs. Wet and stunned. “Did you just make that up?”
Jack squints, “Maybe it’s a song lyric …Maybe my therapist said it.” He shrugs. “I don’t know.” Then he truly studies him. “And…” He tips his head. “You already have the partner to dance you through the darkness.”
Robby knows immediately who he means.
You.
His eyes lowered, a tiny broken smile.
Jack snorts. “Or as she would say it— Waddle through the darkness.” That almost gets a real laugh.
Suddenly, Nazely sticks her head in. “Some dude just pulled up. Looks like he blew half his face off.” And she’s gone.
Jack spreads his arms. “How can you not love this place?”
Even crying, Robby shakes his head, unbelieving. Then, Jack steps forward. Grabs him, pulls him into a hug. Hard. Real. The kind men like them almost never give each other. And into Robby’s shoulder— “Don’t make me look stupid.” A squeeze. “You come back to us in one piece.”
He pulls back, points. “I’m still your emergency contact. And I do not want to be contacted.”
Robby laughs through tears.
Jack backs toward the door. “All right, night crawlers,” he calls as he exits into the noise— “What the hell’s going on out here?” Voices answer, and Medics shout report. “Twenty-five-year-old male—no meds, no allergies—”
Robby stands alone in Trauma One for a second longer, breathing, trying. Then takes a deep breath. Wipes his face and walks out. Past the workstation where his black thermos waits. Picks it up. And heads toward the staff room— looking, for the first time all night, like maybe he intends to come back.
PTMC, ROOFTOP — NIGHT
The roof is more crowded than it has any right to be.
Half of day shift has drifted up here in clumps—nurses still in wrinkled scrubs, residents carrying paper cups of stale coffee, somebody passing around vending machine chips like it’s a holiday feast. People lean against railings, perch on utility boxes, stand shoulder to shoulder under the warm July night.
For the first time all day, no alarms, no pages, and no overhead trauma calls. Only breathing. Only sky. Then, the first firework goes up. A sharp whistle, a pause, and it blooms.
Gold breaking open over the city. Someone cheers, and someone else whistles. And suddenly the darkness is full of color. Red. Silver. Blue. Light spilling over faces you know by heart.
The skyline flickers, and glass buildings catch the reflections. For a moment, Pittsburgh looks almost enchanted. There’s music drifting from somewhere below—faint and warped by distance, some patriotic brass band or maybe somebody’s rooftop radio. It reaches you in pieces. And the fireworks keep coming, snap, crack, pop. As if the sky is splitting open over and over.
You try to stay in the moment, you do. But sound has memory and memory has teeth. A particularly loud burst detonates overhead— and your shoulders jump. Before you can stop them, another whistle screams upward, another boom. And your pulse stumbles.
Because suddenly it is not tonight, it is another Fourth of July. Bodies pressing too close. Shouting. The terror of movement with nowhere to go. The crowd surge. Panic thick as smoke. The old instinct returns before reason can catch up.
Your breath turns shallow; you hate that it does. You hate that even beauty can still sound like danger. You stare up anyway, because the sky keeps opening. And something about it hurts. The way beautiful things can.
Your eyes begin to flutter shut between bursts. The fireworks hiss and crack against the dark. Sharp enough to make you flinch now and then. Soft enough, somehow, to make you ache. Because exhaustion has made everything thin-skinned. Because grief has been sitting in your chest all day, with nowhere to go.
Because Robby said what if I don’t come back. Because Jack held you while you cried. Because Jesse is gone. Because Emma was nearly strangled. Because a baby was abandoned in a hospital bathroom.
Because fifteen hours of emergency medicine leaves people a little broken and a little holy. And because— God. You don’t know when you started crying. But you are. Quietly. Tears slipping before you even realize they’re there. The kind that comes from being too tired to keep the walls up.
You close your eyes, only for a second, and through your lids the fireworks flash red-orange gold. Like blood behind sunlight. For one strange moment, it feels almost sacred. As if this were your last night with these people—this impossible, messy, beautiful crew—this would be how you’d remember them. Not bloodstained and exhausted. But here, painted in fireworks. Laughing and alive. Your life has felt, for so long, entirely devoid of fireworks, and here they are. Exploding over you anyway.
Then, warmth, arms around you from one side. You startle, and turn. Perlah. She’s tucked herself against you without asking, chin nearly on your shoulder. No words. Just there, holding. And before you can even react, Dana hooks onto your other side.
Suddenly, you are trapped in a lopsided three-person hug. The next firework erupts huge overhead—white sparks raining down. Everyone on the roof gasps, and you feel Dana press her temple briefly to yours. Perlah’s hand rubs your arm, an absent comforting motion. Almost mothering. And for a moment, the loneliness lifts.
You stand there held between two women who have seen you survive this day. Seen you bleeding and you're afraid. They’ve seen you keep going anyway. And they hold you through the fireworks. As if that is the most natural thing in the world.
And here—for this impossible little pause—you are suspended between grief and celebration. Fear and light. Loss and people who stay. Fireworks reflecting in wet eyes, arms linked, and the sky burning above you.
HALLWAY — NIGHT
Bright lights pool pale over the linoleum, making everything feel a little too exposed. Robby rounds the corner carrying his black thermos, still raw around the eyes though he’s tried to wash it off. He slows when he sees Langdon pass by, bag slung over one shoulder, keys in hand.
For a second, neither says anything, so much history packed into a silence. Then Robby said, “Hey.”
Langdon lifts his chin. “Hey.”
Robby then stops, “I thought you’d left already.”
“On my way out.” His voice carries that old carefulness now, the one sobriety has put into him, always watching for land mines.
Robby shifts his weight. “Hey…” He exhales. “I’m sorry I didn’t find the time today to have that conversation.”
Langdon gives a humorless half-smile. “Yeah. That’s all right.” Seems like you didn’t really want to.”
Langdon looks almost surprised by the question and then answers plainly. “Uh… yeah.” He steps closer, not confrontational. Intent. “Look, I’m doing the work.” His voice roughens with the effort of making himself understood. “I’ve been sober a hundred eighty-six days. I’m going to meetings. I’m taking the drug tests.”
Robby nods once, “That’s good.”
“And you’re still riding me.” There’s hurt in it now, old hurt. “What would have happened if I’d paralyzed that guy?”
Robby’s jaw works; he doesn’t dodge. “I don’t know. What would’ve happened if I hadn’t been here today?” He presses on. “You’d still be questioning yourself. Now you know you can do it.” Dry as acid, he tacks on, “You’re welcome.”
Langdon stares at him. “Oh. So that’s how you teach now?”
Robby shrugs. “Sometimes.” There it is, that brittle edge. The one everyone’s been feeling all day. Langdon sees it, and he steps closer again, lower voice now. “You know who I saw in rehab?”
Robby doesn’t answer.
“A bunch of guys just like you. The only difference… They’ve accepted they need help.”
Robby’s expression tightens, but Langdon doesn’t stop. “I think you’re afraid to admit the mighty Dr. Robby isn’t perfect.”
Robby almost scoffs. “Oh, I never claimed to be perfect.”
“No,” Langdon says. “But you expect it of yourself. It’s not realistic, man. How can any of us live up to your standards… if you can’t even do it?” Then, softer—almost pleading, “You need help, Robby. You need help.”
And somehow that sounds more intimate than accusation. Because it is. Concern always sounds dangerous when you’re exhausted enough.
From Pedes, a baby starts crying. Thin and insistent. Baby Jane Doe. The sound threads through the hallway. Both men hear it. Robby lifts his shoulders in the smallest shrug, armor back on. “Finished?”
Langdon lets out a breath through his nose, almost sad. “You don’t gotta be honest with me, man.” A pause. “At least be honest with yourself.”
Langdon turns, starts walking, and he doesn’t look back. His footsteps fade down the hall. Leaving Robby alone under hospital lights. Still. Holding too much.
For a second, he doesn’t move, his face does something unreadable. Something cracked. Then he lets out a breath he may have been holding for years. And somewhere beneath all his sharp edges—hurt. Because some truths only sting when they’re true.
The baby cries again, louder now, needful, and alive. Robby looks toward Pedes. Toward the sound, something helpless needing tending. And of course— that’s what pulls him. Always. He starts walking toward the crying, and there’s something almost unbearably tender in it— that even after everything, after confessions and fractures and death wishes whispered into trauma bays—he still goes when someone cries.
As if some part of him cannot help answering suffering, cannot help being who he is. He disappears into Pedes, and the hallway empties, leaving only the hum of lights. The fading echo of Langdon’s words. The feeling that something important just passed between them, too painful to call forgiveness, too honest to be anything less.
PEDES — NIGHT
Robby steps in still carrying the ache of the conversation with Langdon like something tender under the ribs, but when Tim looks up from the warmer, he smiles anyway.
And Tim smiles back.
“She’s due for a new bottle,” Tim says quietly, glancing down at Baby Jane Doe. “I was hoping to get her some formula before I clock out.”
Robby nods. “I’ll stay with her.”
Tim looks relieved. “Thanks.” He moves for the door. Robby adds, almost absentmindedly, “Why are you—” then corrects himself. “Will you hit those lights on your way out?”
“Yep.” Tim slips out, and the door shuts, lights dim further, and the room falls into hush.
The baby fusses, a little wounded cry, small, outraged sounds. Robby moves closer, “Why are you crying?” His voice softens into something almost unfamiliar. “Why are you crying, little one?”
He sanitizes his hands and removes his stethoscope from around his neck. Let it hang by the warmer. Then pulls out his phone, and a song starts low through the speaker. Fragile notes, almost a lullaby.
He leans in. “You’re okay.” A hand under her tiny shoulder blades. “You’re safe.” He gathers the blanket. “Yeah… You’re not alone.” His fingers move with surprising care as he refolds the swaddle. “Do you need to be swaddled again? Is that it?”
A crooked little smile, “I can do that.” He tucks one corner. Then another. Looks almost proud. “Aww.” He exhales softly. “I wish somebody would swaddle me.”
A broken joke, half true. “Yes, I do.” He lifts her and then settles her against his chest. And something in him goes unbearably gentle. “You got off to kind of a rough start, didn’t you, little one?”
You pass Pedes on your way down the hall, and you meant to keep walking. But through the glass, you see him. Head bowed over the baby. The song drifts, and you stop.
Because his shoulders are shaking, you hear him through the door. Voice cracking. “Yeah, you did.” A breath catches. “Well… That makes two of us.”
Your hand rises to your mouth. Because you have never heard him sound like this. A man saying something too heavy to survive alone. “I got abandoned too.” His eyes close. “When I was eight. But I got through all that.” A tear slips down his face. “And so will you.”
His thumb strokes the baby’s back. “I got a good feeling… you’re gonna be just fine.” His voice trembles. “Everything’s gonna be just fine. You got so many wonderful things to see. So many people to love ahead of you.”
He repeats it like he’s trying to convince himself too. “So many wonderful things to see, people to love ahead of you. Shh. It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”
And then he cries harder. Still rocking her and soothing her. As if even heartbroken, he can only comfort, and you recognize the song. The one you sent him months ago.
When you told him music had carried you through grief when nothing else could, and he remembered. Of course, he remembered. Something inside you caves as you decide to push the door open quietly.
He stiffens when your arms slide around him from behind. Only for a second. Then knows, it’s you. And melts. Actually melts. Lets himself lean back into your hold. You tuck your face between his shoulder blades.
Breathing him in. Salt, soap, and hospital. And softly—almost without thinking—you sing with the song. Barely louder than breath, your voice shaking, along with his, too.
You both sway, just a little. Side to side, as if grief has made its own rhythm. He holds the baby in one arm. Reaches his free hand back for yours. Finds it and clings. And you think—this might be the saddest, most beautiful thing you have ever known.
After a while, he guides you toward the little chair and makes you sit. Places Baby Jane Doe into your arms. Shows you the swaddle again, like he needs an excuse to keep his hands near yours.
The baby settles against your chest. Tiny, warm, and trusting. Robby kneels slightly beside you and looks at you in awe. Hair has fallen loose. Tired eyes. Bruises are still yellowing on your throat. A baby in your arms, and something almost dangerous passes through him. A thought so soft it terrifies him.
Home.
He sees it and hates how much he wants it. A life with you, one he thinks he does not deserve. Not yet. Maybe never. But he sees it and can’t unsee it. He clears his throat, “So…”
You look at him.
“You want to have that talk?”
You whisper. “In front of the baby?”
His mouth lifts. “Well…” He nods toward her sleeping. “She seems pretty content.” Then lightly—“You could foster her for a bit. Take her home.”
You smile sadly.
“I don’t think I’m ready to be a mom yet.” A pause. Then truer—“Maybe one day… If I were lucky. If life was kind. With the right partner…” Your thumb strokes the baby’s hand. “I’d want that. But I wouldn’t want to do it alone.”
Something catches in his face. “Yeah,” he says, quietly. “Me too.”
There’s a full silence. Then, you ask, “Still going on that road trip?” He exhales. “Not sure.” A little shrug. “Might take Abbot’s advice. Go on a cruise instead.”
“That sounds nice,” you say. “I’ve always loved the ocean.”
He looks at you, a little too long. Suddenly, he asks, “Wanna come with me?” It hits so unexpectedly, you laugh, softly, and almost teary. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
You shake your head, “I don’t get paid as much as you, Michael. Or have three months of leave.”
He smiles, but neither of you misses what sat under the joke. Then it deepens, the inevitability. You look at him at the fatigue he wears like skin, and you begin, carefully. “I heard what you told Duke.” His face stills, but you go on anyway. Because loving someone sometimes means stepping into the wound. “Everyone reaches that place at least once. The place where it feels like the whole world turned its back.”
You swallow. “Sometimes people say they don’t want to be here anymore…when what they really mean is… I don’t know how to stop hurting like this.”
His eyes gloss, and yours do too.
You lean closer. “Depression…” You search. “…it’s weather. Some days it storms so hard you think sunlight was invented for other people. Some days it clears. But storms pass.” A brief pause ensued before you continued, “I don’t want to be someone asking you to stand under my umbrella while I stay dry.”
You shake your head. “I want to stand in the rain with you. If it pours… Then we get drenched together.”
His breath catches while you touch his face. “There are times you need somebody else’s help. That isn’t failure. That’s being alive. And time…” You smile sadly. “Time matters. But how you use it matters more.” He looks wrecked now, beautifully wrecked. As if someone finally seen.
“I’m far from healing,” he admits, almost ashamed. “I know.” You answer immediately. “And I’m not asking you to be finished. Just… come back.”
His eyes shut, as if those words hurt. Because they heal and they ask him to live. And maybe no one has asked plainly enough. He rests his forehead against yours and whispers to you, “I’m scared.”
It is the most honest thing he has ever given you. You cry at that, because untouchable men do not say they are scared. Broken ones do, the real ones do.
You kiss his temple, “I know. I’m scared too.” A beat. “But isn’t that the point? It means you’re alive.”
The baby sighs in her sleep as the song ends. Neither of you moves. Outside, fireworks bloom somewhere over the city. Silent from here. And in that soft glow, holding a child neither of you can keep, talking a man you love gently back toward life—you realize sometimes love is not confession. Sometimes it is sitting beside someone in the dark until they decide not to leave it alone.
AMBULANCE BAY, OUTSIDE — NIGHT
Somewhere beyond the hospital, fireworks still crackle in the distance—faint now, ghostly. The city sounds far away, as if only leaving you and him.
Robby walks beside you through the sliding doors, helmet tucked under one arm, black thermos looped through two fingers, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He looks lighter somehow, and unbearably breakable.
You stop him before he gets to the bike, as your fingers fumble in your bag. He watches, curious. “What’re you doing?” he asks.
You pull out a box wrapped simply, no ribbon, just brown paper and tape, small enough to fit in his hands. You hold it out to him. “I know you didn’t want a cake, or a party, or whatever…” You give a little shrug, trying for casual and failing. “So I got you this instead.”
He blinks, actually surprised. “For me?”
You nod.
His mouth twitches as he asks, “Can I?”
A soft laugh escapes you, “Yeah. Open it.”
He sets the helmet on the bike seat and carefully lifts the lid. Inside is a blank, dark, worn brown leather journal. Soft at the edges, it’s the kind made to be carried. Used and lived in. He runs a thumb over the cover, says nothing for a second, and somehow that silence feels louder than words.
“It helps,” you say quietly. “With… everything.” You look away for a second. Because saying more might undo you. “I don’t care what you use it for. Thoughts. Maps. Postcards. Pictures. Things you don’t know how to say.”
His eyes lift to yours, something in them shifts.
You swallow and add, softer, “If you finish all the pages… There’s something for you at the end, in the back sleeve.”
He studies you, “At the end?”
You nod, “One last page.”
A secret or confession, a thing too frightening to give him now. You hold up your pinky. Childish but earnest. “Promise me you won’t read it until you fill the whole thing.”
His expression almost breaks, as he hooks his pinky with yours immediately. No teasing or hesitation. “Okay. I promise.” His hand lingers, warm. Then you tighten your hold on his finger.
“One more thing.”
He tilts his head as you nod toward the box, saying, “Keep it with you.”
He looks confused, “The box?”
“The journal. All of it. Don’t leave it behind.”
His brow furrows; there’s concern there now. “Why?”
You shake your head. “I can’t explain right now. Just promise.”
He looks at you like he wants to press, but something in your face stops him. So, he nods. “I promise.” He adds, gentler, “Not gonna tell me?”
You almost smile, “Gotta write in that thing to find out.”
That gets a breath of laughter from him. Low and a little disbelieving. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve been told.”
Silence folds around you again, and then he reaches for his helmet. Pulls it on, fastens the strap. The motion feels unbearable, as if watching departure become real. He swings a leg over the bike, the engine hasn’t even started yet and already your chest aches.
“I’ll call,” he says.
You are trying so hard not to cry, “Okay.”
His gloved hands rest on the handlebars. He looks at you as if trying to memorize. “I’ll see you soon, Ducky.”
Your throat tightens. “Okay.” You nod once. Then— “Michael, I—”
He pauses, helmet visor still up. “Yeah?”
And God, his eyes. Under the bay lights, they look almost blue with grief.
You almost tell him about New York, the offers. That you could be leaving too. That you may be gone when he comes back. That you are terrified if you tell him now, he’ll leave, carrying one more reason not to return. But fear wins, cowardice dressed as mercy, and you lie.
The lie tastes metallic, almost like blood. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
Something flickers in him, relief, or trust. Maybe both, he nods. As if taking that with him and believing you, and it nearly kills you. He lowers the visor and starts the bike. The engine growls alive, deep-throated. Duke had been right.
You step back, and he lifts two fingers off the handlebar in a small salute. Then he rides. Out of the bay and into the night. Taillight shrinking. Smaller, and then… eventually, gone.
You stay there long after the red taillight disappears. Long after the sound of the motorcycle has been swallowed whole by the city. As if, if you wait enough seconds, enough breaths, the dark might give him back. But it doesn’t, there’s only a humid night. Only the distant crack of fireworks fading over rooftops. Only the ache between your ribs he leaves behind.
A smile trembles onto your mouth anyway, small, broken at the edges. Hopeful in spite of itself. Ruined, too. “Goodbye, Michael Robinavitch.”
The words drift out and dissolve into exhaust and warm July air, too soft for anyone but the night to hear. And standing there in the aftermath of him, you understand something that hurts. Sometimes loving someone is not holding on tighter. Love is loosening your grip before you drag each other under. It is making peace with becoming a place someone survived. A harbor they passed through. A light left on in a window they may never return to.
Some people are not ours to keep, only ours to witness. To carry for a while. And then with shaking hands—to let go. Because love that is only longing will turn into mourning if you feed it forever. And you are so tired of starving on almost.
You love him. God, you love him. In the quiet, terrible ways. In the ways that asked nothing. But somewhere inside all that grief is a gentler truth rising: you are ready to be loved in return.
Not waited for, or a maybe. Not someday. Loved, chosen, and held without hesitation. And because of that—you have to let him go. Not because he means less, because you finally know you mean something too.
Your hands shake as you pull out your phone, and the screen blurs. You wipe your face with the heel of your palm before hitting call. It rings once. Twice. Then the call connects.
“Hi?” Your sister, and something in you, nearly folds.
Your voice breaks and steadies all at once. “Hi, Ate.” A breath. Then the words leave before you can stop them. “I’ll be there in November.”
Silence. A stunned little silence. Then she says, “Really?” Her voice cracks around the word. As if she doesn’t quite believe you.
You look at the empty road where he vanished, at the stretch of black asphalt still holding the shape of goodbye.
And answer almost to yourself, softly. “Yeah.” A pause. Then with a sad little smile no one sees— “See you soon.”
Your sister says something through a laugh that sounds almost like crying. But you barely hear it. Because something inside you, something clenched for years, has loosened. As if maybe leaving can be its own form of mercy, or maybe departure is not always abandonment.
Sometimes it is a jumping-off point to get to somewhere else. And under a sky still smoking with spent fireworks, with your heart split open and strangely lighter, you turn toward the streetlights—toward one ending, toward another beginning, and walk.
End Notes:
ALEXA play Free Now by Gracie Abrams!!! ON BLAST.
This ain’t the end of these two just yet… we have a couple more chapters of pain, and then it’s all good vibes from here.
“Wait, he doesn’t know about New York? D:”
Yes, he doesn’t… yet :P HEHEHEH
Now… DID SOMEONE ORDER A LOT OF GROVELING??? TEHE
And how do we feel about him chasing after you? ;)
summary: you and robby take your relationship to the next level. whatever level that is about having sex often, reminiscing, and unearthing a few of your skeletons in the closet.
wc: 3.8k
warnings: smut! (finally) p in v, no condom use, blowjob, cunnilingus,
masterlist | previous | next
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The night ends and the two of you bid farewell to Crystal and Hank at the table before leaving the restaurant hand and hand. The tension is building between the two of you. His grip on your hand is strong, he doesn't want to let go. You were avoiding his intense gaze leading him away from the restaurant. As you walk down the path towards the bungalows, Robby pulls you back and kisses you with fervor. You moan against his lips as you feel his hands move down your back. You grab his arms and pulls away biting your lip, "You are insatiable." You whisper, "We're not even half way there."
"You're finally giving me the time of day." He licks his lips, "Is it so bad to indulge in it?"
You roll your eyes, "Keep walking Robinavitch."
You slip out of his grasp and continue down the road. He follows after you quickly. When he catches up, he hooks his arm around your waist to be on pace with you. You shoot him a warning glare. "I'll be patient."
You arrive at the bungalow and go to dig the key out of your handbag. You feel Robby's presence behind you. You internally panic as you feel his hands on your arms. "Robby." You hiss.
"I'm helping." He hushes you before grabbing the card out of your bag. You feel his breath on your neck. His other hand is around your lower abdomen as he ushers you to the door. "Go ahead, put the key in the door."
You take the key from his hand and go to put it in the lock. His lips are once again on the back of your neck. You clench your teeth as you put the key in the lock. Once it is in, you feel Robby grind into you. You gasp in surprise and look over your shoulder. He smiles, "Go ahead. Open the door."
He continues to move against you. Your hand shakes as you turn the lock. You push the door open and turn around grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him into a kiss. You walk into the house, Robby closes the door behind him. He presses you against the counter in the small kitchen as you deepen the kiss. His hands move down you waist then over your bum. You grip the counter and he lifts you onto it.
The moment that you are separate, you move your hands to his face. You hold his face in your hands and he smiles up at you. You give him a chaste kiss. His eyes leave yours and trail down to your dress, "Did you pick this out?"
"Mm-mm." You shake your head, "Crystal picked it for me."
"She picked for you." He repeats. He kisses your skin just above the neckline, "It's perfect for you. It makes you glow." Your breath hitches as you feel his hand on your bare leg. His fingers trail up from your shin to the side of your thigh then under the dress, hiking the fabric high on your legs, "I want to take it off of you."
"That almost sounds like you're asking for my permission." You rake your hands through his hair and smile. He pulls you closer to the edge of the counter.
"May I take your dress off?" He asks softly.
You grin before sliding off the counter, "Not out here." You whisper then push past Robby and walk to your bedroom. You stop in the doorway, "C'mon." Robby follows after you and grabs your waist. You turn in his arms and begin to kiss him again. His fingers loop under your straps slipping them off your shoulders. The straps fall into your elbows lowering your neckline revealing your breasts.
"You're so beautiful," Robby speaks against your lips. He then moves down to your neck slipping the dress off your arms and onto the floor. He ushers you onto the bed and you start to undo the buttons on his shirt.
Once the buttons are undone, he throws the shirt to the side. His hands roam over your breasts, caressing them then rubbing his fingers over your nipples. His lips move from your neck down to your chest. He kisses each breast before taking your left nipple in his mouth sucking on it. You bite back a moan and caress the side of his face as he continues.
He then moves down towards your navel then skips past your underwear to your legs. You close your eyes as you feel his lips on you thighs. He slowly pulls down your underwear. Your breath hitches as you feel his breath on your skin. He slides his arms under your legs and grabs both of your hands. He kisses the lips of your pussy and slides his tongue only your hole up to your clit. He catches your clit in his lips and continues to tease it with his tongue.
"Oh god~" You sigh, "Michael~"
He stops and retreats from your body. You frown in confusion before opening your eyes and seeing him tower over you. He undoes his belt and discards it off to the side. "I like the way my name sounds coming from you." He stands up from the bed and drops his pants. He climbs back into the bed, "Keep saying my name~"
"Michael," You smile before he captures your lips in a kiss, "Michael."
He moans into your mouth, "It sounds so sexy coming from you." He rolls his hips against you. You feel it against your lower stomach in his pants. You bite your lip at the thought of it. You spread your legs wider putting him in position between them. Your thighs squeeze his hips and your hands roam his back. "I need you so bad." He mutters.
"I can imagine." You tease. You suck your teeth as he grinds down your pussy, "I do too."
He slips off your underwear, then his own. You lick your lips as you feel the head of his cock against your upper thigh. You hold his face with one hand and grab his cock with your other. He looks into your eyes as if asking for permission. You give a slow nod before pushing the head of his cock against your hole.
Slowly, he thrusts into you. He groans with every inch that sinks into you. You throw your head back into the pillows . You raise your hips to meet with his. You hand reaches to the back of his head bringing his forehead against yours. Your lips ghost over one another and you exchange breath.
His hand moves to under your thigh lifting it higher as he thrusts deeper. You moan louder as you feel him graze your g-spot. "Michael~ shit! Ah god. I'm close!"
"Me too, baby, me too." He grunts. You tangle your hands in his hair, mussing it with your fingers.
As Robby picks up his pace, he moans your name over and over like a mantra. Like if he stopped he would forget it. You moan with him and claw your nails down his back. You arch your back off the bed and wrap your legs around his waist as he slams into you one final time. You both orgasm at the same time.
Robby ruts into a few more times before pulling out. You look at each other panting as you catch your breath. He leans down and kisses you. You make a happy noise in the kiss and whimper as his cock pulls out of you. He kisses down to your neck and smiles.
You don't say a word as you slip out from under him and stand up. He watches your figure in the dimly lit room as you pick a towel to clean yourself up and head to the bathroom. Inside, you clean yourself up a little better and use the toilet. You take a few deep breaths and wash your face with some cold water.
When you return, you slide back into bed under the covers. Robby gently pulls you closer and kisses your head. You rest your head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat in your ear. This was real life. You had slept with your father's protege. You had confessed your presumed unrequited childish love and now he was laying beside you. You bite back a smile as for the first time in a long time you indulged without the the haunting thoughts of your father scolding you. Something you wish you had done when you were younger. You look up at Robby and smile. You caress his face before relaxing and resting on his chest, falling asleep.
The next morning, you wake up to the sound of the shower. You sit up and wipe the sleep out of your eyes. The evidence of the night before is present as clothes are scattered around the room. You can't help but smile at the memory of the night. You get out of bed and head to the bathroom as you hear the shower stop.
Robby comes out in a towel and smiles when he sees you, "Good morning."
"Good morning." You try to walk past him but he grabs your waist stopping you. You cock an eyebrow. "What?"
"You know what." He leans down and captures your lips in a kiss. You sigh happily and pull away.
"Happy now?"
"Very." He gives your waist a playful squeeze.
You wipe the droplets off his chin and kiss him again, "Me too."
You slip out of his grasp and head to the shower and start to undress, "Let's go get breakfast at the buffet after I shower."
His eyes trail down your body, "Do you need any help?"
"In the shower? I think I'm fine."
"I don't know. The faucet was acting funny."
"Oh really? I think I can handle the funny acting faucet."
"I don't think so. Let me just come in there with you to make sure." He follows you back into the shower.
After your joint shower, you head to the buffet at the hotel for breakfast. You find a little table outside to sit. You have a cup of coffee as you enjoy the sounds of the waves crashing and the brisk wind. Robby returns to the table with two plates of food.
"Thank you." You reach out to grab one.
"Neither of these are for you." He furrows his brows. "Get your own food."
"How kind for a morning after." You roll your eyes and take a sip of your coffee.
The two of you continue to sit in silence and enjoy the morning. You stare out to the ocean as you drink your coffee. It was such a peaceful morning. For the first time you didn't feel like you were living for someone else. You felt in control of yourself. You grab a fork and stab into some fruit that were sitting on Robby's plate.
"Hey!" He whines.
"You're not going to eat all of this anyways." You stick out your tongue. You continue to pick from his plates.
After breakfast, the two of you walk through the hotel lobby you stop and see the promotion for fishing. You go up to the desk and grab a concierge's attention, "Hi, can I schedule a boat for fishing?"
"You want to go fishing?" Robby cocks an eyebrow.
"I don't see why not. I haven't been since I was a child." You shrug, "I'm trying to be more adventerous on this trip."
"We have a boat scheduled for noon if you would like?"
"Sign me up."
"Me too." Robby chimes in. "Always wanted to try ocean fishing."
You hide a small smile on your face before listening to the concierge on where to be for the boat. You head back to the house to change into something more appropriate for fishing. You and Robby wait at the dock down by the water. "You're dad took me fishing a few times." Robby says.
"I know, like I said, you were the son he always wanted." You sigh, "He used to take me when I was little. Then I became a teenage girl and a young woman. He thought I wasn't interested in those things anymore. I mean, he was right but he refused to talk to me about it. Then you came along and mended the old man's heart."
He nods as he listens, "I never meant to take your place."
"You didn't take my place. You just— You gave him something I couldn't. I don't know what that was but I let the mystery dictate my life for too long."
The boat soon arrives and the crew help you and Robby on board. You smell the sea breeze stir into the air as the boat motors away from the island. The one of crew members explain what fishing is like and what to expect.
When you are out far enough the skipper cuts the boat off and keeps it from moving. One of the other crew members teaches the two of you how to fish emphasizing the patient as you both were novices. You set down the rod and sit on the side of the boat as you wait.
"Have you thought about where you want to spread his ashes?" Robby ask.
You shrug, "I haven't thought about it since being here, actually."
"Really? I thought you'd have it all planned out."
"Nope, not this time…" You sigh. "I've just been kind of going with the flow, playing it by ear."
"That's not like you at all." Robby looks at you surprised. "I thought you'd have this whole trip planned out."
"I thought so too but then again, what for? We're here for two weeks," You lean back against the seat, "I had my whole life planned out. To make my dad proud of me. It's all I ever wanted. And I got in my own way."
"I don't think it helped that he didn't say anything either." He rests his arm behind you head and traces his fingers over your shoulder, "I like this side of you. You look full of life again."
You stand up and walk over to your rod. You pick it up and take a big inhale, "I feel alive."
Just then, the fishing line gives. Something has taken your bait. You grab the reel as the fishing instructor says and slowly begin to reel in the fish. Robby is beside you as you pull and reel in the smallest fish you've ever seen. "Huh." You press your lips into a flat smile. "I was expecting to feel more excited."
"Fishing is not for everybody. I didn't even cast my line." Robby mutters.
"But you've gone fishing with my dad all the time." You say quizzically.
"I didn't say I was good at it. Your dad did the fishing. I just drank the beer." He chuckles.
"But you wanted to come with me and fish."
"I just wanted to come with you."
The attendant throws back the fish for you and you sit to enjoy the next hour on the boat before you return.
When you come back to your bungalow after the hot day on the water, you let out an exasperated sigh. Robby sits on the couch and lays his head on the back cushion. You sit beside him and rest your legs on the coffee table. You chuckle, "Remember that heat wave when we were residents? It was August and it was so muggy and hot that you sweated through two shirts at work."
"Not the fondest memory." He sighs.
"I remember a group of us going to Ricardo's Ice Shop after work. I had never been so grateful in my entire life." You smirk, "Do you remember what flavor you got?"
"I got key lime with vanilla custard." He reminisced. Ricardo's Ice Shop was a local delicacy in the neighborhood near the hospital during the summertime. The nurses had introduced the young med students to the treats bringing small cups earlier in the summer. Robby remembers how obsessed you were afterwards. You were basically going every day after work, trying every flavor of sugary slush. You'd come home late after dinner and you'd have a different colored tongue.
"I got a mix of cherry and cola." You hold your stomach, "That was my favorite."
"I thought blue raspberry was your favorite." He turns to you. "Or wasn't it pina colada with custard?"
"Now that I think about it I don't think I actually had a favorite." You giggle, "It brought me so much joy, that week, as long as I had that cold treat in my hand it didn't matter."
"The only thing that could make you smile harder was a baby being born in the ED." He chuckles.
"Not true, there was that one time everyone sang me happy birthday at work and my mom brought cake." You reminisce.
"You did smile pretty hard." He looks at you, "I missed your smile."
You roll your eyes, "It didn't go away."
"No but you'd hardly let me see it." He looks at you with sincerity in his eyes. "The one you give me is polite like one you give to a patient. I miss the one when you'd get the better of me." He pulls you into his lap, "The one when you'd tell funny stories and get the italian ice. When you looked forward to going home at the end of the day." He sits up and kisses you on the lips. You follow his motions, parting your lips and nibble on his bottom lip.
"God, I hate how much you pay attention to me." You mumble against his lips. He chuckles and trails his kisses down your jaw to your collarbone. You slide your hips back and forth in his lap, grinding against his crotch. His hands grip your rear and massage it gently as you move on top of him. He groans as he feels his cock press into you as you grind down into his lap.
You unbutton his shirt and kiss down his chest. Slowly, you crawl out of his lap and undo his pants. Robby's breath hitches as you pull down his underwear with his pants. His cock springs up and lays against his thigh, leaking precum. You pool spit in your mouth and tongue-funnel it into your hand before spreading it over Robby's cock. Robby throws his head back against the couch and lets out a moan as he feels you put a little pressure on the head of his cock.
You gather more saliva in your mouth and let it dribble out over his cock as you continue to stroke him. When you are out, you press the fat of your tongue against the head of his cock. You drag it along his slit. "Oh shit," He groans. You put the head of his cock into your mouth and inch by inch push it further until it hits the back of your throat. Robby's hips stutter at the sensations and groans again. He puts his hands behind his head as he slowly lifts his hips up.
You push his hips back down and begin to move on his cock. You suck on the head then move back down. You moan as it reaches the back of your throat. Robby moans out unable to contain himself any longer, "Fuck~ I'm not going to last." He thrusts into your mouth. You pull his cock out of your mouth and lick your lips.
"You always want to come first." You mumble as you stand up and remove your shirt and shorts. He grabs your thighs and kisses your stomach. As you undo your bra as he hooks his fingers into your underwear sliding them to the floor. You crawl into his lap and kiss him again. Your tongues slip and slide against one another as you grind into his lap. He shudders and breaks the kiss.
"You're going to be the death of me." He bites his bottom lip.
You grab his cock and press it against your entrance. You sink down on his cock and moan as your rear lays flush on his thighs. His hands pull your waist making your grind into his lap. He moans at the sensation and start to pick up speed, moving you up and down on his cock. You moan with him as you move one of your hands over your clit.
Robby moves his hand up your spine and over the front of your breasts. He takes one in his hand and kneads it. He rolls your nipple between his fingers then pulls you close to suck on it. You moan out and hold the back of Robby's head as you continue to bounce on his cock. "Michael." You whimper.
He pulls away and looks up at you, longingly. His brows knit together as he picks up his pace, bouncing you harder. He was getting close to his orgasm. He continues to give your nipples attention until your moaning reverberates off the walls of the living room. Soon, with one final thrust, Robby cums inside you. You continue to move until you reach your own high. You get off his lap, "I'm going to go shower."
He watches you walk to the bathroom and gets up to put his own clothes on. He picks up your discarded clothes and goes to put them in the designated bag in your luggage. The room was fairly clean, the housekeepers must have come and made the bed. He grabs the bag out of your suitcase and shoves the clothes into the bag. He notices under the bag was your father's wooden urn. He picks it up and admires the carvings. He smiles, "She's going to be okay." He rubs over the top of it and goes to put it back.
Just as he's about to set the box back into the suitcase, he notices a thin envelope at the bottom of the suitcase with the words: 'To Whom This May Concern.' His heart plummets into his stomach as he reads the words. He picks up the letter out of the suitcase and sets the urn in its place.
He sits on the bed and examines the envelope. He flips it over to see that it was unsealed and tucked in it was a letter. His lip quivers and he squeezes his eyes shut. He takes the letter out of the envelope and glance over the words on the page. Tears prick his cheeks but he doesn't dare let them hit the page. It was what he thought it was.
It was a suicide note.
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tags: @cosmicneptune @ivy-stuffs @borbalalikesdocs @sarahhxx03 (comment/askbox to join taglist)
reblogs, likes and comments are always welcome
a/n: thank you so much for your patience. i have been super duper busy, i just moved cross country and am trying to settle. fics should now be coming steady again.
I was listening to a podcast where they talk about blind items, and one of them was supposedly about Noah Wyle. It said that he’s “not liked” and that’s why none of the main Pitt cast was at his star ceremony thing.
I know that blind items are bogus more often than not, and I don’t even know why I care, I don’t know him, for all I know he could be an asshole, the cast could feel some type of way. Idk, I just had to get this out. Sorry for bothering you.
This feels like bait and I wasn't going to answer, but I haven't done one of my long posts in a while, and I want to spread some positivity, so here we go!
I don't know the guy personally, but here's what I have actual sources for or saw firsthand. Lots of screencaps and links below the cut:
The Pitt writers & producers--the people Noah sits in a room with every day--were at the ceremony.
A group of Pitt background actors and crew came to cheer him on in the fan section. They were yelling "best boss ever" and he came over and gave them hugs and took photos.
He had lots of friends and family there. There were 90 guests, size of a small wedding, not a single empty seat.
I don't know if he invited anyone from the Pitt cast, but most of the main cast is working out of town, since the Pitt is on hiatus. Katherine and Taylor went to PaleyFest and they certainly acted like they liked him. I don't think he's BFFs with the younger cast members. He's their boss. He's 54 with 3 kids. Most of them are at least twenty years younger. He's juggling being a lead actor, writer, director, EP, and HBO's current mascot.
By all accounts, Noah is respected and well-liked on set. I have a long-time friend on the crew and another friend who guest starred in three episodes in s2 (including the ep Noah directed). I've heard nothing but great things from them in real life.
Here's an Instagram post of Noah photos on set from season 2. He certainly looks well liked and it seems like a very happy set. When the number one on the call sheet is an asshole, everyone on the crew and cast feels it. How guest stars get treated also says a lot.
Here are some things people who worked with him this season wrote/said that I remember off the top of my head. I'm sure there are a lot more but I'm so bored by Pitt press, I don't want to go through them all. I don't think these people are all lying with such enthusiasm.
VIDEOS:
"At the core of all of this, he's so human and so present. That sort of energy trickles down. He sets such a great example of respect and camaraderie, that it was just really palpable and super tangible. It was really special." - Irene Choi
Shabana talks about about how open Noah is to her ideas
Sepideh talking about how much she enjoyed working with Noah (and hugging after a scene)
Irene Choi talking about Noah giving more than he needs to and setting a good example on set (another hug mention)
Patrick and Taylor talking about learning from Noah
Fiona Dourif talking about how they love to embarrass Noah
Gerran and Isa talking about Noah directing
Patrick talks about working with Noah (another hug mention)
PRINT:
Shabana Azeeze in Town & Country:
“What’s it like working with Noah Wyle?”
Luke Tennie in GQ:
Shabana Azeez in Daily Beast:
Supriya Ganesh in Vulture: (another hug mention)
Shawn Hatosy in Deadline:
(and they were just at a Lakers game together)
INSTAGRAM:
Simran Baidwan, writer and EP:
You can choose to believe a "blind item" or the words of people who work with the guy every day. He's certainly not perfect. But he is generally well-liked by his colleagues.
I hope you enjoyed this long ass answer to your ask!
If you watch a show purely to hate on it or one particular character/actor, that’s weird. It’s a weird thing to do.
Using your time and energy to hate on something is weird.
Watching a show and it not being what you expected happens, a lot, continuing to watch it to the point you get frustrated and angry when it continues to not do what you want is weird.
There was no bait and switch, there was no conspiracy, you misread or misinterpreted a show that is obviously not what you wanted or for you.
Watch something else, protect your peace, I don’t know what else to tell you. If something isn’t your taste then move on, it’s not an excuse to hate on something and attack it.
Attacking a show because you don’t like aspects of it is a weird thing to do. No one is forcing you to watch it, that is a choice on your part.
Hate watching a show just gives it more views, talking about in online just gives it more clicks. You will never influence the show to rewrite itself to meet your headcannon. That’s what fanfiction and fandom is for.
Commenting hate about a character on a post by a real person about their friend who died is a FUCKED UP thing to do.
It’s to point now that the hate around the Pitt and Robby and Noah Wyle is just plain weird.
This toxic fan behaviour that gets so out of hand that it breaches containment from fandom and gets noticed by real life big news companies like CNN is why people mock Fandom culture.
There are articles being written about how bad people are at watching a TV show because of this.
Fandom is a very small part of the population that is insular and echo chamber that gets amplified bc algorithms through social media.
If you speak to the public the overwhelming majority of people who watched the Pitt are aware they are watching a medical show that aims to be the most realistic procedural medical show.
They are not watching for ships, they are not watching for conspiracies, they are not timing how much time each character has on screen in comparison to others. A lot of people started watching the show BECAUSE Noah Wyle who a large majority knew as Dr. Carter was in it. Just because you don’t like him for whatever reason you have doesn’t change that fact.
The Showrunner Scott Gimmel and executive Producer John Wells were approached by Wyle who they worked with on ER with the idea of revisiting a medical show. They have stated the first thing they did was create the character of Robby.
You are watching a show Noah Wyle approach the show runners to create where the first thing created was the Robby character and are surprised by the amount of Robby in the show? That is a weird thing to be surprised about and mad at.
Noah Wyle’s Robby took up the majority of the first seasons posters and images, just his face with “The Pitt” is on the poster for the second season. They made it very clear the focus character of the show. If you watch it than are surprised by the amount of Robby/Noah afterwards.. That’s on YOU not the show, writers or actors.
Continuing to watch a show you hate just to hate on it is a weird thing to do.